On the Road - Final Fling in New Zealand


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Oceania » New Zealand » North Island » Taupo
June 19th 2008
Published: June 20th 2008
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On the Road - Final Fling in New Zealand


Tues 29/04 - Sat 10/05/08



Free at last - thank God almighty I’m free at last. I wave goodbye to Te Puke after nine horrific days. I had such high hopes as well. I wouldn’t have cared about the conditions, I’d even have found some way to put a positive spin on the wanking incident, so long as I’d managed to get work as promised. Seven days work would have brought at least $400 dollars in, money I sorely need at this point, when the price is so not right in big ‘ol expensive New Zealand.

I couldn’t take any more. It was like a strange German expressionist film - people sitting around in silence, playing chess, staring at walls, walking around in circles and engaging in acts of violent self abuse. Everything in Hairyberry happened in black and white. The soundtrack was low, tuneless violin. By the final act, if I’d hung around, we’d all have thrown ourselves into a loveless orgy and climaxed with cannibalism.

Instead, I decided to cut my losses and get out while I still could. Before I left, I went to see the owners to complain. I explained how I’d effectively been conned into staying; made false promises that were never followed through. The manager and her rat-haired husband had little sympathy. They told me I got a place to stay. I asked them if they were fucking serious. Did they actually believe that anyone would ever bowl up into Te Puke to check out the scenery? The unique ambience? People come for work, no other reason, and less than half of them get it. All get the same promise, most get disappointed, and the hostel is always full, the till always ringing. The manager said she was late for training. I told I didn’t care. I have a complaint and she can stand and listen to it.

Her husband finally made some bullshit arguments, and though I won on intellectual grounds and clearly had the better haircut, I didn’t get any money back. All we can do about people and places like that is unite in defiance and disobedience. Don’t ever go there. Don’t ever let things get that bad. And if you do, or if you are right now, complain, complain, complain. That place is a gaping asshole. It’s the pit of the Sarlacc from Starwars. Don’t ever slide into that deep, dark hole, because it won’t be easy climbing back out without being stripped of several layers of your dignity.

I catch a bus to Tauranga, a watery town in the Bay of Plenty. Things are much better here. I check into a new hostel, where the rooms are clean and the host attentive and polite. There isn’t much in the town except bars and restaurants, but the atmosphere and aesthetics are much more conducive to happy living.

The day after I arrive I catch the bus a short distance to Mount Maunganui. Another seaside town with a beautiful surfer’s beach, the main attraction is the mount itself, a steep lump of green rock rising up out of the coast line, staring out over the ocean. I walk up and around it. The sun shines down for half the walk, but soon the clouds spit rain. Looking out to sea, the deep blue sky meets dark shadow and faint sunlight to create spectacular views.

After the climb, I walk around town for a bit. I’m lost in my own thoughts; mixed up, confused, still wishing I could be somewhere else, that I could be back in Asia. I’m looking down a road to the right, and suddenly I slam face-first into a lamppost. A group of attractive young girls see the whole thing. People say there’s a thin line between tragedy and comedy. As I let myself slide into gloom, seeking shelter in dark clouds, I wander straight into slapstick. Maybe someone’s trying to tell me something. Maybe I should just cheer the fuck up and realise I’m lucky to be anywhere at all.

The evenings in Tauranga are spent in bars, and walking the streets. On the Thursday night, I see a sign outside one pub advertising poker. I’ve seen this place before, having walked past it several times. It does not appear a friendly joint. The clientele are rough looking hard men, and almost exclusively Polynesian. A slender whitey like me might get seriously hurt trying to drink in a place like that, and yet there I go, wandering up to the bar.

Eyes are on me, narrowed like murderous alley ways. Around 70% of the people inside are wearing leather. 90% have tattooed arms. Everyone, men and women, is large and hairy. The bar man takes his time serving me, adding to the feeling that I’m not welcome. I think quickly about what I want to drink - this is not a place to order Steinlager - something more rustic and bitter tasting is required. I just point to one of the pumps, and accept what comes to me.

I ask about the poker. It costs $10 to play. The bar man says generally the card nights are quiet, and sometimes nobody at all turns up to play. He says I’m the first. Shit. Now what do I do? I have a full drink to finish, but what to do if I’m still alive when that’s gone? How long do I wait to see if there’s a game? How many of these people are carrying knives, and do they want to use them to cut my throat?

Sometimes, I can be really stupid. It suddenly dawns on me that I’m English, and that poms are generally unpopular and regarded as pussies by a lot of Kiwi’s. I know sooner or later one of the locals is gonna make a move and find out what my story is. I’m getting looks from every corner of the fucking bar. I have to come up with a cover.

So, when Ron sidles up to the bar, orders a beer and tells me he hasn’t seen me in here before, I have it all worked out. Yes, I have an English accent, but only because I’ve spent the last 17 years living near London. I was actually born in Wellington, before my parents moved to Auckland when I was two years old. My father is Irish (everyone loves the Irish, especially alcoholics) and we moved to England when I was ten.

