Hendri believed the purpose of existence was to express our consciousness and thereby to create our universe.
Juliana: Do you believe there must be a purpose for existence?
Hendri: Next level . . . Think there is . . . reason . . . not sure.
Juliana: Tell me why you think so.
Hendri: Perhaps existence is enough. But there are levels of that.
Juliana: In my opinion mere “existence” is overrated.
Hendri: I heard a good one recently: our reason for existence is to express our consciousness.
Juliana: Why “express our consciousness”? Who does it profit?
Hendri: That is a good point. Let’s get back to that as soon as you answer why you think existence is overrated.
Juliana: Just to “exist” puts you at the same level as animals. In essence, that’s what existence is: eating, shitting, sleeping. So what defines mankind as above animals?
Hendri: But we can express consciousness. That puts us far above animals. We can create the universe through our perceptions, our thoughts. You have to admit, that’s pretty cool.
I get it now, Hendri.
AUGUST 30, 2012
In my last push toward Seattle, I decide to take the interstate highway. This is not recommended and possibly even illegal. Looking on Google Maps, there are alternatives, but they all mean cycling a more mountainous route that will take longer, and I’m on a tight deadline. As I did with the flight out of Europe, I’ve bought my airline ticket a couple of days in advance, so I have to reach the airport by that date.
Even with reinforced tires, the amount of litter on the interstate means inevitable punctures. In addition, my bike has been fitted with carbon spoke nipples instead of the cheaper but more durable steel. Fine for racing, not so good for cycling the world. Two of the nipples snap off, so I screw down the spokes as a temporary solution until I can find a bike shop. The front wheel is wobbling alarmingly, and every time I hit a bump, I worry that the uneven pressure will cause further damage. By the time I reach Seattle, Pegasus has suffered ten punctures and three broken spoke nipples.
A friend who was born and raised in the Moonies—otherwise known as the Unification Church, another infamous cult that gained popularity in the sixties and seventies—has offered to put me up in Seattle. I first met Donna a couple of years ago in London, when we gave a presentation together at a conference about the challenges ex-cult kids face when trying to integrate into society. As the first “blessed” child born into the Moonies in the Western world, she grew up, as I did, mostly without her parents. Instead, she was entrusted to the care of random members of the group in a succession of “boarding schools.” Like me, she began to question her situation from a young age and was immediately labeled a rebel. Like me, she led a double life within the group until she made the transition into mainstream society. And like me, she became vocal about the lack of rights for children growing up within cults, for which the Moonies demonized her.
It is late by the time I arrive at Donna’s house, and she’s waiting outside as I roll up. She is a striking blonde with blue eyes and the kind of ready smile that makes you think of chocolate chip cookies and warm milk. Before long I have taken advantage of her giant bath to indulge in a long soak. The hot soapy water is bliss. When I emerge after an hour, I could swear my skin is a couple of shades lighter. The water, in any case, is definitely several shades darker.
AUGUST 31, 2012
Donna has accompanied me to a nearby bike shop this morning, so the mechanics can give Pegasus a thorough clean, change the broken nipples and chain, and fit new reinforced tires. It’s late by the time I start cycling to the airport, and I’m in a race against the clock as I pedal the last twenty miles to the departures terminal. Once there I’ll still have to disassemble and box Pegasus for the flight, which will take a good half hour.
The road is lined with stoplights the entire way, which slows progress considerably. I’m keeping time with an orange city bus, starting and stopping together at the lights. A group of young guys get off at one stop, then wait at the zebra crossing for the pedestrian signal to turn green. One of them—an African American with dreadlocks—keeps glancing over in my direction as if he’s busting to say something. Unable to contain himself, he finally blurts out, “You know, that bus driver was checkin’ out yo’ booty!”
“Can’t say I blame him,” I fire back. “I’d probably do the same.”
He looks around to make sure his buddies are clocking his pluck. “Oh yeah? Well, in that case, so was I!” He doubles over with laughter, one fist jammed to his mouth. At that moment the green pedestrian signal blinks on, and he skips lightly across the road, high-fiving his friends like he’s just sneaked a cookie from the jar.
I make it to the airport just in time to box the bike and board the plane, then sleep the whole fifteen-hour flight to New Zealand. Except, of course, when they come around with food. For the first time ever, I clean every little plastic dish on the dinner tray and ask for another, if they have any to spare. The flight attendant clearly understands what is expected of her the next time around. My breakfast tray comes laden with two of everything.
RAINBOWS, HOBBITS, AND HEADWINDS
SEPTEMBER 5, 2012
New Zealand is the land of rainbows. I’ve never seen so many, so frequently, except perhaps in Ireland. Both countries share another thing, too: it has been raining off and on like a leaky faucet ever since I landed in Auckland. Then there are the winds. Apparently New Zealand is also known for its gale-force winds. None of this is entirely consistent with the romantic images I conjured of my journey through the set of Tolkien’s fantasy land in the Lord of the Rings blockbuster trilogy. I’ve wanted to visit the country ever since watching the films, so I was thrilled when it turned out to be one of the few options I had when it came to choosing antipodal points I had to touch on my route.
