Generally you'd be perturbed if someone were to heave a garbage bin full of bloody chum over the reef you plan to dive. Might indicate you're disliked. I stayed smiling, though - we wanted to attract sharks. Over the course of the next two tanks, I ran into fifty or sixty of them. Eight species - everything from lithe white-tipped reef sharks to squirmy nurse sharks to big bulls. 'Crook' was the unmistakable alpha male, while 'Big Momma' looked more like a milk truck with a dorsal fin than a vertebrate. 'Madonna', a silver-tipped reef, wins the pageant with her beauty mark and sleek lines. The only scare came in the form of the defective reg they strapped to my BCD. Air's always good.

Despite being an arm's length away, none of them seemed to notice the mako tooth hanging from my neck. Maybe they thought they'd be next. Grrr. Just wait 'till I post the pictures...

Met a triple passport wielding Briwinadian on the flight from Auckland to Fiji. Hefner guest list item Elizabeth and I banded together and got our butts out of the scum-pit of Nadi before most travelers awoke the next morning, heading via catamaran for a tiny island called Nanuya Lailai, at the top of the Yasawa group. As far away from places with names like 'Beachcomber Resort' and 'Robinson Crusoe Island' as I could afford. Though it's not marketed, the place I stayed - Sunrise - adjoins Blue Lagoon, of Brooke Shields 80's shlock fame. Most of the charming people with whom I shared low-key low-cost low-maintenance life moved on to other islands within a couple days, but only because they pre-booked passage and lodging elsewhere. I've already received emails telling me I did the right thing by staying at Sunrise for a week. Moral: booking ahead is bad, and travel agents are the devil.

The natural splendor of Nanuya Lailai didn't slow me down, oh no... at least once a day I fell out of the hammock and took a leisurely snorkel off the nicest beach Hollywood's ever filmed. Other activities: coconut tree climbing, mouth-numbing kava ceremonies, traditional Fijian dance parties, and hiking around the 3km by 2km paradise. The hermit crabs hold a special place in my heart, right next to the daily banana bread, which holds a special place in my stomach.

My first night on the island, unlike the serenity to come, fell short of perfect. I discovered (after the generator kicked out) that my mosquito net comprised of three sides - one fewer than those of my dormmates. The windows stayed open to keep us from smothering in the South Pacific humidity, and the smell of a dozen dozing humans brought the skeeters. All of them. I woke at 2am surrounded by buzzing in and around my sleeping sheet. A miserable hour later, covered in hundreds of bites, I ran to the only place the little buggers couldn't munch on me - the ocean. Five hours of floating and one colorific sunrise later, the breakfast cowbell went off. For all future itching issues, I prescribe the following: lots of salt water.

Tui and the rest of the Fijian troop that runs Sunrise counts all guests as family by their second night, but I really felt at home by the time I floated off to track down that shark dive. When one of the older guys (Moses) had trouble with a boil, he came to me for pain-killers. Most of my unused med kit's now bestowed to their cause.

Somehow I used just the correct amount of disposables. One band-aid left. One contact in reserve for each eye. And a lonely backup razorblade - all its precursors dulled, rusted and discarded around this hemisphere.

I'm friends with half the people holding tickets to AirNZ Flight 50 this evening. Convenient, because I'm on it too. This is the last day of the international leg of my trip. Just to prolong the bittersweetness, March 1 lasts forty-some-odd hours for me.

You've just completed a tour of the Pacific Rim - where are you going next? Disneyland! The 'rents take Trace and Bryce to the Mickey Mecca in a couple days, and my flight connects through LAX. So the stars align, and I'm mooching in Anaheim for a week. Since Cambodia didn't kill me, traversing Los Angeles without a car will.

Judging like an embittered, off-the-clock Lonely Planet employee, here are my ratings of the experiences I've had. Heavily biased and unscientific. All opinions subject to change upon further reflection, or going back and doing it right this time. (A grade of C implies I'd be just as chipper at home and working.)

Hawaii: A+
Thailand: B+
Cambodia: A
Vietnam: A-
Laos: A
Bali: B+
Australia: C-
New Zealand: B-
Fiji: A+

Note: NZ and Aussie would each bump themselves up a full letter grade if the US dollar weren't a catastrophe, since I would no longer be a bleeming pauper there.

