Man Mission: Four Men, Fifteen Years, One Epic Journey

By Eytan Uliel

While in college, a group of four young men establish a tradition: every year, they take a week-long adventure trip together. They go hiking, biking, or kayaking, traveling all around the world. They call it their Man Mission, an annual ritual that they keep for fifteen years.

 

In the course of their travels, they hitch a ride with drug dealers in New Zealand, down kava shots on Fijian beaches, come face-to-face with a roaring lion in South Africa, luxuriate in a resort intended only for Vietnamese Communist officials, trek to Machu Picchu, and go ice climbing in Iceland. Over the years, they get married, start families, establish careers, and do all the stuff upright men are supposed to do. But when the challenges of real life come into conflict with the perfect lives they are supposed to be living, the yearly Man Mission becomes more than an annual getaway. It’s a source of stability and a place to find redemption.

 

Part travel narrative and part roman à clef, this novel follows four regular guys as they find adventure together, and seek meaning and purpose, in a world where the traditional rules of “being a man” are no longer clear.

“5 out of 5 stars”—Foreword Clarion Reviews

“A fast-moving, fresh, multi-faceted story of exploration”

—Louise Herron AM, CEO, Sydney Opera House

“A candid account of a man’s viewpoint—4 out of 4 stars” —Online Book Club

“Lively and well-told”—Blue Ink Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480862937

Eytan Uliel

Eytan Uliel is a wanderer, global traveler and seriously committed gourmand. After graduating from the University of New South Wales, Sydney Australia, he practiced corporate law for several years before moving on to a career in investment banking, private equity, and oil and gas finance. His work schedule has taken him to every corner of the globe, and he chronicles these journeys on his blog, The Road Warrior (www.eytanuliel.com). Born in Jerusalem, Eytan currently divides his time between Los Angeles, Nassau and Sydney.

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Copyright © 2019 Eytan Uliel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-6291-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6292-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6293-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018949854

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/03/2019

CONTENTS

The Man Mission Charter

Part 1: Beginning

MM I: Harper’s Pass, South Island, New Zealand

MM II: Tokyo to Niigata, Japan

MM III: Murray River, Victoria, Australia

MM IV: Kosciuszko to Coast, Victoria, Australia

MM V: Rail Trail, Otago, New Zealand

Part 2: Middle

MM VI: Yasawa Islands, Fiji

MM VII: Andalusia, Spain

MM VIII: Andaman Sea, Thailand

MM IX: Busan to Seoul, South Korea

MM X: The Otter Trail and Kruger National Park, South Africa

Part 3: End

MM XI: Hoi An to Nha Trang, Vietnam

MM XII: Kauai, Hawaii, USA

MM XIII: East Coast, Taiwan

MM XIV: The Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, Peru

MM XV: The South and the Snæfellsnes Peninsula, Iceland

Epilogue: Home

Look, it’s an otter!

For S, P & A, the men who inspired this creation: thanks for putting up with me.

And thanks for being there for me. This is for you.

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THE MAN MISSION CHARTER

1. Men Only

2. Adventure from Point A to Point B

3. Go Beyond Your Limits

4. Travel under Your Own Power

5. No Luxuries Allowed

6. Bathing Optional

7. Chafing Obligatory

8. Whining Tolerated

9. To Go Al Fresco Is to Touch the Face of God

10. He Who Whines Loudest Wears the Pink Bracelet

PART 1: BEGINNING

There is one rule, above all others, for being a man. Whatever comes, face it on your feet.

—Robert Jordan, The Great Hunt

Then God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.

—Genesis 2:5

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MM I: Harper’s Pass, South Island, New Zealand

The pickup truck hurtles down a dirt road in rural New Zealand. In the back it’s just me, four loaded guns, and some kilo bricks of drugs.

I’m going to die, I think. And not for the first time today.

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Sam and I had been friends since law school.

On the day we first met I had been looking for someone to go with me to the Food Fair on campus. My two best mates, Daniel and Alec, both of whom I’d known since grammar school, had decided they were too busy, lying on the grass recovering from alcohol excess the night before.

One of the other guys sitting on the lawn had scrambled to his feet and introduced himself.

Hi, I’m Sam, he said. I’ll go with you.

We may have been in the Australian sunshine, but Sam resembled a prototypical Viking, with a mop of wild blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a seriously rugged, manly vibe. He looked fierce, and my initial impression was that he was a private school brat who’d spent his entire life playing rugby, rowing, and pulling chicks. Almost certainly, I thought, he was someone who’d have nothing in common with the nerdier bookish types of this world.

