H.G. Wells eat your heart out. I've invented time travel. As I write this, most of you are still back in aught-three, but, here in the future it's well into 2004. I'd say I saw the first light of the new year, but there wasn't a bleeming chance that I was getting up that early after last night. The noon sun works just as well.

A day out of my blessedly brief stop in the last big city, I ended up at the Waitomo caves district. Worked my way into the Hamilton Tomo Group's regional lodge and made some well-connected friends. The next day, I wriggled into a full wetsuit, repelled down a 110 foot shaft, zip-lined into a pitch black cavern, then tossed myself off a cliff into an underground stream. Tubing with the current, I had a good view of the famous feature of the region - glow worms. Allow me to correct the misnomer. They're actually glow maggots, but that wouldn't bring as many tourists in for the daytrips. Larvae of a mosquito-like critter, they attach their bioluminescent bums to cave ceilings and fish for attracted insects with a glob of excrement on a thread of mucus. That's the glow worms, not the daytrippers. They form gorgeous constellations when seen from a distance. (Still the glow worms.) Just don't shine your headlamp too close. Leading the way further in the cave, I was on my hands and knees slopping through a crawlspace. Ten inches of water, and about that again of breathing room. My hand went out and instead of the usual silt, I grasped a rubbery cylinder. Turned out to be a three-foot-long black eel. These things are not regarded as friendly. Nor tasty. Luckily, neither of us ate the other. It zipped off as far as it could from me which, by my surface-dweller standards, was still too near. While I didn't scream like an eight-year-old girl, it was closer than I've been since the tarantula incident of '96. (Thanks again for that, Trevor.) According to one of the Tomo Group members I talked to later, the eels are just what I suspected - a meter of easily-riled muscle attached to a pair of jaws. Squirmed past, climbed up a waterfall and made it back to NZ's ozone-hole UV levels.

Somehow a line of angora rabbits (native to the German Pyrenees) have found their home in the cave district. The heat's a bit high for them to survive with their thick fur intact, so drastic measures are taken by their keepers. If you've never seen a fluffy bunny splayed on a rack and attacked with sheep shears, I'd recommend it - if only to treat your head to the scratching the experience is sure to inspire.

I went to the geothermal wonderland of Rotorua next. It smelt of sulfur, so I left.

But not before zorbing, my mission for the trip there. Anyone who knew me sophomore year at Vanderbilt was likely subjected to the first videos these guys released of this activity. For those of you who didn't spend happy hours in Confederate Memorial Hall (yee-haw), it's effectively a hamster ball for people. "-Orb" 'cause that and "Z-" 'cause New Zed-land. Add a hill and some soapy water to the mix and forget having to take a hostel shower in the evening.

Oh, and I hung out with a girl there who knows a girl I think I went to high school with. Small world, huh?

The ride I hitched between Rotorua and Taupo was a nonstop - a blissful change from the three to eight rides that legs usually take me. Couple of roofers provided the lift - gruff guys who bragged about their exploits with young ladies even more than their piercings. The one guy got himself dropped off on the outskirts of town. The other one, a barrel of a man, invited me to his spa-equipped house. Thanks, but I really should check into a hostel before they run out of beds. He rephrased - explicitly so. Thanks again, you couldn't be sure without asking, but I'm on the other side of that street - nothing personal. Oh, he insisted he was straight too - it was just that since... well, if you, dear reader, want the rest of the story, ask me in person. He and I parted politely, but not before one of the more memorable conversations I've had in the process of jumping into many dozens of random cars across the North Island.

I wanted to spend Christmas in Mordor - locally known as Tongariro National Park. There's a five day trek for which I geared up and acquired rations. Should have checked on the weather. Didn't find out about the gale-force winds and blinding rain across the volcanic passes until I was near the park. So I turned around and made for another excursion spot further northeast on the island. Except that I changed my mind and hitchhiked towards Wellington the next day. I didn't make it to the capital city, so I stopped in Napier instead.

1931 brought with it some tectonic shifts for the vineyard-filled Hawke's Bay region, decimating downtown Napier. Human tragedy and loss aside, I'm quite glad it happened, because I've discovered my affinity for art deco. Aerodynamic, pastel symmetry. That's the downtown in a streamlined, seashell-shaped nutshell.

But Wellington had to show up eventually, and so it did. Getting into the hearts of big cities by hitching is almost as hard as getting out of them that way, particularly when it's Christmas Eve and the city's at the extreme tip of a peninsula. So I took a train the last forty minutes into town. And now I know how much I miss having the ability to sit quietly and enjoy the scenery or flip through a book. The social travails of hitching. A necessary evil.

This was bound to be an untraditional holiday for me. Fortunately I stumbled into the nicest thirty people I've run into since Concert Choir. 'Twas the night before Christmas and all the folks from my hostel went to the pub. Seven Nations and the Pogues on the playlist and delirious holiday commentary by Mark from Middlesborough ("the Detroit o' the UK - ya get out as soon as ya possibly can"). Several pints later and I found myself at midnight mass. Apparently the Anglican faith is like Catholicism, except without the head fellow. They let us know that non-Anglicans are welcome to partake of communion too, but I'd had my share by that point, thank you.

