Changing plans

Well, life is a roller coaster. I have been juggling so many options for the next leg of the trip, I am slightly confused. However, I have suddenly formed a firm plan for the next few weeks.

Before I leave NZ I am going back to Picton for some more much needed work. Then I am going to meet Karen from Bristol who is visiting the British Embassy in Te Puke where I stayed in November. From there we will go to the nothernmost point of NZ to Cape Reinga, where it is possible to travel all the way up 90 Mile Beach on the sands. Then I will be set for the next part of the journey.

Check this guy out.














He is Vladimiir, aged 64 from Minsk, Belorus. He is riding a USA registered BMW F650. He has done 88,000 miles round the world in the last 6 years (see the map in the picture gallery). He is also deaf and mute.

Despite me being able to speak Russian, this conversation was entirely in silent sign language. I discovered that he is about to go to Japan, then China. He is only on his third chain. The bike is a bit heavy, it is a bit overloaded but he manages. He survives by donations from the public. He has a website and will email me the picture he had taken of us both on our adventure bikes.

Look how his panniers are suitcases straped to the custom built frame. Now that is what I call an adventure rider. Ironically, my panniers are totally empty in this shot but I didn't tell him that!

To take a bike around the world you need a carnet. When going to places like India you have to pay a bond of 470% of the value if the bike as insurance against a sneaky importation of the vehicle into their country. Therefore I would have to find a deposit of $25,000! That's plan A down the pan. Australia offers an insurance against anything going wrong, so maybe that is the best option- to ship something from Darwin perhaps.

No news yet on World Vision projects to visit. Timings for the ride across central Asia are looking very tight. I am still looking at the costs from Australia and will at least do Syndey and Melbourne. There are WV projects working with Aborigine people. Now that would be interesting.

I did some more work for WV in the local mall. I got two people to sign up and sponsor a child. I am so inspired and re-invigorated about the work that goes on and how easy it is to make a significant difference.

I would love to go to India just to see the projects, and spend some time there rather than shooting through on a road trip home.... now there's an idea.

[follow Vladimiir Alexseevich Yarets's progress by Googling www.yarets.com]

Petrol in the blood?

Here I am looking at an horizon of opportunity; riding a bike home from New Zealand via Australia, India, Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and Europe. What is it about boys and their toys?

The writer John Eldridge in his book Wild at Heart describes how the Godly characteristics of a man include the need for three things. A battle to fight, an adventure to live and a beauty to capture. I highly recommend it to men and women who want to understand the heart of a man. Amongst its wisdom it validates the male inclination towards acceleration, speed and adrenaline. It is in the spirit and the genes.

I can attest to that. I was 2 years old when my brother was born. I remember persuading my mum to take me in to see him sleeping when really I wanted to get my hands on his first present, a purple Matchbox mini with a huge engine sticking out the bonnet.

At about the same time, I remember that all I wanted for Christmas was the PlayMobil police motorcycle. Mum said “We’ll see”. I was filled with uncertainty. Of course she meant yes, she had already bought it and didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I look well pleased.


A few years later I accompanied my dad to the motorcycle exhibition at Earl’s Court. He was looking for a Moto Morini 250cc but I had seen the mini motorbikes. “Please dad, I really need one.” We had nowhere to ride them of course. His reply was “We’ll see”. Perhaps he’d already bought it and didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I was filled with hope. It took me a few more years to realise his ‘We’ll see’ was ‘No’ in disguise. Bikes were never going to be a reality and my hankering began to disolve.


It wasn’t until I was 16 when I first flirted with the idea of a bike in the language block carpark when Neil Grant wanted to sell me his Yamaha DT50. I sat on and felt the surging power of the 4hp engine. He asked me if I knew what I was doing.
“Of course” I said with bravado. How hard could it be?
I let the clutch out and the kangarood a few feet across the paving slabs and half into a bush, quickly disqualifying myself from the purchase. I hadn’t realised it was so complicated and the experience put me off. Besides at 16 you can only ride 50cc and if I was going to bother with all the kit and paraphernalia, I wanted to go faster than 27mph. Anyway, mum would be upset.