An Albertan gentleman approached my American accent in Punakaiki. He told me that the NZ South Island's wild and wet West coast reminded him of a miniature version of the Oregon shore. The man had not known which state I call home at the time, but my subsequently swelling chest gave that tidbit away. That was the same day I helped Bjorn disassemble the goat he'd killed with the bow and arrow we'd played with earlier that morning. Ah, West coasts. They bring out the mountain men in choir boys.

They also bring out the rain gear. Deluges soaked me twice this trip. Both times in Greymouth, despite my cumulative clocked presence of two hours in the aptly named hellhole. All the Gore-tex in the world couldn't make that town habitable.

Golden Bay hosted me for a week or so. Indigo Girl covers by Aussie acoustic bands. Giant man-sized Jenga. My very own stalker. Farewell Spit, which is as neato as any 30km sandbar-to-nowhere can be. Organic things. Basically, imagine the last place in the world one would mug another. That's Golden Bay.

Somehow I found myself on the last stable ferry to Wellington. Even old salts puked their way across Cook Strait the next morning. Ten meter swells do that. I let the weather die down for a few days before leaving old friends and turning my sights north.

Got up early, dodged the fallen urban trees, witnessed a walk-by-mauling with a 5'x7' canvas, noticed two cars coincide with each other, and tried to ignore the even-windier-than-usual blusteriness. The first real sign of trouble came with the barricades at the train station. All asphalt roads closed too. I couldn't get out of town until weaseling my way onto a track-condition gathering mission midday. I planned to hitch over 400km that day, breaking one of the rules I outlined below. Making up for my noon departure, I grabbed ride after ride before ending up in a slaughterhouse-offal hauler headed past Bulls, home of the day's key intersection. Well, little did I know that others also noticed the record water levels, toppled trees, submerged paddocks, and waterlogged cattle corpses. I traveled through the floodplain hit by the worst storm New Zealand's seen in forty years, and its largest insurance claim ever. The army assured me that the helicopter pilots left no question about the situation in Bulls - all bridges submerged or torn up, except for the one I'd just crossed. Twenty minutes after I backtracked across it, the weather took it too. Spent the night in Feilding, New Zealand's ugliest and most misspelled town, though I presume the muck in the town square's not usually as deep. More specifically, I slept in its retired mental institution. As I packed to try the roads early the next morning, one of the more permanent residents flew down the corridor, asking if I'd found a shower or faucet that'd work - I hadn't, the town's water supply was quarantined (for four days, it later turned out). This upset him further, as he had court in an hour. I doubt he's a trial attorney.

Got to the center of the country thanks to a clinically insane tourism promoter who makes Steve Irwin look like a coma patient. The government's seizure of his plethora of websites had him particularly riled. After rendezvousing with Louise, we confirmed that the Tongariro National Park (Mordor) had closed to all but the suicidal. Same hikes that spurned me at Christmastime. No worries. We invented a variant on Snakes and Ladders, got up the next morning, and vectored to the only sunny bit of this island for a few days of beachcombing. I've begun to doubt that the seasons actually switch in this hemisphere.

Auckland's home tonight. I'm staying with an eccentric architecture professor at the lakefront house that literally defies description. He and his painter partner built the thing from scratch over the last few decades. It's a ten minute walk from the nearest street, and thus very un-Auckland. Louise keeps 'Piglet', his 300kg oinker, so 'twas an easy in.

I fly out tomorrow, on the 89th day of my 90 day tourist visa. The last bus to the appropriate suburb leaves in a few minutes, so I won't subject you to the emotional self-analysis. Except for this: As far as purgatories between here and home go, I'm not regretting the Fiji choice. I've stocked up on paperbacks. My selection of board shorts ain't the best at the moment, but that can always be fixed on the islands.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Hitchhiking

Dispose of the dreadlocks, then shower and shave. The obviously smelly stay on the shoulder.

Hit the road by 8am. Lets them know you're serious about getting somewhere. Full disclosure: Since I'm usually not serious about getting there, instead hitching for its own sake, I typically put sneaker to asphalt around ten. If you're leaving a major town, cheat and take commuter transit to the outskirts. Two bucks well spent.

300km (190 miles) serves as a good daily maximum, depending on the hitchability of the roads. Pack a sleeping bag, tent and food if going much further. Y'know. Just in case.