Like me.

So my immediate inclination was to make an excuse, turn down his offer of company, and go on my own. But something stopped me. Perhaps it was the gentle tone of his voice.

Okay, I said. Let’s go.

Sam’s Norseman’s face creased into an excited smile, and we set off.

Just like that, a friendship was born.

For almost two hours Sam and I meandered from stall to stall, tasting everything the Food Fair had to offer. Nothing seemed to scare him. He matched me mouthful for mouthful with Korean kimchi, fermented Ethiopian bread, and strange Laotian noodles so rubbery I didn’t want to ask what they were made from.

After noshing we sat on a bench and chatted. I learned that Sam was not the privileged dumb jock I’d assumed him to be. He was smart, thoughtful, and erudite, and was also studying in the law school. In jumping to conclusions, I’d been a judgmental ass.

I shared with Sam one of my outlandish fantasies.

Ever since I was a teenager I’ve had this crazy idea of going on an annual vacation—each year to a different exotic location—with the sole focus of the trip being to sample every weird bizarre edible I can find.

Sam fixed his gaze on me, and I saw a spark of genuine interest—possibly even delight—in his eyes.

That’s genius! he exclaimed.

I smiled.

And what would be especially genius is if the trip included doing something outdoorsy as well, like hiking, biking, or kayaking. That way you could eat as much as you like, without the guilt.

I smiled again. Finally, I’d found someone who understood me.

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Three years later, I was in a dull, entry-level desk job at a large law firm in Sydney. It demanded eighteen-hour days, where I performed menial clerical tasks on command, like a trained seal in a legal circus.

Still, I grinned and soldiered on. I’d done a lot of studying to get there, and the next step in the program was to make something of myself. Dull, entry-level work was the way to start—the first rung up an invisible corporate ladder.

Any juvenile thoughts I may have once had about nipping off on a wilderness-foodie adventure with Sam were long forgotten. I was a grown-up, in a serious job. I had commitments and important, if not mind-numbingly boring, work to do.

Then one Saturday afternoon, while I was sprawled on the couch watching football, the phone rang. It was Sam.

Let’s go, he said quietly. Let’s book tickets, get on a plane, and just fucking go.

I had no idea what Sam was talking about, so I said nothing. My silence seemed to spur him on.

Our boys’ trip! he shouted fiercely, the sudden switch in his tone taking me by surprise. My body jolted, as though the overstuffed cushion I was on had given me a small electrical shock.

The time has come, amigo. Let’s do it. I mean really. Let’s do it. No more excuses.

What the fuck are you going on about? I raised my volume to match Sam’s. But his enthusiasm had ignited a spark deep inside me. I wasn’t sure why exactly, but it did feel like something important was about to happen.

Sam lowered his voice.

"Our annual food and outdoor activity trip, remember that? We used to talk about it all the time at university. How we’d go away and do something wild and crazy, where we wouldn’t have to shower or shave for a whole week.

"How we’d camp and cook our food over an open fire, rough it, breathe fresh air, stretch our legs. No reporting into an office and definitely no answering phone calls or responding to emails.

Don’t tell me you wouldn’t love that right now?

The words were like music to my ears. Compared to the daily grind of office life, that kind of trip sounded heavenly. Even if I immediately knew it was a fanciful idea—one that could never happen in reality—so I tried to deflect.

Are you high or something? How is it that you no longer have to work for a living like the rest of us?

Sam laughed.

I got a new job, but I’ll tell you about that later. The good news is I have time off in-between. So let’s go.

My stomach tightened, and I felt a tinge of excitement. Still, I was hesitant.

Okay, Mr. Smart Guy, when exactly do you plan for us to run off into the woods?

Two weeks. I can leave two weeks from today.

He was obviously well prepared for my questions.

And where exactly will we go?

Sam sighed, a hint of exasperation in his tone. Maybe he wasn’t as well prepared as I’d thought.

I guess we’d need to go somewhere kind of close and easy to get to, given how last minute this is.

He paused.

How about we hike in New Zealand? They don’t have much in the way of weird food there, but they certainly make up for it in the amazing outdoors department. What do you say?

The mere thought of it seemed crazy. Sam knew full well that there was no way I could drop everything and hop on a plane. A part of me resented him for even bringing it up. Now I was going to be the killjoy, the one to kibosh the whole thing before it even had a chance.