The following year I gained my freedom with my driving test and never considered a bike again, not when I had the diverting alternative of a Fiat Panda with a double soft sunroof, followed by a Mk1 Golf which was good for handbrake turns and doughnuts on the Vale at Birmingham Uni. Then followed the status symbol of the Alfa 33 with arches sprayed badly in a different green by my dad. According to Kate Hall I often used the chat up line “Do you want a ride in my Alfa Romeo”. I can’t remember that at all. She must be remembering someone else.

My first job after uni was in the city centre. Driving was out of the question and Bristol buses quickly turned me into a transport snob. I was driven to find a solution. I had to get on two wheels.

I was 21. I found a Honda CM125 in Portishead. I got a lift out with Ben Silvey, paid the money and got taught how to make the thing go and stop. I hadn’t progressed much in the intervening years since the experience with the DT 50 and the hedge in the language block car park. But I made it home, escorted by the previous owner who probably didn’t want it on his conscience if I didn’t make it back across the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

I still lived at home so I hid it at a friend’s house until I was ready to tell my mum. In my cowardice, I left the helmet lying around. I knew she’d be upset. But I did not anticipate how much.

She found the helmet. I found her in tears. The shock, the betrayal, the not entirely irrational fears that motorcycling could end my life. My dad had had two near misses in police motorcycle accidents. Her father had one leg shorter than the other due to a bike crash. She had good reason to be upset.

I cried with her when I saw the depth of the pain I had caused. I wanted to back out but I couldn’t.
“Don’t get a bike, Daniel, please.”
“It’s too late, I already bought it”
“Where is it?” She looked so downcast
“I’ve hidden it at Kate’s house.”

As I recall she didn’t put her foot down. I even think we had a conversation about how she realised she had to let go, that I was an adult now and so on. My mum has always been like that. She gave me freedom, with trust. Therefore I never really rebelled. It was a liberating upbringing where I could do what I wanted as long as I chose sensibly. I rose to the responsibility.

With the 125 Honda I was captured by motorcycling. David J had the same bike so we became biking buddies, taking girls for rides to the sea wall at Severn Beach. I soon took my full test, and fifteen days after passing had bought a new Yamaha Diversion on low rate finance. I was rarely seen out of leathers; church, parties, drinks at the pub. Dan the motorbike guy.

It became part of my identity. It made me different. Perhaps it made me cool. It made me free. And to a certain degree it worked with the girls. Far better than the Alfa Romeo for sure.

The 'Why' of motorcycling is summed up in chapter one of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Seeing the world through a car windscreen is just like more TV, but a bike makes you feel connected to a 360 degree vibrant reality, with the wind in your face and tarmac rushing inches beneath your feet.

I would never have foreseen wanting to do a central Asian trip. But I am standing on the edge of a life changing experience. This sort of adventure makes you come alive. Riding through central Asia will certainly be a vibrant reality. I have to do it. After all, it is in the genes.

Quarter life crisis...

Sometimes I wonder if I have out grown this backpackers thing. New Zealanders call it doing your OE, or overseas experience. People mostly do this in the year before or the year after university. I am in my tenth year after uni. But I am out of the rut, living life to the full (going who knows where but enjoying the experience). If life is about getting to the destination more than the actual destination itself then I am doing well. There are few better scenic routes than the one I am taking.

I look on FriendsReunited and see that so many of my old school acquaintances are married with kids, selling mortgages, managing funds, recruiting, hiring, firing. Some have gone overseas. But I am not alone in finding that at 30-something there is a pre-mid-life crisis which prompts all manner of intrepid exploration.

I discovered this when an old school friend accidentally found this weblog whilst searching for the name Maurice and emailed some other class mates. So now I am back in contact with 3 old friends I always wished I’d kept in touch with. One of these is travelling the world with his wife for a year. They have crossed Mongolia, Asia, China and who knows where else. He is out of the rut, having the trip of a lifetime.

A second has relocated to Singapore to help set up a branch of pharmaceutical company. I’m sure he’s working long hours and is still in the rut, but what a rut to choose! Constant fine weather and weekends in Hong Kong or Bali not to be sniffed at.

The third, a banker, has gone through some strife. He’s staying positive and will certainly bounce back. I give him another 6 months before he embarks on some extraordinary trek. I will recommend he gets his bike licence and rides the world.