Thumbing on expressways gets you a ride in a patrol car, but the only expressways in New Zealand serve Auckland, and why are you bothering with Auckland? Two lane highways are optimal, which is convenient because that's the best way to travel regardless of transit mode. The lower the speed limit the better. Easier to jump away from veering minivans.

Like your traffic spartan. One or two cars a minute gives you the best chance of a quick ride. More and they feel no individual responsibility or sympathy - "someone else will pick the shmuck up." Plus it's harder to break out of traffic. Some folks are so anxious for company that they'll risk my life and theirs to stop dead in the middle of a busy lane.

In case the traffic redefines 'sparse', pull out that compact, fluffy paperback. One that you can look up and down from frequently without confusing yourself. Louis L'Amour novels provide a pleasant mix of good yarns and short words.

Leave the cagers room to pull over. Drivers need time to see you, make the judgment call, then stop. If you're in a bad spot, walk to a good one. It's not called hitchhiking for purely alliterative purposes. Plus, your feet actually get you all the way there sometimes. Walking's not a bad strategy, anyway. Inspires sympathy. Avoid spinning around too quickly while on the camber of the roadside. Bad for the ankles.

Be a Swedish blonde. Better yet, be two. My average stationary wait: forty minutes. Longest wait reported by that demographic: seven minutes, and that was because it took that long for the first car to happen by. More, however, is not efficient when you're all male.

Develop a sixth sense for discarded cardboard. Proper sign usage takes finesse. Put the sharpie to work on a destination or cardinal direction when you're on busy roads leading to multiple intersections. If on an isolated road, just use the thumb. Signs that never hurt: GAS MONEY or I HAVE CHOCOLATE.

Smile. Never wear a hat or sunglasses. Hiding the face is the most common mistake I've seen. Use SPF 30+ instead.

A speeding, tailgating, tailgated washed/waxed late-model luxury SUV helmed by a primped, unsmiling forty-five year old woman and infant child: This vehicle will only pick you up after those monkeys finish the works of Shakespeare. Twice. Illuminated daylight running lights cinch it. Don't waste effort raising the thumb, or even waving hello. She won't look a degree to the side. She'll speed up and veer into the opposite lane, as though she'd be supernaturally ravaged if she comes within meters of the vile, dirty vagrant.

Never flick drivers off. This is for you, Alastair. Repeat after me: "karma"

Optimal ride: any VW-style van. The more years and surfboards on it the better. Almost a guarantee, especially when you give them a pre-emptive 'thank you' look.

Big rigs afford the best views, and their drivers are often so talkative that nodding/smiling's your entire conversational obligation.

For the driver: I never begrudge you driving right by. There are all sorts of good reasons. Don't worry about it. Apologetic looks/gestures appreciated, though. If you do feel like stopping, I promise not to hurt you, if you promise not to hurt me.

Keep a dummy wallet with a moderate amount of cash and a solitary bank card.

Carry only a smallish backpack. Mine fits on my lap easily. Helpful for compact cars, messy tourist rentals, and the dishonest. Never put your bag in the trunk. That's the best way to see it accelerating down the road without you. Temporarily memorize the license number for each lift.

Lastly, enjoy the sunshine and the company. Just keep that raingear and protection within arm's reach.

I'm one month away from getting home, and I have a job arranged already. Yes, for the last week I've been working an hour or two a day to earn my keep at this isolated twelve-bed backpackers, aptly named Water's Edge. They had me helping out inside the hostel on my first day. I failed to grasp the concept of cleaning a shower. Seemed redundant. Consequently, Colleen's sent me outdoors to work with her husband on their new business venture - making and exporting stone mats. So I'm either wrestling the triceratops-sized sorter contraption or barefoot on the beach, tossing rocks into a bucket. Which is what I'd be doing anyway. The Hokitika area's famous for the jade that washes ashore, and I now have my own piece of magical greenstone.

For my trouble, I'm sleeping in the first room I've had to myself since Luang Prabang, circa October. Officially known as The Cave, it's all of fifty square feet, most of which is (double!) bed, but it's also 15 meters from breaking waves. Sleeping in's not a problem until John fires up the rock polisher. Geographically speaking, The Cave doubles as a corner of the work shed.

