Alan

A few days later and we’d looped the Northland and were close to Auckland again camping by a rugged, iron-sand beach in a small town called Piha. The beach here is so wild and dangerous it apparently has its own TV show (Piha Rescue if you’re interested).

Piha

The night was cold and hold onto your hats windy. It was hard to cook outside, especially in the torrential rain that plagued us that night, and besides, by this point we were both in need of a shower (it’d been a while) and so we decided to check into a holiday park for a bit of luxury.

We set to work in the communal kitchen making our packet pasta and sauce (a step up from super noodles at least) and were shortly joined by Alan. 

Remember I mentioned in my first post that we have a tendency to attract and befriend crazy characters? Well, keep that in mind for a moment…

I’d guessed Alan was around 60 years old, he was also from England, Cambridge to be exact, where he’d lived with his wife and kids. They’d moved to New Zealand together around 25 years ago. His wife was nowhere to be seen now however. He was living alone on the campsite in his 4x4 and tent and had been for the past three months. He was dishevelled and unkempt, with erratic grey hair, holes in his clothes and gaps in his teeth. Still, he seemed nice enough and chatted to us helpfully recommending places to go and things to see and do around the country. He told us he travelled for his weekly shop by bicycle, 70 kilometres he’d go, and carry his bags back with him. He’d recently been on a three day tramp (kiwi word for hike) wearing only sandals and had struggled alone along cliff edges and precarious winding tracks. He’d a new lease of life in his old age and he’d never felt fitter he said. 

He told us he dreamed of a self-sufficient lifestyle growing his own crops and keeping animals for dairy and meat. He’d seen a wood burning water heater for sale and was saving up for one as we spoke. He wanted solar panels and a wind turbine for electric. 

The thing was, Alan no longer had work and he needed one last surge of cash to get him started. He’d been paid out some redundancy money a couple of years earlier which he’d hoped would last three years until he could start to claim his pension, but now he was only two years in and he was starting to struggle and he barely had any expenses. There was no mortgage on the house he owned jointly with his wife but there was no hope of him moving home, his wife didn’t want him back. 

Perhaps what happened next was my own fault for being so damn nosy but I couldn’t resist asking why they’d separated. The reply was unexpected and left Chad and I almost choking on our pasta and fumbling for a response. Fortunately (or not, depending on how you look at things) I’d unleashed a kind of torrent from poor old Alan and we couldn’t have got a word in edgeways had we managed to find an appropriate response. 

It went a little something like this: 

“She couldn’t handle my visions. I’ve had experiences that frightened her. Things have happened to me which can only be explained by divine intervention. God kept me alive and I had no choice but to follow his direction and plan for my life. My purpose on God’s Earth is to preach. I started in Cambridge with a sandwich board and my wife said after that first time spreading God’s word on the street, she knew I would never stop. And how could I? I think our move to New Zealand was due to her embarrassment around her friends and family. She was ashamed of me, but what could I do? Ignore God’s will? The God who saved my life? The God who let me live? God has been good to me and I owe him a huge debt. Preaching is my life now. I’m resigned to God’s plan for me”. 

Uh-oh, he’d dropped the weird bomb, but I’m all for religion and individuality and believing whatever the hell you choose. I’m always interested, respectful and curious when it comes to folks’ beliefs and this time I wanted to ask more questions. What were his visions? How did he nearly die? What did it say on his sandwich board? I was intrigued but I could see Chad shifting uncomfortably, inching slightly away and bringing the conversation to a close, probably for our own safety.

“Alright then Alan,” he said “we better wash up – night!”