As we conversate, and as each lie comes out, I tense, waiting for the flash of steel and the stabbing motion. Ron actually seems like a nice guy. Sure, he may appear a bit rough around the edges, with his long, grey beard, black bandana, leathers, tatts, and the empty sleeve where his right arm should be, but judge not by appearance - the soul of a man is wrapped up in many layers that the eyes alone cannot unpeel.

I end up staying for three drinks. After ten minutes or so, one-armed Ron walks back to his compatriots, hopefully to assure them I’m alright, and to call off the dogs. The poker never happens, and I finally slink out, trying to maintain my composure, and disappear away into the night.

On Friday the 2nd of May, I take the bus back to Auckland. I’ve booked a hire car there, and the plan is to hit the road and see as much of New Zealand as I can before I have to leave on the 11th. I’ve already wasted far too much time hanging around waiting for work - it clearly isn’t gonna happen, so I need to make the most of a bad situation.

I spend most of the weekend hanging around with Liz. We go surfing for the second time on Saturday, and I find that I’ve pretty much got the hang of it. I can get up onto the board 90% of the time, and even move along it, speeding it up or slowing down. Gus tries to teach me the difference between forehand and backhand, and I sorta’ get it. On Sunday I pick up my car, and then help Liz move to her new flat.

Monday. I hit the road. I have a full tank of gas and a boot full of beer, cheap gin and snacks. My aunt told me the best place to go is north. I head south, towards Taupo. On the way, I take a detour around the Coromandel. This is a 400km stretch of coast east of Auckland, linked by the Pacific Coast Highway. You can drive all the way around, or take to the smaller roads and head in land into the forests. I don’t have time to stop, so I just stick to the highway, taking in the views, driving through small towns like Thames, Coromandel, and Whitianga.

Then, after stopping for lunch, I continue south. The evening draws in, and soon it’s dark. I need to reach my hostel before 8.30pm, when bizarrely they close. Time is ticking, and I keep my foot jammed to the floor, my speed up around 120kph. New Zealand’s roads are a joy to drive on; long, straight and mostly empty, with rolling hills, green forests and distant mountain peaks on all sides to catch the eye. Overtaking is my new religion - I burn past anybody doing less than 100kms.

8pm slowly approaches. I check my map in the darkness. I’m not far from Taupo. My fuel gauge says I need to refill. I enter a small town, and look out for a petrol station. I see one on the left, and try to make out the exit, slowly drifting toward the side of the road. Suddenly, there’s a loud bump, and the car leaps up over something and comes down with a crash. Fuck. I looking in my mirror, trying to figure out what it was I just hit. I’m sure it was a curb - it was a hard, concrete impact, not the fleshy squirm of some living thing.

Still, I’m sure the back of the car must be fucked up in some way. I try to work out what went wrong - the road markings were unclear, and I just mistook the lay of the land. The petrol station is long gone. I should find a place to stop, and check for damage. Somehow, though, I find myself still going, pedal to the floor, clock still ticking. The next town - I’ll stop at the next town. As I drive out back into the blackness of the empty night, there are no lights on the horizon - just the quiet hum of the road, and the needle that slowly drifts east, into dry country.

8pm comes and goes. The red light is flashing on the dashboard. Still, I’m just surrounded by the countryside. I know I’m close to Taupo - maybe less than 40kms away. I’m anxious with uncertainties - will my petrol tank hold out? Will the car hold it together? I’ve still no idea what damage might have been done by my brush with the curb. It could be that my tire will give way any second, sending me into a deadly spin. Maybe the exhaust is hanging off, or the fuel tank has sprung a leak. I check my watch. No time to stop to end the speculation. We’ll go on, and what will come will come.

Finally, lights up ahead. I’m only a few miles from Taupo. I see a gas station, and swing in, relieved. I get out and briefly walk around the back of the car. To my amazement, I can see no obvious damage, not even to paint work. Still, the light is not good, so best to hold off the celebrations until morning. I have fifteen minutes to refuel and find my hostel. It takes me five to work out how to open the petrol cap. Thirst quenched, we turn back to the road.

The lights of Taupo greet me. Five minutes left on the clock. I underestimated how big this town would be, and I have no clue where I need to be. I spot an internet cafe, and dash in, logging on and finding the map and directions I was emailed. I work out roughly where I need to be, and after one quick phone call to the hostel, I pull into the car park at 8.29pm.

I check into me room, a mixed dorm shared with four Scandinavian girls (life is hard, and as they got ready for bed, so was I). I go into town for a few drinks, and then settle down for the night.