They call this sort of casual labor wwoofing (willing workers on organic farms). It's usually as hippy as it sounds, but these folks eat red meat 'n such at this here homestead.

Again, I'm glad that I wander around like a castaway rather than do housework. Otherwise I'd have sunk from C.O.O. to toilet cleaner in one year flat. Speaking of Mediamoth, perhaps we should take the website down. I've forgotten the password to the FTP server and garrett@mediamoth.com, so that task falls to one of the other fellas. I miss the woolly guy... and Jeremy and the mammoth too.

Intel shipped a new flavor of Pentium 4 on Monday. Prescott means something to me because I spent months designing a tiny fraction of the lil' guy. Mixed feelings about seeing it out the cleanroom door now that I'm so removed from gray cubicles. On the one hand, there was the thrill of knowing geekily fun chip architecture details that only dozens were aware of, and the memories of sneaking downstairs to cavort with the interns on RA2-2. On the other hand, there were those gray cubicles.

All this professional talk brings out the American in me. Superbowl Monday was a treat, and not because I get a kick out of the date/time difference. I sat on driftwood and read a novel. As happy as that made me, I still missed huddling around the game, waiting for the commercials to start. The adverts here mostly remind me of that guy trying to hawk tanning beds on Nashville local TV. You know the type. No Tivo required to watch Janet Jackson's boob, though. They weren't broadcasting the game, but kiwi news programs later showed the controversial clip (sans blurring) several times, then made snide comments about the American moral majority backlash, implying that "the land of the free" had become "the land of the prudes." Sounds reasonable. The sports-bra commercial here featuring a bared full-screen tit hasn't noticibly corrupted any of the kids I've run into recently. Admittedly, the entire South Island has a population of three quarters of a million, so it's a small sample set, but still. Get over it, Michael Powell. Your kids watch violent vids much more often than halftime shows or suckling infants. Breasts've never hurt anyone. Some find them quite pleasant, actually.

I now theme-hitchhike. My benefactors from Wanaka to Fox all celebrated a birthday that day. One couple gave me a tour of the roadside wonders over the Haast Pass leading to the West coast. Didn't see any of the famous brown trout in the snowmelt Blue Pools, but we did meet up with several carloads of their pensioner peers to enjoy a picnic lunch in the prettiest spot this side of Yellowstone. Perchance it was the beer they provided me with, or the jubilation at the leftovers given to my by the grandmothering women, but I didn't even mind the fruitcake they obligated me to try. That's a first. One of the later rides took me to a salmon farm. No samples there, unfortunately.

The coast here has a couple sizable glaciers, both of which descend into oceanside rainforest. Hiked up Fox, with crampons and other such spiked goodies. Couldn't afford to do that at Franz Joseph, so I just wandered up the side of the valley to take in the views of the crevasses and seracs. Those ice towers made me reminisce for the disembodied floating head of Marlon Brando.

I've hiked so much that it makes for boring journal entries. "Today I saw more natural splendor. My feet still hurt." I'm glad to be back on a West coast, though. Sunsets are better here. And the incessant rain makes you appreciate any instant that you're not damp. Didn't stop that tramping, though. You can even hike inside here. The spooky Tartare tunnel is an endlessly straight abandoned mining shaft that contained just me, my two weak flashlights, and six inches of glacier melt streaming over my feet. Consider gumboots* essential. I was wearing the backpacker's substitute: Tevas. Spent most of my energy looking for eels. Save one spider, there are no leathal animals in New Zealand, but there are a few unpleasant ones. Even considering the safety, any walk around here gets eerie after dark, but worthwhile thanks to the glowworms. And don't miss the Robert's Point track if you're in Franz Joseph. To die for.

*Gumboots is kiwi for rubber boots.

A couple additions to my checklist for hostels: good music selection and Monopoly. These two are mutually necessary. A note on the former: for the love of all that is Good, dispose of all Jack Johnson CDs. They've seen far too much use already.

The longer you carry something with you when traveling, the harder it is to part with it. I finished a vial of soap the other day. Tears appeared upon its disposal.

The hitching theme recently is "dogs." Everyone has a pickup and a canine. This has led to more kisses than I've seen in quite some time. Rover was a bit forward to give that much tongue on a first date.