Patrick Dixon calls this a quarter life crisis, where many 25 year old fledgling professionals already asking 'What’s the point?', already realising that they need to make sense and meaning out of the necessary evil of work. Arbeit macht frei, but only if it is on your own terms (that is why it is so horrifically ironic to see that phrase above Auchwitz in Poland). Quarter life crisis is about work life balance. If I must donate the greater part of my life to work, how can I make life a tapestry. There has to be more that lining my pockets and the pockets of my employer.

My potential trip across central Asia in part answers this quarter life crisis. The adventure gets me out of the rut, but what is the point? I hope it keeps me fresh. But beyond that, what? One thing that will make my central Asian ride worthwhile will be if I can visit some World Vision projects on the way. To see how development is making a difference, to help out if I can, and to come back envisioned and share that vision with churches and organisations in the UK who are supporting these projects. I love communicating vision. If I can do this from the back of a bike then I’ll have the best job in the world. For a while.

With these plans bubbling away in my imagination, finishing the NZ tour seems small fry and insignificant. I might be in Australia before the end of the month…

[Patrick Dixon’s book FutureWise changed my life. It is in its 4th edition and available from most stores and online retailers. It looks at the signs of the times, the issues which face us today and in the future that will radically change the way we live, unless we change the way we live.]

Worst case scenario.

The light was fading fast. I was still some way from the first river. Then as I rounded a curve in the rough rutted track I saw them blocking the path and hit my brakes. It felt too close for comfort. At least 5 heiffers with calves were guarded by at least 3 bulls. The herd had become alarmed by the engine noise and were moving away down the track as the horned males stood their ground. Their snort noises put fear into me like I have never known. My mind raced. I killed the engine and put the bike on the sidestand. Instinctively I looked around for a defensive place to run if necessary. I might only have a few seconds. The surrounding rocks were high enough but the brush surrounding them might hinder my egress. I got off the bike and moved behind it. It was clear to me that if I was perceived as a threat to the young calves then I could expect a charge. I looked again at that high rock.

I went into contingency planning mode. If they stayed on the track, then I would be stuck. I dared not approach them. My worse case scenario of having to stay out on the hillside was turning into a new worse case scenario of being gored by a bull and having to walk out too injured to ride.

I recalled the brief conversation with Jeep man five hours earlier as I was looking out over Queenstown from a lookout point on the Cardrona Valley road. The interesting route he recommended was about to escalate into an overnight survival exercise. The Jeep man was sponsored by Chrysler and turned out to be their off road expert, employed to train people to use a jeep properly. He assured me that the Coal Pit Road was a good ride. The locked gate 11km into the route could be got around and then the road links to the Nevis Rd. I’d been there already. It sounded as good a ride as any. I hardly expected to be cornered by bulls and contemplating sleeping rough.

It all started when I decided to cross the river. The first 11 km was easy. The river looked easy to cross. I walked through it to check the riverbed surface and then wandered to the gate. It was indeed locked. The only way around would be to ford the river lower down. The water was a little deeper but I had done worse.

I walked through the water at the lower crossing. The current was quick. The entry was a little steep. There was a bit of shale but not too much. If I reduced the weight of the bike by removing the luggage I’d probably be okay. I thought it through many times. Would it be worth crossing just to find another locked gate where it meets the Nevis Rd? Should I be crossing into that land at all? Jeep man sounded like he knew what he was talking about. It’s not far to the Nevis Rd from here. My map doesn’t show any more of the track but I can’t possibly get lost, can I? A hint of regret at not knowing what was beyond suddenly tipped the balance of reasoning. “I’ll do it.” I said out loud.

I was hot from walking around checking the river. I had drunk half of my water bottle. But I knew it wasn’t far to the Nevis Rd and I could get back to the highway soon. Worse case scenario: I’d be thirsty for an hour or two. Don’t want to drink the river water even though it is crystal clear. I went for a dip in my pants to cool off. Very liberating and very cold. I removed a few larger rocks from the river bed and before dressing, I carried the luggage over and returned to dry and change back into leather trousers, boots and the helmet.

I lined the bike up with the route through the water that I had cleared. It sailed through until the front was in the shallows about 2 feet from the opposite edge. The rear wheel began to dig in. The front sank and wedged by a big rock. I was off course and buried to my sprockets.

I got off, holding it with one hand as I bent down and scooped shale from around the wheel. I tried placing rocks underneath. I tried putting the side stand down and using it as a pivot. Eventually I dragged it clear and revved it out, walking by the side. After 12 minutes of wrestling, I was out.

