New Zealand would, if I were the arbiter of such things, be rightly acknowledged as the source of the finest coffee in the world. Aromatic, strong yet not too bitter with just enough of a caffeine hit to set you up for the day. The pastry I'd bought along with it took me if not to heaven, certainly a significant proportion of the journey.
I dropped my Rucksack on the bench, sat down next to it and took a sip as I took in the morning view over Hawkes Bay. 'Toby old son, you're a lucky, lucky boy." I told myself. My flight back to England was booked and paid for, courtesy of three months on the fruit farms of Central Otago. I had a chunk of spare cash in my NZ bank account, more than enough to fund the remaining four weeks of my time, and little to do except enjoy the end of my gap year before going back to London to start in Hardaker and Wallace as a trainee corporate solicitor. Think Ally McBeal but less glamorous and more in the way of preparing notes and briefings for the partners.
I'd come up to the North Island a week earlier, my flight home was from Auckland, and I wanted to see as much of the country as possible, so far I was loving it. I'd come in from Rotorua the previous evening, the guy I'd hitched a lift with had put me up in his barn overnight and driven me into Napier in the morning. It's that sort of country.
I finished my breakfast and made my way to Hastings Street where I booked into the hostel I was planning to stay in for a few nights. I'd already paid for the first night when I wandered through to the common room; as with most travellers, my first stop was at the noticeboard, just in case there was a message and to my delight there was a folded note with my name and a "display until" date a few days ahead.
I ripped it down and opened it eagerly, to be greeted with:
Party on dude, it's Canada Day on 1st July and we are celebrating in Wellington.
Come on down and meet us, you can be a Canuck for the day - if you buy some beer.
Bushwalkers Bar, Eva Street, six til we get chucked out.
Bobby, Carl, Terry, Mikey.
My delight was well placed, I'd met these guys in Nelson on the South Island working on the fruit farm, four Canadians on a similar trip to me. Many a sore head had resulted in our evenings out. Work hard., play hard, but mainly play hard. I'd got three days to make my way there. Easy.
After a day wandering round the town, I returned to the hostel to see if anyone interesting was staying, a small crowd was in the common room. No one I recognised but everyone was friendly enough and somehow we ended up pooling our food resources for a communal supper. I offered my rice, garlic and chilis, which went well with everyone else's rice, garlic and chilis. It's standard travelling food, easy to carry, easy to knock something up with. Eventually we weakened and sent out a raiding party to the local Countdown supermarket for a couple of chickens and some vegetables. And a couple of boxes of wine.
It was during the convivial evening that I found myself chatting to Janice, a tall, dark haired Canadian girl with smoky grey eyes and a face that was just too sharply defined to be called beautiful, but I wasn't about to be too picky. In fact, I was talking to her whilst trying extremely hard not to look as if I was staring down her top, while staring down her top. In my defence, she had got lovely boobs, firm, rounded and unencumbered by underwear.
She was smiling at me indulgently and waiting for an answer. Oh bollocks. Awkward. She'd said something and I'd been too captivated by her hypno-boobs to hear it. She folded her arms underneath them, pushing up to bulge alarmingly out of her tight tank top, and repeated the question with a laugh in her voice. I love Canadian girls.
"I said, I'm heading down to Wellington, do you know what the hitching's like?"
Ginning sheepishly, in a 'totally busted' way I confessed that I was heading that way too and my experience of the route was coastal was better, more to see and more traffic but as a girl she'd have no problems getting a lift. Which seemed to be the wrong thing to say.
"Yeah, but you don't always want those lifts when you're on your own. Look, d'you mind travelling down together? We should be OK hitching in a pair?" I pretended to consider it for nearly three seconds, but she had got very nice legs, a cracking arse and lovely boobs.... I mean she was a lovely person, and I liked her personality.
Ten seconds was all it took, and we were travelling buddies. I admit to being monumentally shallow.
Bright and early the next morning we were on the outskirts of town, pointing south. The benefits of hitching with a girl soon showed themselves and we had a ride with a mid-thirties woman in a battered old ford estate wagon with a couple of sheep dogs in the back. She introduced herself as Oli, a travelling agricultural support worker, the rest of the world would probably call her a farm worker or shepherd, taking contracts on a monthly basis to help out with lambing, shearing, tractor work, you name it, if it was outdoors and involved producing food she was your girl.
Oli was on her way to a new contract near Taupo but had to make a detour about ten miles south of Hastings to drop off one of the dogs, we were welcome to ride along as far as she was going. We happily jumped in, Janice rode shotgun and explained that no, we were just traveling together, there was no attachment. Just companions. This, it transpired was going to become a bit of a theme of the journey, most of the lifts we got assumed we were a couple.
