This lil' feller here... the one with the tattoo... he asked me to write a spot about me last day. And a fine last day it was, though I was sad to see off my bloke John. John and me, we've traveled the South Island for a good 2 weeks now. What a calamitous last day.
It's half past 10:00 this morn' when John comes strolling up with this motley crew... a tall skinny one, Jeff, I think... the lil' tattooed one I was speaking of... and a smaller beady-eyed one, Eric, I think. I'm parked on the street and as the boys approach I'm getting written up by a parking officer. A nice guy, this officer, but why the need for a $400 ticket? No "registration" or "warrant of fitness", he says... well, what'd you expect from a rusty '85 Mazda Capella. Besides... another officer wrote me up for $400 just last night. What's the point? Ole' John's leaving in 2 weeks anyhow... he isn't gonna pay no $800. Shoot, John only paid $400NZ for me anyway.
We drop off the beady-eyed one at the YMCA and shove off, headin' North to Kaikoura. The lil' tattooed one is bouncing up and down in the back seat shaking the tall feller and John by the shoulder... he's blabbering 'bout finally getting out of town or somethin'.
We're some 100km out of Christchurch, maybe halfway to Kaikoura when a highway patrol car, one of those that's all stealthy and looks like a regular car, pulls me over. "No registration or warrant of fitness" the lady officer says. John shows her we already got $800 in tickets, so she lets me off with just a stern warning. Three times in less than a day? What are the chances?
The boys tape a receipt in the windshield so that it looks like we have the proper registration and such, at least from afar, and the rest of the drive is quite uneventful. The tall feller plays some Johny Cash, which I'm quite fond of, and we wind along the 2-lane highway.
In Kaikoura, John drives me over to a beach park that has some seal colony. The boys disappear for nearly 3 hours. They come strolling back over, blabbering about how they went for some beautiful hike. "Cows grazing, lavender fields, sweeping views and seal colonies!" they boast. (PICS) Whatever... I just sat here and baked in the sun the whole while.
The boys decide to cook their meals right there in the parking lot... so at least I has some company again. That's me on the left there. We hear about free beach camping 5km North of town, so off we go. In hind sight, I should've seen those tickets as a bad sign. Wouldn't you know it... as we drive over these railroad tracks to the camp ground, me exhaust system is ripped right out from under me. You should've seen the mess... 3m of exhaust pipe and muffler jutting out the side. The lil' tattooed feller... he had to tie up the pipe just so I could be pushed off the railroad tracks.
Well, at least I got the boys to a beautiful camping spot... a fine sunset behind me as well. John looks sad, and I hear them other two boys try to cheer him up. I can hear them on the beach, drinking beers as the stars come out. So that's pretty much it. The boys decide to worry about me in the mornin'... what a day.
...
John, Jeff and I (all DA's from the ICE) wake up the next morning to the sun rising over the Pacific. We break down our campsite and hike the 100 yards back to our broken down ride. Betsy looks worse in the day light. We manage to bend the exhaust pipe back behind the rear wheels and up on the trailer hitch, but there's still a section scrapping the ground. If there's any hoe of getting this car to town we have to bend the scrapping section off the ground. John jacks up the rearend and Jeff places some rocks under the low hanging section of pipe. John lowers the jack, but it is evident that weight of the car alone isn't enough to bend the pipe. I suggest we all climb on the bumper and jump up-and-down. That does the trick, and we're able to roll into town. What a sight we are... Reeking of exhaust and scrapping the pavement at every bump.
The mechanic says she's not worth fixing, but we're able to sell her to a man next door for $50. John seems at peace with how things turned out for Betsy. Jeff is hitching back South to Christchurch, where he's catching a flight to Samoa tomorrow. John and I are hitching North to Nelson, so we say our farewells.
Hitching in New Zealand, as it turns out, is the best way to get around. Free rides and personal encounters with interesting locals and travelers. Our first hitch takes us only 15 minutes of waiting. Kevin takes us 125km North to Blenheim in his delivery truck. Kind and talkative, he tells us of the local geography between puffs on his cigarette. in Blenheim we wait nearly an hour before Adam, a young guy working for the forestry department, picks us up in his van. He takes us 25km to Renwick, where we wait only another 20 minutes before we're picked up again. An English family on a month long vacation stops their rental van for us. With our longish hair, they mistook us for a couple of girls... how funny. Can't remember mom and dad's names, but 11-year-old Jack and 8-year-old Harry were a blast. Their backseat horseplaying reminds me of road trips with my Starving Artist Brother... how we used to torment our parents.
The 100km ride flies by. In Nelson, John and I settle into Bumble's Backpackers, then head out in search of some beers and dinner. What a great start to my New Zealand travels.
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