I hoped that the route would lead quickly to the Nevis Rd. I didn’t want to do that again. I don’t wear a watch and my phone was dead, so I had no idea of the time. I later looked at the time code on my photos. It was in fact 5:45pm.

The track went up to the peak of the valley, rougher, muddier than before. Off road cars had made huge ruts 2 feet deep in places. My route through these was treacherous. Numerous times I got caught out, the front wheel falling into a rut as I was trying to pass over the mound. Mostly I would follow the rut and waddle through it. This kind if riding works up a sweat. I had one mouthful of water left.

I came across a small river and a bridge which was sturdy but had a sign BRIDGE CLOSED TO ALL VEHICLES. It crossed into mud and tyre tracks. I went on. I found two disused farm buildings on the other side. No water supply. I was now heading other side of another valley. This must be the top which leads to the Nevis Rd. From the summit, I could see the state highway and the very obvious bend which told me my approximate position. Which river of the three rivers I had just crossed I was not sure, but the track seemed to go down and away to the highway. I followed it and it split a couple of times. Some routes were too steep to try and there was no telling what was at the bottom. I took the ones which went gently round the hill. Worse case scenario: I would have to turn round, but I would just see where this route went. I had plenty of fuel.

After some pretty steep, loose rocky descents, I came across another river at the bottom of the route which was now winding away from the highway and up towards an electricity station of some sort. It could easily lead nowhere. The river here was deeper than before and I was almost certainly likely to get stuck in the shale again. It was time to abort. There was not a lot of time left. I wouldn’t want to have to make my way out in the dark. It was now a race against time.

I finished the last dribble of water. I was still gasping. I had no choice but to fill my bottle from the river. It was beautifully clear. I drank deeply and then refilled the bottle. If it made me ill, I’d deal with it when that happened.

I turned the bike, retracing my steps and looking for my tyre tread I made on the way. The steep bits were hard going back. I was rushing, making mistakes, going too fast for the surface. I had to beat the dusk. The ruts would make it too dangerous to ride in the dark. If I crashed the bike I would have to walk at least 25km back to the road. I began thinking through the contingency of staying out all night if the light went. Fortunately I had not dropped my luggage at a hostel as I had originally intended. Therefore I had my clothes and the sleeping bag. I would be fine, even without a tent. Worse case scenario: If it rained I would get wet so I planned to wear all necessary clothes but keep the leather dry in the boxes so I could ride away dry at first light. At this point it was 8pm.

I contemplated re-fording that river. I could not afford to get stuck again. I would have to cut the fence and then put tape across to keep animals out and then leave a note of apology to the farmer. I had all my tools, the pliers would do it. It was definitely getting late.

My contingency planning diverted my attention from the track surface. Suddenly I was approaching deep ruts. I tried to stay up in the middle but the front wheel slid left. The back did not follow. I stopped. Tried to drag the back round. No way. I tried to roll the bike back. The front rolled but the rear remained and I was suddenly 90 degrees perpendicular to the track. I could let go of the bike without it falling, as it sat obscenely stuck on the mound between the ruts.

I went in to my fix it routine of removing the boxes, shifting them up the slope and then manhandling the Honda. I eventually got it straight, rolled back and approached again. I got out and reattached the bags. I estimated I must have a couple of hours of light left. In fact at this point it was 8.16pm

The sun had gone behind the hills. I realised my estimation was wrong, it could actually set within 45 minutes. I was still not at the first river. I looked at the grass, wondering how comfortable it would be…

It was at this point that I encountered the cows. 8:35pm. After my initial fears subsided and the distance between us increased, I settled for the only option which was to wait until the herd moved off the road. I let them move out of sight. After a few minutes I re-started the bike and carried on. I did this 3 times, each time gaining only 300 metres. It was definitely dusk now. The worse case scenario became a reality. I’d have to stay on the hillside.

I don’t usually carry food but I had 20 crackers, about the same number of biscuits and the water from the river. I would be fine. Suddenly, all in a microsecond, I experienced some profound emotions. A glimpse of abandonment and solitude caused me a wave of anguish that might start tears. All I wanted to do was be at home.