Oli left us on the side of the main road where we had a philosophical discussion about whether it was better to walk and hitch or remain static. I'm of the walking school of thought, my theory being at the worst you can walk to your destination, Janice pointed out it would take us two weeks to reach Wellington on foot and at least by staying in one place if someone saw us on the way into town and we were still there on the way out they may pick us up out of pity. In the event it didn't matter as the magic of having a girl in cut-off jeans and a T shirt as your traveling companion got us a lift after only ten minutes.
A delivery truck loaded up with several tons of bricks was on his way to a new build on one of the farms twenty miles further along the way and Robert the driver was happy to bring us along, mainly so he could talk to us about his church and how Jesus had turned his life around. I'm not a religious type at all but I respected his viewpoint, and if he was telling the truth about the changes he'd made since joining his church then I admired his conviction. He dropped us with a wave and a promise to pray for our safe onward travel.
Our next lift looked really promising, Will was a stock agent with Wrightson, he had three farms to visit and then had to finish his day in Palmerston North, which for us was great, it was not yet eleven in the morning, and we had a ride two thirds of the way to our final destination.
Will's first stop was a small farm a few miles inland, we all climbed out of the car, Janice and I got roped in to help round up a dozen sheep in a large paddock next to the yard, I found the sight of Janice in her shorts and T shirt quite distracting, but managed to keep my mind on the job enough to get the animals penned in. Will counted them, weighed a couple and on the assurance that they were typical of the rest made an offer that the farmer accepted on a handshake. Janice and I were offered work if we wanted it, I like to think it was my notable stock management skills rather than her notable boobs and legs. We declined but promised to look him up if we were passing again.
Next stop was a similar sized farm but this one was after some lambs to fatten, Will took an order for four hundred and arranged to get them delivered in a week. This whole Stock Agent thing seemed to be quite the easy life. Unfortunately, as we left the second farm he took a call on his Carphone with a panic on about the four hundred lambs he'd promised and how there was a hiccup in the system, I made out the word 'Hydatids' but it didn't mean a huge amount to me. It did seem to mean a huge amount to Will, he apologised profusely and dropped us on a narrow road where he had to turn right to go back to Napier.
"Look, I'm sorry but I'm going to be tied up on this for hours, I know it's not busy, but you should be OK." He apologised through the open car window before driving off looking worried.
Janice and I sat on our packs, passing the time with "who had the worst hitching experience" stories.
I led with the time I was picked up outside Keri-Keri in the bay of islands by a bunch of guys high as kites on weed in a stolen Holden Commodore. We got stopped by a traffic cop and all got arrested, fortunately a couple of them confirmed I'd been a hitchhiker and got sent on my way. She won with the time she was hitching on her own and got a lift in a minibus with a group of young farmers on their way back from a Rugby tournament in Waikato. They'd lost and had been drowning their sorrows quote extensively. She was swept up and along the road before she really had a chance to take in the situation and after a couple of miles the driver leaned over and slurred "Hey bootful, I'm a bit pissed, can you drive this thing?" which brought a round of hysterical laughter from the rest of the occupants.
When she broke the sad news that she couldn't drive a manual there was a hush, followed by someone asking if a root was out of the question then. It most certainly wasn't, and she insisted on being let out immediately. Fortunately for Janice they were at heart nice lads, just pissed and with scant regard for drink driving laws. She was pretty certain the question about a root was someone's idea of funny, but she didn't want to put them to the test. Unfortunately, she was dropped five miles outside town and had to walk in, arriving too late to get a bed at the hostel and sleeping in the bus station. I started to get the idea of what she meant about lifts you don't necessarily want.
Great Britain lost the 'throw the pebble at the piece of wood' international championships 9 -4, 9 -- 6, 9 -- 7 and was moving inexorably and inevitably to 'I Spy' when a battered Holden Ute appeared in the distance, coming our way in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke. It pulled alongside, a coffee brown skinned girl with frizzy afro style hair, wearing dungarees and a cut off T Shirt, climbed up and shouted over the roof, "What are youse doin' out here eh?"
I resisted the urge to produce a smart answer and let Janice do the talking, she explained we were looking for a lift towards Palmerston North, but just getting us down to Highway 2 would be an immense help. A happy smile and a nod and I was heaving our backpacks into the back of the truck where a couple of big and hairy, but friendly German Shepherds were tied in.
The Ute had a big bench seat with three seatbelts, none of which worked, but it was at least designed as a three-seater, so Janice climbed in and started sidling towards the middle. The driver came round and slammed the door shut, "It's a bit sticky. Needs a good thump to close it eh," she explained, then indicated I should climb in the driver's side and slide across.
We bumped and rattled along the road and did the now familiar introductions, she told us to call her Alpha. I doubt it was her name but as we were getting a lift I was happy to call her anything she wanted.
We gave her the story of how we ended up in the middle of nowhere and asked what brought her along that stretch of emptiness.
"I was at a party last night eh, went on late. Got pretty wild eh." She laughed knowingly at the 'pretty wild' bit.
