Who would've thought of that… Wednesday my cellphone started ringing. It was well into the afternoon so call from Europe seemed unlikely. At the other end a nice female voice started talking: "Am I talking to Mr… err… Mattern?"
"Yes, that’s me", I replied.
"Hi, this is Maggie from Baggage Services at Christchurch airport. We’ve got a… err" - she hesitated (in disbelieve?) before she carried on - "…yup, that's what it is… a boot that apparently belongs to you."
I was a bit flabbergasted. It really was my bloody tramping boot that had separated from me in Singapore without permission and probably had a nice time with all sorts of Asiatic footwear, while I was worrying about its whereabouts. I must admit, I was delighted. I told Maggie that I'd be up in Christchurch sometime this week to pick up some other stuff and that I'd drop by to pick up the straggler. Today was the day…

The Highway from Oamaru to Christchurch - always following the pacific coastline without really seeing it - is certainly one of the less thrilling routes in New Zealand. Flat country, endless rows of perfectly cubic green walls of cut tree rows acting as wind stoppers for deserted paddocks, little villages drowning in simplicity. Only now and then you can catch a glimpse of the Southern Alps far away on the western horizon, before another row of British correctly preened trees blocks the view again. Highway 1 - quite unusual for New Zealand roads - runs most of the time on a straight line. No curve or bend worth mentioning, no green hills full of fluffy white sheep to drive around. The weather today was grey and cold. The 3½ hours to Christchurch stretched like chewing gum that sticks to the soles of your shoes.

It was well beyond midday when I finally reached Christchurch Domestic Terminal. Maggie handed me my boot, which was wrapped and packed in several layers of plastic. The boot was squeaky clean, as clean as it probably never has been before. New Zealand Immigration had done an excellent job removing every crumb of European soil, the smallest spore, the tiniest bacillus and in general every potentially unhealthy molecule.

I finished my business at the airport by picking up some airfreight (the reason I came to Christchurch in the first place). I had to take a small obstacle course through customs: get a stamp here, fill out a form there and, of course, pay processing fees for every single form. Anyway, compared to German customs this was a piece of cake. After an hour or so the three items were safely packed in the back of Dave's car.

I had to get a few other things in Christchurch (yes, in New Zealand you have to cover some distances in order to get stuff you'd normally get in the shop around the corner). I parked the car not far away from the statue of Britains Antarctic 'hero' Captain Robert F. Scott (quite a few Kiwis think that Scott was nothing but a twit who tramped to his cold death in a rather blue-eyed and dilettante manner). Capt. Scott stood there in the grey of this cold winter day and gazed sadly southwards.

When I finally was on my 3 hour ride home to Oamaru, the sun ducked below he grey cloud cover far in the west, glimpsed over the silhouette of the Southern Alps and coloured the stripe of heaven over the horizon in a magnificent orange-red. All the same, I thought…