It passed immediately as I focused on the herd again. The bulls seemed to be moving around the herd like secret service agents around a celebrity, looking narrow eyed at the potential threats all around. I am sure I saw one talk into his cuff while pressing his ear. They were definitely tactical.

The cows seemed to be moving off the track. I felt like David Bellamy - watching, waiting. I even began a hushed commentary. They stayed on the track. It was 9.07pm.

Suddenly they moved away into the grass, far enough for me to pass and feel safe. I knew the first river was close, I could hear the rushing water. In moments I was back where I got stuck the first time. Then it dawned on me that if I cut the fence I would still have to cross the river.

9:18pm. I got there and quickly spotted the fence posts would lift out. I took down four posts and laid my Kevlar leather jacket over the barbed wire and drove over it to protect the tyres. A puncture now would definitely keep me here.

9:25pm. I am crossing the river with the boxes again.
9:31pm The bike crosses with little effort through the shallow water. The rear wheel begins to dig in again but I feathered the revs and it ploughed through. (If only I had realised the fence would come down when I first arrived).

The evening is drawing in. The headlight casts shadows on the lumps and bumps giving a false impression of the surface. I turn off the lights. It is still just about safe to ride. I am taking it very carefully.

9:53. Amazing pink remnants of the sunset.


10:06pm back at the first gate and onto the road. Any delay since the river would have meant nightfall too soon.

The wind was getting up and it was getting cold. I zoomed into Queenstown to find the hostel I used before. Nowhere would be taking bookings now. I would have to find the guy I know there. I got let in, but there were no staff on duty so I found an empty room and aimed to settle up with them in the morning.

I'd had some strife in the soft ground, but nothing that would have posed a problem if I'd had the backup of a riding partner. A lighter bike would have eliminated all the getting stuck. That aside I would only have had the cows to contend with. I might even have got through the other river. Suddenly my resolve to solo-ride across Australia was challenged, let alone my ideas of riding through India, Pakistan, Iran and Turkey. I went on an unmapped track and only accidentally had gear to survive over night if it didn’t rain. Much to reflect on. Though I was never in any acute danger.

For that moment I had had enough. I couldn’t leave the hostel without a door key so I feasted on my crackers and biscuits, thankful for the spongey mattress and surprisingly good shower and fell asleep wondering what the cows were doing for a bed.

Excuse me sir, do you know how fast you were going?

“Excuse me sir, do you know how fast you were going?” How do you answer that question well? It was a 50kph limit. I was obviously going too fast otherwise I wouldn’t be having this friendly chat. “Probably about 75” counts as a confession. “I don’t have a clue” shows I wasn’t paying enough attention. I went for “I don’t know” followed by the stupid and lame excuse “I was distracted looking out for a pie shop”.

It was true. I was thinking with my stomach. As soon as I got to Arthur’s Pass Village I focused on my need for lunch, not the round signs with 50 in them, let alone the otherwise blatant big white 4x4 truck with orange and blue stickers. As it was, I was slowing down, but for pies not for safety. It was only then that I noticed the police car.

“He can’t have got me,” I thought. “I must have slowed enough.” Yet partly out of presupposed guilt and partly from the genuine need to check my rear brake calliper which might have been binding on, I pulled into the layby behind the cop car. His brake lights went on, he must be moving off. He was - backwards. He reversed round level with me as I innocently checked my wheels. He got out. I was still convinced his approach was based on a friendly interest in the bike. So without even getting the adrenaline jump of “Oh no, I’m in trouble” the conversation had begun.

He guessed I was a tourist by the accent, the union jack flag and the mascot replacement for Buzz Lightyear. I immediately felt guilty, not just about the speeding, but everything. “How long are you here for?” My eyes evaded his, my tone slightly stifled “Coupl’ a munfs” I said suddenly, inexplicably Cockney. Somewhere deep within me I was convinced that if he knew I had been here for over 4 months then he may be less lenient. “I forgot and thought the speed signs were in miles per hour” might just wash if I was fresh of the boat. Then in a sudden mood swing towards complete and utter humility, I bumbled through explaining I had no real excuse (to cover up the pie shop banality) and that I expected him to throw the book at me. “It’s a fair cop guv’, me ‘ands are up, say n’more”.

Thankfully, it was already clear that he was not going to book me. We finished the conversation with some more pleasantries and brief reference to Ewan McGregor and he was off. On reflection I wonder if he didn’t get a complete laser reading- I was all over the road looking for pies. Or perhaps he realised that the deterrent part of the altercation was done as he can’t put points on my non-NZ license anyway.

