The trailer park is very poetic even though banal to some sense. Its empty most of the year and the poor mobil homes are looks like a patient mushrooms growing out of the lush New Zealand green. The colors and abandon quality is just unbearably photogenic in the evening light, washed and bathed in yellow on exposed parts and submerged into deep blue in the shadows. Each caravan has its own unique style, regardless how hard manufactory mandatory sameness it had in the beginning. The surreal point of juxtoposition between lack of human bodies and giant frescos of nature makes it a real feast of melancholy, not only for a Russian soul, but practically to any spectator.