Haloed by an excited afterglow from sleeping in the Shire, i tossed my thumb to an empty highway as the Sun broke through an early morning foresty fog. Breaking out of Bag’s End had me on the road earlier than i liked, and cars were few and far between. A chilly half hour passed before a kitted out SUV rocked up beside me. Behind a cautious half lowered window a burly driver in his early seventies gave me a quick once over, and waved me inside under a stern eye.
The temperature hadn’t caught up with the Sun and i was grateful for anything headed South that got me out of the chill. Inside John greeted me with a crushing handshake. Noting my accent the gentle giant was quick to inform me how lucky i was to join him. The retired truck driver boasted about knowing every inch of every road on both islands, and as a result, was headed for the best sandwich in all of New Zealand before running his early morning errands. The very mention of breakfast elicited a loud growl from my empty gut. A thrilled smile painted my face as i thanked him for the lift.
Our shared affinity for the road expedited a fast friendship. The old man was warming up to me every minute as we swapped stories on our way to the quaint Kiwi bakery. John was the epitome of his country’s infamous hospitality, blasting the heat without a second thought when he noticed me shivering away the cold of the road. We arrived at the deli shortly after their seven am opening. By the time we’d finished the indeed superb sandwiches, John offered to take me further south- so long as i was cool joining him on his chores. He had a few things to pick up on his way to his younger sister’s sixtieth birthday in Hawkes Bay. Not the whole way to Wellington, but a generous distance. Brash, hilarious, kind, i couldn’t say yes fast enough to spending a few more hours with the aged scoundrel.
Hours away from the next shop’s opening hours, John killed time taking me sight seeing. Happy to show off New Zealand we detoured for majestic waterfalls, and gorgeous look out points. Refusing to hear any of my concerns regarding his own punctuality John relished playing tour guide to the lands he loved. Around nine we made “the most important stop,” a bottle-o to pick up the booze for the party. Crates and crates of beers and mix drinks for the celebration, that i Tetris’d together in the back of his vehicle. He caught my curiosity staring at a Jack Daniels branded can of cola. i’d never seen premixed rum and coke cans before, and with a wink he tore the cardboard open and handed me one. “Well you better try one then, unless of course Canadians are too precious to have themselves a warm drink.”
It wasn’t even ten in the morning and we’re clinking cans. One tin after a mammoth breakfast wasn’t so bad i rationalized as we peeled off. If we hadn’t bonded before, John and i were well on our way. He shared happy stories of the shenanigans that decades of driving around a country will bring. With great pride he told me all about his SUV after i pointed out some of the modifications i’d noticed. An avid off-roader, the old timer wasn’t satisfied knowing the highways, he strove to discover every inch of what New Zealand had to offer.
Standing at the foot of yet another waterfall he began teasing me about his country’s natural wonders versus my own. “Sure, Canada is beautiful, but if it’s so wonderful, why did it’s Queen move down here?”
i gave him a puzzled look as we walked back to the car. John reached to the back seat, handed me another drink, refusing one himself, as i took the bait. “The regal Shania Twain herself,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “Oh she is indeed lovely! And now all ours!” With a euphoric glow he explained that she’d moved to the South Island at the beginning of the millennium, and kept horses on an enormous property surrounding one of his favourite off roading tracks. The path cut right down the middle of her land, and everyone was worried that she would close the road, or not let them rally when the sale first went through. “And you know what she did? The first time we came around, she flagged me and the boys down. Oh, we thought we were going to get an ear-full, but no, not at all, not Shania. Instead, she gave us cookies, crisps, beer and wished us a safe ride. Oh, she is a queen of i tell you.”
The booze had started to hit me, and i asked more questions about his rallies. Liquid courage swept my tongue, and had me egging on my new friend, as i told him something along the lines of that while i’d never been off-roading, it would take a lot for New Zealand to give me a thrill. John’s eyebrows shot up at the not so gentle prod, “Buckle up,” he muttered, as he steered us off the highway towards the forest.
