At the top of Mount Rangitoto

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, it began to rain.

I didnt mind, I was already soaked. I read a book when I was younger, called "Writers on Writing" and one of the chapters was about in order to be inspired, you must move your feet. So many writers are active (I know the stereotype about us artistic types being pathetically unathletic, so laugh all you want...).

It began to rain. Hard. But the incredible thing was, I watched the rain move in from over the city and mainland of Auckland, and slowly make its way toward us. I ran into the shelter, followed by a handful of other people. As we waited for the rain to pass, I struck up a conversation with a local university professor about the oral tradition of the Maori people (the people native to New Zealand). With a few quick strokes of his phone's keypad, he gave me the name and contact number of a professor at the university who would be able to help me get in contact with some Maori poets... or at least people who know about the Maori oral tradition. Beautiful

They always called New Zealand the land of the long white cloud. But now I understand why.

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I saw New Zealand's colors.

It's not a big mountain. It only took be about an hour to hike to the summit. But it's a volcano, really, and that's what's incredible about it. It just rises out of nowhere in the sea. A large black mountain, covered in mysterious ferns that love the volcanic soil. The colors of this country are muted. Shades of shades. Contrasting beautifully with the bright boldness of australia, this land is darker, mysterious, softer. Covered almost constantly by clouds, it rises out of the water, a thin dark stretch of land. Almost every mountain and hill in this country is a volcano. In some cities, the ground erupts in hot angry bursts. The rain comes without warning. The sun is hotter than in the northern hemisphere.

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I realized where I am. And how lucky I am to be here.

Breathless. I want to share it with someone. But I've only got my camera, and my memory. And I suppose that's good enough.

After climbing down, I slept for an hour on the beach, waiting for the ferry.
I am sunburnt, sandy and salty. Muted and exhausted.

I am competing in a poetry slam in 1 hour. My mind is a muddled mess. Where am I going? What is the point of all this? It's just too beautiful for words.