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From Wellington, we rode the ferry to the south island. Kati had grown hungry for cheese and bread. With no grocery stores in sight and us on foot and weighted by backpacks, we could not see an opportunity for assuaging her hunger.
We went to the roadside and put out our thumbs in the direction of Christchurch. A tour van stopped. The driver had just dropped of his passengers from a day outing and was headed home. He would go right past our destination for the night, another 300 kilometers, and would drop us off. As we came into open countryside, he stopped for a break from the road. He opened the back end of the van and set an ice chest on the rocks, saying, “All this is left from our picnic today. I had planned for more people. Take all you can eat. Otherwise, it will just be thrown away.” The chest was laden with a variety of quality breads and cheeses.
Moments like these were magical. Still, we’d come to New Zealand with some misconceptions about free and low cost camping and we were feeling a need for steady income, which required a work permit. For one permit we were too old and another type would take several weeks to process. We could get a legitimate permit through an agent, but it required a credit card, which we did not have.
In the Christchurch square, we talked about our options while waiting for the permit-issuing office to open. A young woman sitting on the steps near us overheard our conversation and said, “My boyfriend knows how you can get a job. He’ll be here any minute.”
Her friend appeared, she filled him in, and he said, “That’s right. There is a laundry plant in Queenstown that will help you get the permit and will hire you on the spot. They need workers. I am working there myself. We’d give you a ride but we’re headed the other direction first.”
Kati and I thanked them for the tip and said we’d find our way. We walked to a bakery and sat at a table with a piece of cardboard and a marker pen and wrote “Queenstown.” We were starting on a second sign for hitching when a customer said, “Hey, I am going that way. If you give me about twenty minutes, I will come around and pick you up.”
The second ride was with a young “alternative-lifestyle” couple and their hearty baby boy, in a camper van. The young man had blistered feet, too painful to work the gas and brake pedals, and the woman had been driving for hours. They asked if I would mind taking the wheel. It was my first experience of driving in a left-sided country, and I felt a heightened awareness on the road. That night we all camped on a high rocky ledge under the open starry sky.
Our final leg of that journey was on foot, and we felt every step. In New Zealand’s summertime the noon day sun was blistering. We made it to our pre-arranged appointment at the laundry plant on time and left the backpacks at the door.
Copyright © 2008 Gary R. Smith
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