After hitting Hamilton, one of the larger cities directly south of Auckland, my GPS suddenly stops working, my smartphone battery dies, and I’m unable to find a shop that sells maps. As there are next to no signs out in the countryside, finding my way becomes a lot of guesswork and asking for directions. Either I don’t understand the locals or they don’t understand me, because somewhere along the way I get on the wrong road. I was intending to head for Te Kuiti and follow the west coast all the way to Wellington, but now I’m someplace in the middle of the North Island, surrounded by rolling hills.
“Where are you?” Antonio asks when he finally manages to contact me on the emergency phone. It’s three a.m. in Italy. He’s been waking up every hour to check if my tracker has moved and to try to reach me by phone.
“I don’t know. The locals keep pointing me in all kinds of directions.”
“Well, where’s the last place you passed?”
“Can’t you see where I am on the tracker?”
“No. It hasn’t updated since yesterday. I thought something must have happened to you.”
Sure enough, my Spot tracker is blinking red. I have no idea what this means, except that green is good, so red must be bad.
“You’re right. It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Is it the batteries?”
“I don’t think so. I changed them in the States. Anyway, I don’t have any spares, if that’s the problem.”
“Fuck. That’s bad. What do we do if I can’t see where you are and can’t contact you? It’s impossible to help you if I don’t know where you are.”
“I just passed a small town called Tokoroa.”
“One moment.” Antonio goes online to check my location. “Ju—what the fuck? You’re near Lake Taupo, right in the middle. You are heading straight for the worst mountains. You were supposed to follow the coast!” He’s shouting into the phone like a good southern Italian. This always makes me nervous. The one thing about living in southern Italy that I will never get used to is the shouting. The constant noise. The stress-inducing, over-the-top drama that is normal l
ife to a Mediterranean native.
I remember the first time Antonio invited me to his family’s home for lunch. In Naples, Sunday lunch is an indispensable tradition. The mamma spends the entire morning cooking at least three courses, which the whole family then proceeds to inhale within a few short minutes. I quickly learned to scarf down my food if I wanted to get a full meal. (Eating fast—another useful road skill.) Antonio’s father, mother, and brother were all shouting at the top of their lungs, with his mother, Anna Maria, the loudest of them all. Her voice punctuated the others’ sentences like sharp exclamation points. I thought I had stepped into a family feud.
“What are they arguing about?” I whispered to Antonio.
“Arguing? Cute!” He laughed and pinched my cheek. “They’re discussing the recipe for the stuffed eggplant.”
“Buono?” Anna Maria asked me just then, her voice like an explosion of thunder out of industrial speakers, so loud that I did a startled little jump. Everybody saw it. The room went quiet for about three seconds, then they all broke into peals of laughter.
“My grandmother was deaf,” Antonio explained. “Mamma got used to shouting. Maybe it’s why we’re all a little deaf, too.”
For Antonio, his family, and every good Neapolitan, speaking normally equates to what anyone else would consider shouting. This also means that their shouting comes close to eardrum-tearing decibels. So over the phone right now, Antonio’s voice raises my stress levels to the breaking point. I fire back at a volume I think he will understand: “Yes, Antonio! I would be following the coast, except I have no maps, no GPS, and there are no bloody signs!”
“Why are you shouting?” he asks. I do it so rarely, the novelty always unsettles him.
“I’m shouting because you are shouting, and I’m stressed enough as it is.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. You’re completely fucked.”
Antonio’s blunt assessment of the situation does not help my pissy mood. “Thanks. Real helpful. What do you suggest I do?”
“Turn around.”
“I can’t. Not allowed. Guinness World Record rules state you cannot go backward during the attempt.”
“Then you really are fucked.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, would you stop that?”
“There’s only one other town near you. It’s called Mangakino. I suggest you stop there for the day and replan your route. Any direction you go now, you’ll have to cross very bad mountains.”
It is already midafternoon and I have not eaten since breakfast. I am feeling weak and dizzy, my body has the shakes, and my throat is sore, probably the onset of a cold from the wind and rain. To make matters worse, my period has just started, and the first day is always the worst for cramps. I decide to head for Mangakino, eat something, charge my phone, and buy a map, if I can find one.
Antonio isn’t finished with the bad news, though. “By the way, Ju. The money for the attempt is finished. You have just three hundred euros left in the account. If nothing arrives in the next couple of days, you’ll have to come home. Actually I don’t even know how you’ll come home. There isn’t enough money for a ticket.”
I am hitting a record low now. I am too tired to think. What I need is a long sleep. Morning usually brings clarity, so tomorrow I’ll regroup and come up with a plan. I pedal to Mangakino, where I decide to call it a day.
The town reminds me of one of those depressing mining settlements composed primarily of dingy prefab housing. There is a hostel near the river undergoing refurbishment, but they agree to give me a bed for the night. Just as I’m thinking my luck has changed, my hopes drop again when the young English blonde in charge tells me the Internet is down, and no, they don’t have any paper maps of New Zealand.