And then I remembered. Several months before, I’d registered for a conference and blocked out the dates, but after seeing the agenda—a panel of pompous lawyers discussing inanities like the latest innovations in contract drafting—I’d changed my mind about going.

Hold on a second.

I swiped through my calendar to check. In the years I’d dedicated to the tedium of being a junior lawyer, I couldn’t recall ever once having had a clear week.

Yet there it was: a five-day block of empty calendar pages, and I almost gasped. I mean, call it what you will—magic, fate, God, serendipity, the stars and moon aligning—but it turned out I would be totally free for the whole of the time that Sam was, too.

I guess I can do it, I stammered, barely able to conceal the disbelief in my voice. Seriously, who was I to fuck with the universe’s grand plan?

Just like that, Man Mission was born.

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Sam and I arrived in Christchurch, on New Zealand’s South Island, two weeks to the day after our impulsive phone chat.

In that short time, we’d hatched a sort-of plan of hiking the Harper’s Pass Trail. Sam had found some basic information on this trail in a guidebook, so we knew that it was roughly fifty-five miles long, that we’d have to sleep in tents or mountain huts, and that we’d have to carry all our supplies in backpacks.

The book also said that it was a demanding, difficult tramp that would take experienced hikers in good physical shape about four days to complete. Or in other words, it was a hiking trail best suited to people who were not us.

Do the math, I said once Sam had finished reading the description out loud.

If it is a fifty-five mile hike, and if you figure we’ll walk at a speed of three miles per hour for six hours a day, we’ll cover almost twenty miles each day. So we’ll finish the whole thing in three days, four tops. It’ll be easy.

Fuck, yeah! We’re going to crush this trail, Sam roared.

It was all I could do to resist the urge to thump my chest.

The bus dropped Sam and me at the start of the trail under a clear blue sky. The afternoon sun was hot, uncomfortably so, and as the bus pulled away, its tires kicked up a cloud of dust and small stones. Then the vehicle was gone, disappearing over a crest in the road, leaving us standing at the intersection of two deserted country lanes.

We’d brought with us to New Zealand a small backpack each, a secondhand tent, and a tattered map. In Christchurch we stocked up on basic camping supplies: a bottle of propane gas, bread and crackers, a few tins of baked beans, a big bag of trail mix, two dozen freeze-dried meals, and some water-purifying tablets.

That was it, the full extent of our planning. We were heading out into the wilds of New Zealand for a week with less thought than we’d put into ordering a morning coffee. We were making a stupidly impulsive, ill-thought-through move that was only possible because we were young, foolish, and free.

In the remote New Zealand countryside we were completely alone. There were no buildings or other indications of human life. All the way to the horizon we could see nothing but open fields and, in the far distance, snow-capped mountains.

A small wooden sign pointed the way.

Harper’s Pass Trail.

Sam set off in earnest, striding purposefully down the path, and I followed a few feet behind. We walked for a couple of hours, covering about four miles. The terrain was difficult, and within minutes I was sweating. Tromping over loose pebbles in a dry riverbed with a thirty-pound pack strapped to my back evidently wasn’t quite the same thing as strolling to the corner store to pick up a carton of milk.

It fast became clear to both of us that we’d grossly overestimated our own abilities. The hike was going to be much harder and take much longer than we had thought, even though neither of us was prepared to admit it to the other. I did silently thank God we’d had the foresight to buy enough food for six days.

The first night, darkness came quickly. The sky blazed orange, then red, then deep purple. The mountaintops glowed eerily for an instant, and without warning the night dropped on us like a heavy burlap sack.

Which, despite sounding romantic and idyllic, was nothing of the sort; rather, it was pretty alarming because, as darkness fell, we realized that we were nowhere near the first mountain hut. Meaning we had no choice but to stop where we were for the night, which was in the middle of a field in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere.

Our first task was the job of setting up our tent with only the feeble light of a flickering flashlight.

Great. We’re so useless we didn’t even check the damn batteries, I muttered to myself.

I can hear you! Sam called out. And might I add, checking the flashlights was on your task list, so this one’s on you.

Neither of us was especially adept at the art of tent pitching, and it took almost an hour before we had it up. Sam built a small fire, and we ate our dinner sitting on a patch of grass in front of the tent: a tin of beans, a few slices of bread, and a chocolate bar.

Above us arched an incredible canopy of stars, so clear and bright it was impossible to look anywhere but up. I felt as if I was under a blanket embroidered with sparkling diamonds.