His knowledge of every road was far from an exaggeration, somehow the geezer had spotted, or remembered, a gravel track behind the tree line and within a minute we were air-born. Launching off every mogul he spotted, gunning the truck with reckless abandon as i guzzled my drink, lest i should spill in his ride. Ten glorious, ripping minutes later we shot back onto the highway as if nothing had happened at all, roaring with laughter. “That was amazing!”
My journey with John proved to be too short. Half an hour later we parted ways at a fork in the road. i told him to give his sister a happy birthday with my thanks, the old man tossed me another drink, and revved off honking his horn loud and proud.
Far more buzzed than i should’ve been, i couldn’t stop myself from popping the tab, finding a nice piece of grass, and enjoying the weather. My smile beamed bright enough to compete with the glorious rays of the afternoon sun. A hair past twelve, the day had been phenomenal since the moment i opened my eyelids in the Hobbiton. With a final swig i stumbled towards the onramp and continued my saunter down south.
My luck was decent, i made it to Wellington before dark, and had a harder time finding my way across the city than i did with grabbing rides getting there. Keeping pace with my day, i arrived right on time for an extravagant Thanksgiving celebration. Open to the couch-surfing community, around thirty people showed for the feast. Organized by my hosts, a wonderful Kiwi woman and her American husband from some forgettable state.
The merry meal was shared with travellers across the globe, many celebrating for the first time. Dishes were as varied as the guests, but the gratitude was the same. Everyone was lovely, swapping jokes, travel stories, and advice for adventures around New Zealand. After dinner was a melee of board games, and a screening of a new Doctor Who special. As the glorious evening marched later into the night, i took to the opportunity to tackle the heavy clean up while my hosts were distracted. It was a joy to return some of the kindness that had come my way. By the time people began to filter out i was still halfway through washing up the kitchen. The final suds drained, and i retired to the couch, curled up in my sleeping bag, and fell fast asleep.
Over an enormous breakfast of leftovers the next morning i chatted to my hosts regarding my plans in the Capital. A few friends to catch up with, museums to see, and my eventual intention to hitchhike the ferry between islands. My thumbs had found passage across the Pacific, and i was determined they take me over the Cook Straight. They chuckled at my bravado, and made me promise to play one last board game with them before i made my attempt to cross the water.
The weather was lovely and i spent the next few days being shown around Wellington by friends of friends, and other couchsurfers i’d met over thanksgiving. After an afternoon sipping ciders in the Sun, i decided that night was the night for crossing. A few hours of reconnaissance found my entrance, and the hours for the last ferry of the night. i returned back to my host’s home to collect my bag, and say my goodbyes, to find them waiting with the board set up and the game ready to go.
A birthday gift to his wife that was clearly a gift for himself, game was from the Dungeons and Dragons universe and required a minimum of three player. Played with an actual board, pieces, cards, and specific rules rather than twenty sided dice, pen, and paper. Reluctant to sacrifice the little time i had to rest before waiting at the docks i obliged my gracious hosts, and drew my first card.
The game was fine, but he was awful. Caught up in trying to win he was overbearing, and rude. While he was completely condescending to both of us, the way he spoke down to his sweet wife was revolting. While the rules were a little complicated, they weren’t difficult. The patterns and his strategy became easy to recognize, and i laid in wait. Sure of some of what i was doing, i played dumb, let small mistakes slide, began collecting card after card, and set my trap.
When my hand was ready to overwhelm, i began asking innocent, leading questions, bread-crumbing my dance within the rules. Too excited by the opportunity to impress upon his knowledge, he spelled out my snare to his wife, who watched in glee as i made consistent moves freezing his play, and accelerating ours. The sabotage in motion my spells dominoed as he was sat paralyzed while his wife and i raced around the board.
Nothing tastes sweeter than victory served with a side of justice. There is something so satisfying about defeating someone who cares more about the outcome of an arbitrary game than the esteem, and respect of their fellow players. Aligned with his sportsmanship the loser took himself to bed leaving us to tidy up. The game stowed, and my bag collected i thanked my happy host, who assured me i was welcome to return should luck not remain in my favour.