I got back into my helmet and put on my water proofs and zoomed off at about 4 mph just in case he was hiding behind the next bush. In fact, the next bush was obscuring a rather nice pie shop. A mince & cheese pie and coffee later, and I was off again.

The next 20 minutes riding disappeared from memory as I recounted and replayed the conversation, cringing at what I said, how it might have sounded and what I should have said (this last part is particularly pointless I know). It would be just about the only excuse worse than the pie shop gaff. “Sorry officer, I was having a schizophrenic argument with myself about what I should have said to that last copper who zapped for speeding just before lunch.” Hmmm…

Altercations with police : 1 Speeding Tickets: Nil ….just.

The cat sat on the mat...

This morning I sat down to breakfast with some chicks who slept on the floor last night. Before you chastise me for my chauvinism or berate me for the revelry, I am talking about feathered baby chickens. The chooks are breeding and Jess the cat is no longer the bottom of the food chain.

Of course, the cat never realised she was bottom of the food chain and she continues to show no fear, constantly launching at the dogs from behind the sofa and attacking anything that moves including huge human feet as they stride across the living room. Responding to every perceived threat (table legs, the edge of the rug, that piece of fluff) she pounces with all four paws flailing, teeth gnashing (ever so affectionately) enough to have earned her the nickname Jihad Jess.

She is constantly bemused by the chirping coming from the towel covered cage and is, as I write, reaching full stretch through the bars at what she can only suspect is a cute fluffy play-mate frustrated that it can’t come out to play. (“Sorry, Jihad Jess, we have some very important sitting on hot water bottles to do, not to mention the cacophonous racket we make 23 hours a day, from which we must not be distracted.”)

Alsatian dogs are excellent guard dogs, very intelligent and also very maternal. Jade, the mother of the 1 year old puppies, clearly demonstrates that she thinks Jess is her baby. She snarls at the other dogs if they come close to the fluffy little war machine. Jade has also assumed ownership of the chickens and has taken to guarding the cage as well. All very cute until you remember she is supposed to be a ferocious guard dog installed to keep out the “boguns” across the road. Ironically, the best way to burgle our house would in fact be to dress up as a huge fluffy chick, which, providing you get the chirping right, would cause Jade to switch sides without even knowing it. She may even help you lift the telly out the window.

The inane nature of my writing probably tells you that I haven’t been out much recently. You’d be right. I am however planning a road trip to see the rest of the island, to consume the miles so I can get on with my next step. I had planned to get a career building job for the rest of my visa, but I am hatching a plan.

I’d like to go to Australia and ride through deserts where neighbouring towns are 600 miles apart with 4 days riding and camping in between. Then there is even the possibility of shipping a bike to India and riding home. And why not? This would be the trip of a lifetime (ok, so I was already on the trip of a life time…) but I don’t want to get distracted with stuff which seems obligatory but is really missing the mark.

You see, I miss my girlfriend in England. At times I wonder if I have had enough of disjointedly floating round paradise by myself. Maybe there are more pressing priorities. New Zealand will be here when I come back and the visa lasts til August 08...

...I don’t want to be like the dog, distracted guarding chicks when I’m supposed to be at home taking care of things, if you see what I mean.

I’ll keep you posted.

Balloons?

Have you seen recently how a large orange balloon can make a toddler smile with wide eyed excitement? This week I spent 2 whole afternoons making children’s faces light up by offering World Vision balloons from its stand in the local mall. A little goes a long way, something so slight and easy to give creates such joy and contentment.

I arrived for my first day helping promote World Vision Child Sponsorship slightly relieved to learn that Mall policy outlaws direct approaches with flyers or clipboards. I hate being approached like that, but I was prepared do it for World Vision because I believe so strongly in the development they do and how they do it. My relief turned to frustration when it quickly became apparent that encouraging people to sponsor is difficult if you are not allowed to approach them.

It is worth noting that WV sees this process not as fundraising but donor development. Creating a rapport with people to engage them in the issues and get across the ethos that development is about empowerment and about showing respect and integrity towards not only the poor recipient but donor too.