Slowly my eyelids got heavy. I dragged myself into the tent, climbed into my sleeping bag, and drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later—well after midnight—a rustling noise woke me. I lay in a daze, listening for a few seconds, until something bumped into the side of the tent. At which point I sat bolt upright and urgently nudged Sam awake.

What the fuck was that?

Sam propped himself up on one elbow. At the next bump his eyes snapped wide open, too.

I don’t know, he whispered back, but there’s definitely something out there.

Well, are you going to check it out?

No, I thought you would.

Seconds went by. There was another bump on the side of the tent, and I blinked.

Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.

I cautiously unzipped the flap of the tent and peered into the darkness. My heart skipped several beats.

There were eyes—dozens of fierce glowing eyes, filled with malice—glaring straight at me. I stared directly back at them, frozen in terror. I had become the protagonist in a horror movie, stalked by an army of poltergeists.

A loud clanging noise emanated from somewhere close by. The sound roused me from fear-induced paralysis, and both Sam and I jumped into action, groping for weapons. Sam grabbed the propane tank, while I picked up a can of beans.

Seriously dude, you’re going to use that? Sam managed between ragged huffs.

It’s the best I can do! Now be quiet! I snapped back.

Then I held my breath and listened warily for any further hint of our attackers. I had already started envisioning my dead body, decomposing in a remote New Zealand country field, until being discovered months later by the local police.

A single pair of eyes moved closer. It was coming in for the kill. I tensed, ready for battle.

When the eyes were no more than five feet from us, another thundering noise broke the silence. Only it sounded a lot like Moo!

Followed immediately thereafter by several more thundering moos.

Sam’s shoulders slumped. He lowered the propane tank in his hand.

We are complete idiots.

Our enemy was nothing more than a herd of cows. We were getting ready to fight for our lives against curious bovines. New Zealand had no wild animals that could kill us. There were no snakes, no spiders, no bears, and no lions—just millions of harmless sheep and cows.

But still, those cows’ eyes, when lit up in the night, shone as brightly as markers on the side of a road. They looked almost fluorescent, and in the darkness we’d seen no bodies, only ghostly eyes hovering in midair. And we’d assumed the worst.

Crisis averted, we had a brief chuckle at our own foolishness and sank back into a deep, relieved sleep.

In the morning, we woke to discover that we were, in fact, completely surrounded by cows—perhaps a hundred or more. Unwittingly, we’d set up our tent in the middle of a farmer’s paddock, and once darkness had fallen, the cows had been shepherded into the field for the night.

Our location also meant that we were completely surrounded by cow pats. Our backpacks, which we’d left outside the tent, were speckled with flecks of their shit.

Treading gingerly to avoid the cows—and their droppings—we packed the tent away and began our day’s walk. It was exciting to get started, and I was as giddy as a schoolboy on a field trip.

Two hours later, we stopped for a quick breakfast of salted crackers and peanut butter pretzels. I whistled and sang, caught up in the sheer bliss of the moment.

Sam and I were two happy, carefree lads, enjoying time out in the great outdoors. We were living life, doing guy things, and being real men.

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In the week prior to our trip, I’d hosted a dinner party to introduce Rachel to my friends. She and I had been dating for four months, and I thought it time for her to meet them.

Daniel and Pamela arrived first and helped me set the table. Daniel was as fit as ever. He might have looked like someone on the verge of having a heart attack at any moment—ginger hair and freckles, pale white skin that burned at the slightest exposure to the sun, somewhat overweight—but without question he was the most athletic person I knew. In two decades of trying, I’d never once beaten him at any sport.

For her part, Pamela looked relaxed as ever, which always amazed me given she had two young kids to look after and also worked a full-time job.

She and Daniel, as usual, appeared overtly in love—holding hands, finishing each other’s sentences, even feeding each other dessert, for God’s sake.

Get a room! I teased.

But really, I hoped that one day, after I’d been married for four years, my wife and I would still gaze longingly at each other the way Daniel and Pamela did.

Sam and Evie turned up next. For the first time ever I noticed that Sam was sporting the beginnings of a potbelly—as, unfortunately, was I. Living chained to a desk was obviously taking a toll on the both of us.

Sam and Evie had finally settled on a date for their wedding in five months’ time. Before we began dinner, they handed out save-the-date cards.

It will be a low-key affair, just immediate family and close friends at my parents’ home, Evie told us as we studied the cards.

If it had been up to me, we’d be getting married barefoot on the beach, Sam joked.