In the morning, I get up and go out for a drive. I head down to the lake and follow the shore west, towards the snow capped mountains in the distance. The sun is shining and the skies are blue, and all is right with the world. It takes about an hour to drive out to Tongariro National Park, a world heritage site, and one of many locations used in the making of some films that New Zealanders never fucking shut up about. The park is stunning - the mountains tower over the landscape as you approach, making you feel small and insignificant, like a midget stepping on court with the Lakers.

I drive up a winding mountain road, to the top of the peak where chair lifts carry skiers out to the slopes, and then head back down. I ask in the information centre about the various hikes through the park, and how long they take, and make a plan to come back early tomorrow and spend the day trekking like a fucking little hobbit.

Wednesday. I drive back out to the park, arriving around 10am. I feel reasonably prepared, with my cheap hiking boots, a jumper and a body warmer, water, packed lunch and two cans of cold beer. I start on a walk to a waterfall, which should take around two hours. I’m a natural born athlete, though, and even stopping for photos, I make it in half the time. The park has three main volcanic mountains; Mt Ngauruhoe, Mt Tongariro and Mt Ruapehu. There’s been a heavy snow, and the combination of this and the bright sunshine bathes everything in a brilliant white glow.

I carry on walking, heading up hill and ever closer to the snow and the base of the mountains. I crack open a beer, and sip as I walk, careful to hide in my pocket should another hiker pass by, in case they judge my behaviour reckless and irresponsible and run screaming for a park ranger. The snow becomes deeper and deeper, and I have to tread carefully, trying to follow in the footsteps of others, where I can see how deep and firm it is. At times, I sink in up to my knees, and very quickly my cheap boots become soaked through.

I’ll not be put off, though. My targets are the two crater lakes that the current trail leads to, but it’s not an easy walk. Prior to this point, I had no problems. The ground was relatively flat, and the footing sure. Now, I’m walking over snow that covers shrubs a metre high. I reach the first of the lakes, down in a valley below me. I’m not sure how much further the second is - I’ve been walking around two and a half hours, and can probably leave myself the same amount of time to walk back before the sun goes down.

I move on. The hardest part of the climb takes me up the rocky slope on one of the mountain sides. I’m high up now, and the sun is pressing close. I pull my hood up to shield my head from the strong rays, which are giving me a headache. I pretty much run up the hill, maybe a hundred and fifty metres of hard rock. When I get to the summit, I still can’t see the second lake. Fuck it. Time to head back. The sun is too strong, and I don’t wanna end up stark raving mad on the mountain side, barking at the moon and worrying the poor tourists.

I get back to the car in just over two hours and drive back to Taupo.

The next day, I check out of the hostel and move on. I haven’t paid for my final night, but the woman at reception says nothing. I debate for a moment about whether to own up - 99 times out of a hundred I would. For some reason, though I linger and give her every chance to realise the mistake, I say nothing and slowly walk out. Funds are low. Money is tight. Survival instincts kick in and you take what you can. Who knows where this mentality might lead me if things get really bad? Keep an eye on your grandmother - I may come looking for her purse.

I have two more days on the road. I drive south east to the town of Napier. I check into another backpacker hostel, this one a converted old theatre. The place is more than half empty, despite being more comfortable than any hostel I’ve been in so far. I get two rooms, each with three bunks, all to myself. Finally, I can throw sexy parties and walk around with my pants on my head and my cock in my hand. Happy days.

I drive out to Hastings, and then to Te Mata Peak, a hill roughly 400 metres above sea level, where you can get views of the whole of Hawks Bay. I walk around the hill top for about an hour, ignoring the murderous stares of the sheep, and then drive back. I cook dinner, drink beers and talk to a couple of the girls staying in the hostel.

Morning. The last day on the road. I have a rough plan to drive south and then up around the west coast back through Hamilton and to Auckland. I want to stop off at a couple of places on the way. But things don’t go to plan. The weather changes and the rain comes down thick and heavy. The skies are so dark I can’t even see the mountain I’m looking for, and just drive on because I can’t be bothered to look. This part of the road is plain and uninteresting. The beautiful countryside around Taupo and Hawks Bay is gone, and all that I see are flat field, grey roads and the rain pounding against the windscreen.

Around 8pm I arrive back in Auckland. Tomorrow is Saturday, my last in New Zealand. Have the last few days changed my opinion of the place? Only a little. The country is a beautiful whore, high class and good to look at, but cold and expensive. She's not interested in your body or your mind - she shakes her ass in the air only to get your money.

New Zealanders remind me of some of the American tourists I've met over the years. They may venture abroad now and then to see what's out there, but they'll always be steadfast in their belief that their country is the greatest. New Zealand is far from that. I never made it south, so my opinion is based on half a country, but I'll stick to it anyway. There's a cynicism to the place. They cash in on their country and their culture, and before you know it you've been robbed blind and left bleeding on the pavement. By all means step into the brothel, and check out the pretty ladies. Just bring a full wallet, and when you love them, don't expect the love to flow both ways.




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