Our only two tools: the open road and a Kea campervan equipped with All Black GPS (every time you stall, Graham Henry's voice comes on and says "I think we've learned a lesson and we can push on from here ..."). And one other elementary truth: the time to look at this country through a fresh pair of eyes has arrived.
Think of it as a new-age journey of healing and self-discovery, like that one Julia Roberts went on in Eat, Pray, Love. Only with more meat pies. And without Julia Roberts. Unless she calls.
Vaccinations have been taken. Name-tags sewn into underwear. All necessary travel documents for Waipu, Woodville and Waimate have been filled out and approved - though we are more likely to be understaying than overstaying. Several contraband packets of Spaceman cigarettes are packed in case there's trouble at the border.
This newspaper doesn't know this yet, but we will be picking up my Mum in Turangi, a woman wrongly sentenced to a maximum-security prison from which she promptly escaped. (Just like the A-Team.)
Hitchhikers will also be swallowed up and grilled on their opinions of the latest tackle-ball rules. South Africans will be hugged and Australians released back into community care.
So just how big is this campervan?
Well, it seats four. And that's just on the wing mirrors. It was ordered out of the Auckland CBD on Friday by officials who were worried it may get hit by the fireworks.
That was how I ended up taking the train into town - which brings us back to being retarded. Two girls with a hip flask strolling the Orakei Basin walkway were the first sign something was amiss. Worse than that, they had both lost their sunglasses break dancing. It was only 4pm.
News quickly began to funnel back. People walking away from Meadowbank station brought it with them, carrying it in invisible, leather satchels. Kiwis love to have news. In our hearts, we are all working for the Pony Express. Todd, in an All Black jersey, had good news and bad news. The bad was that there was a woman who'd been waiting for a train since 2pm. 2pm, 2008.
He couldn't remember the good news. Oh, that's right: You still had time to get to the game.
Walking into town, a human birdcall broke out amongst the blacked-out population: "You're joking. You're joking. You're joking." Big screens had gone out. People trapped on trains had begun walking the tracks to Britomart. Others were headed home. Empty buses with SORRY branded across their brows passed by like penitent, mechanical steers.
Everywhere, walking Tamaki Drive, was the same sudden, unbearable greenness you had glimpsed for the first time descending from 22,000 feet two days earlier. A conversation with a face-painted 6-year-old about his first time Overseas (to Nelson) helped pass the time.
On Quay St, New Zealand had called its IT department about the giant screens. Derek called back telling New Zealand to try turning them off, then on again. It worked.
People laid out blankets. Brought home-baking inside tubs of Tip-Top. White bread and chippie sandwiches on the median strip, listening to Tim and Neil Finn sing Dirty Creature.
Just like that, despite the over-exuberance, the party had started. We were no longer bringing news. We were making it. And there's nothing retarded about that.
Matt Johnson moved from Paris this week to a campervan under the Khyber Pass overbridge. Follow him across New Zealand on twitter @KeaKaharoadtrip. And thanks to Kea for entrusting a van to his care.