Alec, freshly returned from Thailand, arrived fashionably late as usual. He was deeply tanned and had a random bimbo in tow, a young lady he’d picked up in a bar only the night before. She was wearing something altogether too flimsy for the occasion.

I doubt she is even twenty-one, Sam whispered to me.

I smiled, amused, but the legality of Alec’s latest conquest was of no consequence to me—at least not that night. As far as I was concerned the gathering was about one thing only, integrating Rachel into my social circle.

For dinner I had prepared a lamb roast with all the trimmings. I took it out of the oven and ceremonially presented it to the assembled guests. Sam sighed appreciatively; Daniel and Alec gently licked their lips. I knew my carnivore mates well.

As I began carving the lamb, Sam turned to Rachel.

Please tell me you’re not a vegetarian?

It was almost the first sentence he had ever spoken to her, and I caught my breath for an instant, not sure if Rachel would be taken aback or offended by Sam’s rather blunt-sounding question.

Without missing a beat, she fired back at him.

If God had meant us to be vegetarians she wouldn’t have made animals out of meat.

Sam’s face broke into a big, cheesy smile as he pointed at me.

Finally, he’s found himself a woman who understands the importance of flesh.

Rachel’s face remained deadpan.

"Oh, I do, both in and out of the kitchen."

Sam turned bright red, and Daniel and Alec laughed out loud.

I beamed with pride. Rachel was glowing, a picture of refinement in a simple black cocktail dress that perfectly offset her long dark hair and luminous olive skin. Without any effort she had fit right in, teasing and joking with my friends like she’d been part of our group forever. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Sam, Daniel and Alec were immediately smitten. Then again, I knew they would like Rachel. They were easygoing guys and generally liked anything female with a pulse. Refer Exhibit A: Alec’s bimbo, who by that stage was on her fourth margarita and thoroughly drunk.

What mattered far more to me than the opinion of my not-so-discerning male friends was what Evie and Pamela thought of Rachel. Hence I almost broke into a celebratory dance when Evie leaned toward me in the kitchen as we were loading the dishwasher after dinner.

She’s a keeper, she whispered.

The Wives Committee had spoken. Rachel was officially approved. The evening was a total success.

Over dessert, Sam and I told everyone about our upcoming trip to New Zealand. Daniel and Alec were mildly peeved that we hadn’t thought to ask them, but neither of them could have made it anyway. Daniel’s job was such that he hadn’t had a full weekend off in months, and Alec had just returned from a vacation and was meant to be starting another new gig that next week—his seventh job in three years—so he wouldn’t have been able to take time off even had he wanted to.

One day, we’ll definitely do it the four of us, Sam said.

I mentioned that we’d be camping, and Pamela almost choked on her coffee.

Seriously? Camping? You two? These days you guys have become so corporate that you consider a night in a four-star hotel to be roughing it!

Daniel leaped to our defense and chided his wife in a playful, puppy-dog kind of way. But Pamela was right. She had been around for a while and knew us all pretty well.

I held up my hand to shush Daniel.

Your lovely, smart wife has a point. We may very well not survive this ordeal!

Everyone laughed.

From across the room Rachel met my eye and smiled, her face radiating genuine love. It was as if someone had lit a bright flame, filling my room with light. I felt like a king. It was the best feeling in the world.

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Breakfast done, Sam and I continued on our way. The scenery was magnificent. We moved through open fields, passing rocky crags, forests, and lakes that looked like glass. Wildflowers covered every meadow, and mountains soared in the distance. It was as if we were walking in the Garden of Eden.

I continued with my whistling and singing, happy as one of Snow White’s dwarves. Until precisely twenty-four minutes later, when I slipped on a loose stone and twisted my knee.

At first I didn’t think it was that bad. Then I tried to take a step.

Oh, shit! That hurts. That hurts a lot.

The walk had barely started, and I was already injured. I called to Sam to hold up and sat to rest my knee for a few minutes. But when I stood again, I winced from the searing pain.

This is not good. This is not good at all. This is actually very, very bad, I muttered through gritted teeth.

Sam sighed.

Okay, let’s turn around and go back.

It was evident from his scowl that he’d be bitterly disappointed if we quit now, and I didn’t want that.

Mate, we walked all of yesterday afternoon, and we’ve just walked another two and a half hours today, in the heat, on an unpleasant uphill stretch across a field of boulders, I said. We’ve dreamed of taking this trip since university, and this morning I even cleaned cow shit off of our backpacks before breakfast. There is no fucking way I am turning back now.