I wasn't giving up hiking on Christmas. Got up early, had the traditional backpacker's holiday breakfast of Nutella on toast, bussed South until the pavement ran out and tramped to Red Rocks. Pillows of red volcanic rock stick out of the sea, buffered from wind-blown waves by Gigeresque masses of seaweed. Couldn't stay too long, though, and not just because of the sandflies. Had to get back for the barbeque with the aforementioned thirty. Kiddy-pool and all - yes, you can get drunk and sunburned on Christmas. Even the sisters from Minnesota made the climatic transition seamlessly.

Reports from little brothers at home indicate that there's a stocking waiting for me when I get back, so I'm anticipating the real Christmas in March. Save some cold for me.

Apparently Peter Jackson's mom didn't want to see Return of the King at the Embassy theater on Boxing Day. I say this because I was in her reserved seat. J34. In the dedicated platinum section of the newly renovated home of the world premiere, her chair meets the holy trinity of a theater snob - plush leather, oodles of leg room, and dead in the sweet-spot. I was just in the area, admiring the full-scale fell beast perched on the Embassy when a woman approached me and handed me her extra ticket. Saw the best movie ever in the finest spot of the most majestic theater I've ever seen. Give me a couple more days and I'll have a better report as to if Wellington at large meets same standards. All indications are positive. While most people see bits of San Francisco in the hilly harbor town, it honestly reminds me more of Portland.

Two Towers was still better than the last one in the trilogy. It's the Empire Strikes Back of the three.

Kyle sent me some shots he took at the premiere. He was close and somehow steady of hand, as you can see below. Always handy to have a portfolio of your paparazzi shots handy.

Happy holidays to everyone - I hope you're all as content as I am. It's bittersweet to miss those close to you, but there are always more friends to be made.

If you're looking at a map of Enzed's north island, I've now explored the two pointy bits at the top. I've spent the last few days on the Coromandel Peninsula, being followed by an Isreali named Mickey. Travelers' coincidences aside, I found it quite enjoyable. Each burg tries to out-Cook the others, claiming that the famous navigator spent more time in this harbor rather than that one, or charted Mercury's course through the night sky in ours. I still think Hawaiians have the trump card. They clubbed him to death.

The Castle Rock hike (I've been averaging one trek a day) afforded me views reminiscent of those Bobbee showed me on O'ahu. 360 degrees and two coastlines. Scattered clouds mucked up the view, but afforded a much more interesting experience. The peak I was on was so isolated in height that the clouds just run right over and around it - you can see clouds pushing their way up the hill towards you, then envelope you. No transition period - binary clouded or clear.

The larger the city, the lonelier it's been. Flip that, make it more positive. The smaller the locale, the friendlier it's been. Leaving Auckland behind was a blessing. That sort of town just sort of shoots me onto the streets where I hobble around and mutter to myself from dawn to dusk. That was three days of fun fun fun. My next destination, Thames (one-two-hundredth the population), blessed me with half a dozen friendships, evening plans, and a ride offer for the next day. All within ninety minutes of arriving.

Cities also pose a problem when hitching away from their grasp. I planned my own scenic route out of Auckland, and ended up spending all day convincing concerned drivers that I knew what I was doing. Just so many routes and everyone thinking they know what's best for me. I was just happy along the coast. December in New Zealand's north brings out the pohutukawa blossoms. The trees line the already beautiful coastline, and explode with red flowers in a timely fashion that's earned them the nomiker 'Maori Christmas trees'. The first day of rides south of the city were donated by a kindergartener's mom, a water-cooler repair lady, a dive instructor, an incoherent semi-truck driver, a down-on-his-luck teen, and a naval technician. The views were there with or without them though. Getting stuck somewhere, while uncommon, is rarely unwelcome if the weather's decent. The rest of the Coromandel was traveled easily enough. Help a little old lady move her armoire after she gives you a ride, and karma does the rest of the work.

One couple asked me when I was supposed to stab them to death. I responded that I'd missed that day in hitchhiker school, and was just trying to recall what their likely strategy would be when kicking me out and driving off with my bag. Thoroughly enjoyable company. It was a shame to have to knife them.

Despite the relative rarity of traveling Americans, I continue to hear about Oregonians all over the antipodes. Why they're here, I don't know, but it'd be nice to meet some of them to add to the social network back home. Not that all acquantainceships need to have a goal for personal advancement, but, hey, I'm an engineer.

I have indeed met my share of folks from the States. Conversations invariably turn to politics. And of all the Americans I've met, and all of those a degree or two out, not a single one has been a Bush supporter. It's no wonder that the world's populace seems befuddled by internationally-broadcast US presidential opinion poll results. That's when bringing up that only about 20% of Americans have passports comes in handy. I doubt that it relates, but it makes it sound like I've figured out a connection.

After a visit to a candy bin shop, and the scientific sampling of all strange confections found within (jaffas, Irish moss, milk bottles, etc.), I'd determined that candy is candy the world over. Actually, here it's called "sweets", but I refuse to conform.