How will I plan my route for tomorrow? My dejection is tangible. It’s been one of those one-thing-after-another kind of days. I meander down a narrow dirt path leading to the river to have a think. There is a little makeshift bar on the bank, run by an elderly gentleman who offers me a drink. In the summer, his establishment also serves food to tourists and locals engaged in water sports on the river. He is experimenting with making pizza for the upcoming season’s customers, while his English friend, who is sitting across the table from me, is sampling his culinary creations. I am cordially invited to join them.
Contrary to what many people believe, more topping on a pizza does not mean better. The Neapolitans, who invented the dish, are truly minimalist: it’s always a case of quality ingredients over quantity. Most will ever eat only the original pizza, with tomato, mozzarella, and basil. The taste is exquisite. If you have to throw a bunch of crap on top, by their reasoning, the pizza is probably not very good in the first place. What’s more, placing frozen, mixed Asian stir-fry vegetables on a pizza would be considered a comestible travesty. Any native of Naples would say that such a thing simply should not exist, and having now tried one, I must say I am in complete agreement with them.
At least the company outdoes the pizza. When the conversation eventually comes around to my cycle ride and getting lost, the Brit offers me his computer and Internet access to plan a route on Google Maps. His assessment of my position pretty much concurs with Antonio’s, though. No matter which direction I take tomorrow, I am, to use Antonio’s word, fucked.
“You’ll have to go over Desert Road,” says the Brit. “There’s nothing out there for miles; that’s why it’s called that. The military use the area for training. It’s usually closed in the winter because the road is too dangerous to cross. It should be open now it’s spring, but be sure to take enough water and food. You’ll pass some volcanic mountains. It’s a very long uphill climb, but there are some incredible views.”
None of this sounds very encouraging. “What about heading west and following the coast that way?”
“No point now. You’ll still have to cross mountains. And that way would be even worse. Trust me, the Desert Road’s your best option. You’re here, so you might as well see the best of the country.”
SEPTEMBER 6, 2012
Slugging up the volcanic mountain plateau, I wonder if the Desert Road really is the best option. When he said it would be “a long uphill climb,” I never imagined anything could be this long. I’ve been climbing steadily for a good eighty miles with little reprieve. The only food I’ve eaten, apart from bagels and cream cheese for breakfast, is some protein bars I brought with me from America. I stupidly assumed there would be at least a few service stations en route where I could find more food and water.
My muscles are shaking with fatigue. I dismount often to stretch out the cramps in my thighs, helplessly wondering how I will continue if it keeps on like this for much longer. I have no way of knowing where I am or where the nearest town might be. There is only one thing I can do: just keep pedaling.
The wind, which has been behind me most of the day, has now changed direction and is sweeping down the snow-capped mountains in a westerly direction. There are strong wind warning signs on the road for the trucks—and I soon understand why they’re necessary. The gusts grow ever stronger as the sun sets, blasting into me at well over sixty miles an hour. After being blown off the road twice, I’m forced to dismount and walk.
The temperature plummets with the encroaching darkness. As long as I was pedaling, I kept reasonably warm. But now, in addition to being inadequately dressed for subzero temperatures, my clothes are drenched with sweat. The wind is so strong, it lifts Pegasus off the ground, bags and all. Staggering slowly along, trying to keep on my feet, for the first time I begin to experience real concern for my safety. I’ve lost all feeling in my extremities, and my body is shaking uncontrollably, leading me to worry that I may be in the early stages of hypothermia.
When Antonio calls, the only sound is the wind in my ears.
“I can’t hear anything!” I shout into the phone. “If you can hear me, I don’t know where I am. But the next town can’t be far. I’ll call you when I get there.” If I get there. There’s no poi
nt telling him I’m in serious trouble. What could he possibly do? Without the tracker, he can’t even pinpoint my location on the map; he’ll just stay up all night in a nervous panic if I reveal how desperate I am.
In the murky darkness ahead, I spot a camper van parked on the opposite side of the highway. The silhouette of a woman is framed in the window. The neon light reflects off her silver hair like a halo, and she appears, in that fortuitous moment, like a saving angel. I cross the road and knock on the window. She looks up from the dishes she is washing, smiles, and waves, as though a cyclist banging on her window is a perfectly normal, everyday event.
“Help!” I shout through the wind.
She signals for me to come around to the other side of the camper van, and as she unlocks and opens the door, a powerful gust slams it hard against the side panel.
“Oh my. Oh dear! What a wind!” she hollers, coming down the steps.
“P-please, I need some help,” I say, the teeth tap-dancing in my mouth. “I think . . . I’m g-g-getting hypothermic.”
“Oh, you poor thing! What on earth are you doing out here in this weather in the dark? Oh—oh my!” Another powerful gust blasts against us. She reels about and grabs hold of the side of the camper van.
“I was cycling over the Desert Road, b-but the wind got too strong to keep pedaling. I d-d-don’t know how far it is to the nearest town.”
“Are you alone?”
I nod.
“You must be crazy.”
Her husband—gray-haired and ruddy-complexioned—peers out. “Hullo! Everything all right?”
“N-no, n-n-not really.” My teeth are chattering uncontrollably now.
“The poor thing got stuck out here in the dark,” his wife explains. “Why don’t you come inside for a cuppa and get warm.”
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