Don’t be an idiot. You’re injured.

Sam hovered over me as he spoke, hands on hips. It was not entirely clear whether he was genuinely pissed off or genuinely concerned—or both.

I needed to hide my pain. I knew that if I admitted how badly it hurt, I’d be letting Sam down. So I puffed up my chest.

It’s fine. I’m okay. Thanks for the offer, but I can tough it out. It’s just my knee.

Sam stared at me for a second. He knew I was pretending. And I knew he knew I was pretending. Nonetheless, we both accepted the situation at face value.

Are you sure?

Sam’s tone was again ambivalent, somewhere between annoyed and compassionate.

I’m sure I’ll survive, Sam.

I forced a smile, even though pain was shooting from my knee into my teeth, causing me to clench my jaw.

It’s really no big deal. Let’s just keep going.

It was a big deal. For the rest of that first day, as I tramped over the rough dirt trail on a knee that became worse and worse as each hour passed, I realized just how much of a big deal it really was.

And by the end of the second day my knee had become so painful, and progress had become so cumbersome, that Sam disappeared into a nearby wood and returned with a bunch of sticks. Together we fashioned them into homemade crutches, and from then on, for the best part of forty miles, I hobbled along on those makeshift walking aids. Looking down most of the time and constantly calculating where to stop and place my crutches, anxious not to fall or cause myself further injury or embarrassment.

With each step, red-hot pain ripped through my knee.

Yet, some inner madness—I hesitate to call it strength—kept me going. It was as if by enduring excruciating agony I would at least be making the whole misplaced expedition worthwhile.

Ego mixed with adrenaline will drive men to do crazy things.

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On the third day, we came to a stream with a strong current that was about twenty feet wide and waist deep. There was no way around and no bridge. The only way forward was to wade across.

Sam went first. He forded the stream with ease, also carrying my backpack, which made me feel wimpy. Even if secretly I was grateful for the help.

Then it was my turn. I carefully stepped into the stream. The current immediately knocked me about. Unable to hold my footing, I slipped and fell under the water. A few seconds later I surfaced, sputtering like a drowning rat and soaked from head to toe. My knee hurt worse than ever, and I could barely stand. That country river had begun to look like a mission impossible. The only remaining option was for me to dog-paddle across the stream. And so, I paddled.

At the far side I dragged myself up the steep, sludgy bank on my hands and knees. I was crawling on all fours, a wounded animal fighting for survival.

Sam peered down at me from the top of the riverbank.

You are pathetic.

Help me. Please, help me, I wailed, half in jest, and half in sincere desperation. I held out a hand to him.

This is just ridiculous, Sam chuckled. His hands remained firmly planted on his hips.

I rolled onto my back in the mud and spread my arms out wide, looking straight up at the cloudless sky.

Sam, if you don’t help me I’m going to lie here and die.

You do that then, he laughed and turned away.

Sam was right to laugh. The whole absurd situation was pretty funny. I mean, I was a sloppy, miserable mess, lying on a riverbank, unable to walk or even stand up. And I was being ridiculed by my best friend, who happened to be the only person around for miles and miles.

There was really only one thing I could do in that situation—surrender.

Flat on my back, I looked up at the big blazing sun and made angels in the soft, oozy mud. It was fun to lie there, reveling in my own dirtiness, and in the silliness of it all.

I took a handful of mud and smeared it on my face, like a warrior.

Hell, I mumbled under my breath, some people even pay a lot of money in spas for treatments like this.

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Three months earlier, a headhunter had approached me. He was persistent, and at his behest I had attended three interviews, as much to get him to stop calling me as anything else.

A week before leaving for New Zealand, I received a formal job offer. It was for an associate-director role in the local office of one of Wall Street’s leading investment firms. If I took the job I would be shifting career direction quite dramatically: banking, not lawyering.

Ever since I’d taken the headhunter’s first call, I had been debating what I’d do if a job offer materialized. Would I stick the law thing out, or try something different?

I’d sought advice from my best friends, but they weren’t much help.

Daniel worked in an investment bank, so obviously he thought me becoming a banker was a great idea.

Sam’s view was the opposite. He thought that my leaving legal practice after only a few years would be a premature mistake.

And Alec was away in Thailand smoking weed and lying on a beach with his latest squeeze. So even if I could have asked his opinion, it would not have been an entirely lucid one.

My gut told me that it would be a mistake to turn my back on being a lawyer after such a short time, and after so many years of study. And I also knew the new job would