WV jealously guards their impeccable reputation of not being ‘in your face’ but the mall’s somewhat draconian ruling prompted my rebellious fighting spirit to think up ways of circumventing the rules. Given the resources available, I had to settle for undoing most parents’ child safety lessons by encouraging toddlers to accept gifts from strangers. Unexpectedly, it was liberating because I could smile at people and say hello (which is more normal here anyway) without the duplicitous agenda of wanting to approach them for money. We just wanted to see a mass of inflatable orange bobbling round the arcade. The aim to get people thinking about World Vision.

My offer of an over-inflated balloon on a stick was rarely refused, except by one parent who blankly declined on little Johnny’s behalf with “No thanks, he’s not allowed them”. What sort of damage can you cause with a balloon? Only psychological damage it seems, since one parent declined saying “Sorry, he afraid of them.” This was later confirmed to be true as on the return leg of their shopping stroll, the balloonless child was targeted again for my shameless generosity. And he actually cowered.

Some little kids deem themselves too old for a balloon and look disapprovingly when you misunderstand their level of maturity. Funniest are the 9 yr olds who initially decide that balloons are still quite fun, but 10 minutes later can be seen holding no longer a stick of delight but a blight on a stick which they have to hold for the rest of the shopping trip, which has deteriorated into following mother into underwear departments and not knowing where to look.

At one point a little Indian girl of about 3 or 4 returned alone and gabbled in Tamil – yet somehow I knew exactly that she was asking for another for her brother!

It is strange making eye contact with everyone but again liberating because my motives are pure and I don’t want a date or a phone number. When you have balloons, it feels like you are friends with everyone. Then your face starts to ache like when you spend all day involved in a wedding party. Best man beamer turns to groomsman grimace; a smile induced by a taxidermist.

This approach to fund raising is frustrating yet possesses a certain integrity. When people approach you, they have been empowered to ask questions, take an interest and show concern. The bible says “God loves a cheerful giver” and it is to World Vision’s credit that it seeks to encourage this in people. And, whatsmore, to attract givers cheerfully. The flip-side of this is perhaps that God doesn’t want a giver who gives out of guilt and to make the person with the clipboard go away.

For me, donor development is not about making people guilty about what they are aren’t giving, but rather, excited about how the little they are giving is making a difference.

So development work and giving out balloons have a great deal in common. A small gift can have a huge impact. A letter from a sponsor has the same effect as a balloon on a nZ toddler. And when less than $2 a day gives a child in the developing world the chance to go to school, drink clean water and get a step up on the ladder, it makes me smile with wide eyed excitement.


[find out more about World Vision Child Sponsorship at www.worldvision.org.uk]

Lettuce find work and prosper

Suddenly, summer is here. After much moaning from the locals about the recent winter weather (don't forget January is the summer here) the sun is blasting and I have gone and got myself a job in a greenhouse.

The Lettuce Man is a friend of the Marine Farmer. No need for sea legs here, but a good eye for the best Basil, and not being afraid to get my hands dirty.

My first day had nothing to do with lettuces. Rick (The Lettuce Man) gave me a detailed lesson in 'bush carpentry'. The task was to move a 3 metre wide outhouse down a 3 metre wide lane and then with no space for rotation, slide its 6m length off the trailer and into a 6m gap. Chocks of wood, pipes to roll it on and the Egyptians would have been proud of us, except for the chainsaw which to them would have been considered cheating. I didn't have my camera for the work in progress but the picture of the cabin in place may still express the exacting nature of the task.

Chainsaws saved the day otherwise the job would have need a dangerously long amount of time lying under the cabin balanced on jacks and too many layers of 4by2. And so it seems that every true Kiwi man has at least one chainsaw. To get anywhere in life it seems a necessity.

Today, after sorting about an acre of Basil, we had to clear the root systems from the white hydroponic trays. The produce is not grown in soil. Instead the pumice or soil sacks are placed in a conduit through which water and nutrients are constantly pumped. The greenhouses produce 1500 lettuces a week which are supplied directly to restaurants and supermarkets. If you buy one in NewWorld or eat at one of their client restaurants it is likely to be 3 -6 hours old. That's fresh. The farm runs as ecologically as possible, so their produce is clean and green in all senses of the words.

On Monday I am doing some awareness raising for World Vision on a stall at a mall in Christchurch. I won’t be surprised if I need a chainsaw.