Well after midnight i shivered at the bus stop, and visualized arriving on the South Island. Forty five minutes later i stood out of sight a building down from the Ferry Terminal. The opportunities that the darkness provided came with a slew of disadvantages. No que, and no traffic. Most vehicles slipped by in the quiet, and my opportunities for a lift were non-existent. Determined to at the very least wait out the clock, and stay until the boat left the shore, a rickety tourist van stopped ten minutes before departure.
A curious Polish backpacker pulled up, and came out to help me with my bag. Navigating through his broken English, he was quick to figure out my intentions to sneak aboard, opened the back of the van and lifted the frame of his wooden bed for me to crawl under. No time to over think things, i tossed my backpack inside, grabbed my ipod and slunk below.
He eased the bed down, the world went dark, and i heard the locks click. The engine fired, and my new friend called back to make sure i was ok. A couple jokes were made and we drove through the entrance. My heart pounded as i heard him hand his booking over, and drive through the ticketing booth. We lurched aboard the ferry, the engine idled then died, he unclicked his buckle, and wished me goodnight in his thick accent.
“Wait… you’re gonna let me out right?”
Silence.
“No, no, we arrive, i let out, no trouble.”
My body shuddered. There wasn’t enough room under the frame for my feet to point up right. My face was tilted to the side so my nose wouldn’t scrape. That said, i was so grateful for him for the generous risk he took bringing me aboard it was hard to argue with his own comfort levels. i worked out a quick calculation of how brutal the trip would be. Passage was less than four hours, it was close to three in the morning, and i could probably sleep through it. “Ok,” i whispered.
“Ok, good night!” The door slammed, and he was gone.
Idling engines extinguished as i shuffled where i could to make myself more comfortable. i pushed up against the planks above and tested the weight of the mattress. Everything was light enough that should i find myself in a fit of panic i could escape. Confident i wasn’t completely trapped, i slipped in my earbuds, raised my ipod to eye-level, and selected one of Henry Rollin’s spoken word albums. Old faithful, pressed years before even the concept of a podcast, or an ipod, those recordings have been a continual godsend in my life. Comforting me through trials of insomnia, and bouts of depression. i’d either be lulled to sleep or inspired by the incredible storyteller.
The ferry hummed, turbines turned, horn blared, and we were off. i closed my eyes, kept my breathing steady, and focused on Henry’s words. Before i knew it, i began to drift.
Only wake from a bang. The car rocked, we must have hit some bad weather. Groggy, and disoriented, i calmed myself down, and checked my ipod to see how long i’d been sleeping. My whole body shuddered, i’d slept for all of twenty minutes at most. We must have only made it out of the bay into the Cook Strait.
Three hours left, may as well be an eternity crossing the passage. i did my best to get comfortable, close my eyes, focus on the audio, and tried to meditate. The van lurched again, and i started from zero. Which is exactly when my bladder decided to pipe up. As if things weren’t worse enough already, i frantically had to pee.
All i could do was lean in to the adventure, and remind myself that eventually this would be something i’d look back on and laugh about. At least i had Rollins to keep me company as the minute hand inched. Hours passed. At some point, the rock of the waves steadied, and my next start came from the crackling of the ferry’s speakers. A loud blusterous voice announced our arrival, and encouraged guests back to their cars on the lower levels. One by one engines fired, and finally i heard the front door open. My friend coughed and in his thick Polish accent checked if i was ok.
“Doing fantastic. i need to pee, now, can you let me out now so i can hit a bathroom?”
Still nervous of trouble, he asked me to wait a little longer, and where i wanted to be let out. Desperate, i told him to stop anywhere he could, as soon as he could. Finally i felt the car move forward, down the ferry’s ramp, and into Picton. But he just kept driving. i could feel us going through multiple intersections through the town.
“Please stop,” i begged, “i am dying here man.”
“Ok, ok, i only want careful.”
He relented five minutes later, which in many respects was the most excruciating seconds of the whole journey. Where he was worried about a fine for helping across the water, he should have been more concerned about a public urination fine as i sprang from under the bed into an alley and relieved myself. i walked back from an oceanic puddle to the perturbed Polish man. With an unapologetic shrug i thanked him, grabbed my bag, and went on my merry way, ready for whatever the South had in store.
Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for the next New Zealand additions!
-Mr. Write