Following in Kyle's footsteps, I find it hard to pass a fast food outlet without stepping in for some soft serve. I've done the calculations, and it contains the most calories per penny. The real stuff's better though. New Zealand produces more ice cream per capita than any other country. Silly sounding local flavors like Hokey Pokey and Goody Goody Gumdrops draw their strength from all of the random sugar formations found within. Even the joy of digging through a scoop of fresh Gold Rush doesn't compare to the experience of trying innocuous but bizarre flavors of dairy dessert in Hanoi, like Kumara or Rice.

I write this in Hamilton, because there's a large Asian youth population here. That translates to demand for an internet gaming center. And where you find one, you'll find several, which leads to price wars. Which means I can actually afford to set hands to keyboard. $10 an hour - that's what they want in some boondocks! Harrumph. That sort of flimflammery turns me luddite real quick.

Those outlying areas will continue to get my stingily distributed backpacker dollars, though. Hahei, the last of the several towns on the Coromandel that I visited, boasted two of the peninsula's best features. Cathedral Cove, the destination of the one of the prettiest hikes I've ever tramped, defies descriptions that don't dig into cliches of white beaches, pohutukawa-lined cliffs, sea stacks/caves, and friendly schools of fish that say hello through the transparent waters. While Alastair's dry (in a good way) Irish company was an absolute pleasure, it's really a place better visited with your girlfriend.

Ditch the significant other and grab a shovel for a trip to nearby Hot Water Beach, an appropriately named geothermal wonder. For two hours on each side of high tide (7:38pm yesterday), I built sand walls with the dozen people nearest me. 140 degree (f) water burbles through the sand out towards the waves, setting the stage for a do-it-yourself spa. Brilliant, but not as fun as the conversations sparked up between the sundry folks vying for the best spot. Alliances are formed, walls are broken down, put back up again - all in the interest of getting a pit with the right amount and temperature of water. This must be how kiwi wars start.

So you could accuse me of splitting hairs on this one, but I did in fact see the world's first public theatrical screening of the extended edition of The Two Towers this morning. Finally we know the secrets of elven rope and Aragorn's age.

Age was also the question on the mind of the reporter who interviewed me yesterday, too. My man-on-the-street answer to her question of when people become grown-ups, broadcast across New Zealand, was when they first do their own laundry. Don't worry - my new-found fame hasn't caused me to forget all my friends yet.

Seagulls apparently share my Pavlovian response to butcher paper. That doesn't mean that the crowds that show up whenever I'm on a coastline with fish & chips get fed. Malt vinegar perfects the take-away dish, and I'm too concerned for the environment to let the birds have any of my grease-laden lunch.

New Zealand has no indigenous mammals (outside of bats). Consequently, many of the birds here've gotten a mite big for their britches. After kayaking out to a chunk of rock in the Bay of Islands, I was rushed by a territorial sparrow-sized twit. On foot. It backed down once I returned the favor, but, impressed by the tenacity displayed by its repeated charges, I left its corner of the island to go bug a bright blue crab over yonder.

The age distribution of the main street crowds in the town of Kerikeri ("dig, dig") led me to think it was exclusively children, until I realized I was sitting in the path of the annual Santa Parade. Less bustling was my home for the last few days, Hokuhoku ("foggy fog"), which was centered around a rusted pickup hulk. With a population of 300, it needs travelers like me to come and help take in all the sights around its harbor. The bitter rivalry between Hoho's two diners is kept at bay only by the town's street, on which I saw a car once. I side with Jeff's chip shop. He and his regular garnish your burger with not-quite-salacious-but-still-interesting rumors about the various townsfolk.

I'm back in Auckland, after having circumnavigated the bit above NZ's largest city. Jake and Dustin - hitchhiking here is as easy as the first ride we caught after getting off the boxcar outside Birmingham. Stick your thumb out and quickly try to select from the fleet of cars that all pull over offering to deliver you precisely to your destination. I got around the entire Northland in ten rides and five bucks in gas money. It would have taken me more than that had I been busing. The experiment to see if I need to buy a cheap car here to see the rest of the islands was a success - and the answer is no, I don't. My sixth sense for discarded cardboard that can be made into signs is already mostly developed.

Bartending was solid training for hitching. I mean that oftentimes you're obliged to produce smalltalk, not that you're serving the driver booze. I hear that an "I have chocolate" sign helps matters if you do end up actually waiting for a ride. However, I've found that helping deliverymen drop off freezers and ice to butchers is a more masculine way of paying for a lift.

Stevie Witjaksono. Just wanted to get that out so that if my childhood friend googles for his name, he can track me down and shoot me an email. I didn't run into you in Indonesia, man. I know you're from Java, but, well, I'm not that brave. It seems that my current hosts, the Millichamps (a tag-team Kiwi operation comprised of our junior high music teacher and my concurrent pastor) ran into you some years back in Bangladesh, and I won't be there any time soon, so you'll have to contact me instead.

Peter took me see a rare coastal colony of gannetts this morning. Larger than seagulls, smaller than albatrosses, they're the protected middle child of seabirds. There's only one t in gannett, but I've found that it's nigh impossible for me to spell it correctly, for some reason.