CHASING BEAUTY

Base—that dreaded party hostel, that steaming shit-hole of ill repute—also the place Robert-Jan is staying. In the words of some—crowded, noisy, people screwing in every corner—it's not that bad. Robert-Jan is on a package deal, open-bus pass with pre-booked hostels, he has no choice in the matter.

I find him seated on a bench, Skypeing his parents.

He waves.

We’ve agreed to take the fiery to Russell, an island across the bay with cutesy beaches and babes and cafes.

Breakfast first—he finishes with his parents and we head into town for some food. We eat on the waterfront, a place with a breakfast special. We sit outside and enjoy the sun, talk philosophy, traveling, and the mocking humor of Germans.

We leave with the waitress's phone number and on the way back meet a girl from Denmark, tanning on the grass. We sit down, trading lines, back and forth, one, two—flexing smiles and egos and charm. By the time we return to the hostels, we’ve got a reputation in Paihia—and an arsenal of names and numbers.

He’s changing into his swim-shorts.

And there she is—I recognize the hair, the petite, feline figure—Mirjam, who has just arrived and is also staying at Base.

Robert-Jan and I wait for her to throw together a day bag and the three of us head to the docks to catch the fiery.

The trip is 15-20 minutes. The water is blue—beyond blue, reeling beneath the prow of our ship, crystal clear, rippling, warm, salty, sunny, gorgeous—the islands are dense with mushroom-shaped trees and vines and jutting rocks. Robert-Jan tells us the history of the birds and opossums, and the legends surrounding the Island town of Russell—pirate port, rum soaked, first capital of New Zealand.

We arrive, buy beers, and walk to the beach at the other side of the island. On the way there we follow a small, relatively hidden path. Mirjam is snapping pictures—her hobby—and we end up on the outskirts of a nude beach—age is ugly, especially when it sags—we gag, and turn back.

The proper beach is lovely, clear water, clean sand, surf-splashed, submerged and smooth boulders, rocks, and water plants. It’s great. We lie out our towels and jump in the water—ball-freeze, then free, warming, adjusting, swimming, splashing, floating, laughing. Mirjam is shy. Robert and I do most of the talking.

He says to me, “I really enjoy your company, man.”

Likewise. 

Robert-Jan is someone that I will miss.

We wash up on the shore, demanding pictures from Mirjam, teasing her. We sunscreen our bodies, tan, talk, crack beers, toast—cheers.

We spend a few hours there.

On the way back to Paihia, Robert asks a question, it gets us thinking. He asked if we could ever live in a remote, deserted place, nothing to do, alone.

The answers are unformed, confused, varied—nobody is sure.

In the end we all agree that no place is anyplace if it is the only place.

Our lives are small—too small to spend alone and stuck, wasting away while the world spins around us.

Passing us by.