We’d left Philadelphia two days earlier, choosing to fly out to Los Angeles in the morning so that we could spend a day in Redondo Beach before catching a late evening flight to Auckland. However, I hadn’t factored in the effect of fatigue on my ability to drive once we got there, and now it was apparent that the time change, turbulent 12-hour flight, and resulting lack of sleep had taken its toll. We stumbled off the plane, through customs, and into the car rental bus, which deposited us at the Maui Rental center (funny, I thought we were in New Zealand). I wearily signed over my life in exchange for the keys to a little red Kia Mentor, and we were ready to go. That’s when I slumped into the wrong side of the car by habit. From that point on that car hated us.
I had treated myself to a cup of vending machine insta-coffee in the lobby of the rental office, and the caffeine buzz had kicked in a bit by the time I positioned myself behind the wheel. In fact, it gave me quite a boost – one that left me feeling alert and confident all the way through the parking lot, and out onto the freeway ramp. Then it was gone, and I was left to repeat, “Stay to the left, stay to the left” as my new mantra. Meanwhile, my mother had perked up enough to take in the surroundings, and she wasn’t impressed.
“I don’t feel like I’m on a South Pacific Island at all!” was her first complaint.
I nodded in return, keeping my eyes glued to the left side of the road.
“You’re too close to the side over here – Be careful!”
I suppose I was concentrating a little too hard on that side. I gingerly averted my eyes to the center of the road.
And so it continued – me trying my best to stay in-between the lines, while keeping up to speed, and Mom alternating between moaning about the view, and admonishing me for my propensity for hugging her side of the road too closely.
As we approached Auckland we passed a group of schoolchildren walking on the sidewalk, dressed in crisp uniforms. They all wore white button-down shirts and knee high gray socks. The boys sported steel gray wool shorts, while the girls wore plaid pleated skirts of the same gray interlaced with burgundy. “I feel like I’m in Britain,” commented my Welsh mother, taking in the scene. Then she added, “Well, Britain is an island too, now isn’t it?” Somehow, this revelation seemed to cheer her up a bit.
Before long we came upon our exit, and I promptly signaled my intent to turn by flipping on the windshield wipers. At the top of the ramp, a panicky feeling overcame me. I wasn’t ready to navigate these crowded urban streets. I needed more practice – more experience – but it was too late now. I carefully steered the Kia through intersections and around corners as my mother did her best to point us in the direction of our hotel. Miraculously, we found it on our first pass. However, seeing the hotel’s luminous sign in front of me broke my concentration, causing me to run up on the curb.
“I told you so!” emanated from the left seat, which was now several inches higher than my own. I freed us from the curb, tucked the Kia into the hotel’s claustrophobic parking garage, and gladly left it there for the remainder of the day.
The next morning we rose early, determined to escape Auckland before the workday traffic became an obstacle to our limited driving skills. We checked out, settled the bill, and had our bags loaded in the trunk shortly after 7. I climbed into the Kia, smug in the knowledge that we would soon be out of the city and deep in the forest of the Waitakere Ranges.
I reacquainted myself with the location of the controls, turned the key in the ignition, and put the car in reverse (while silently thanking the travel agent for talking me into paying a little extra for an automatic). We were on our way. Then I misjudged the turn out of the garage and tapped the ticket-reading machine. Fortunately, it bounced right back into position – it was obvious it had been hit before. Red-faced, and newly insecure about my driving ability, I paid the parking attendant and puttered out into the sunlight.
We had studied our complimentary Maui Rental map the night before. According to our calculations, only a few turns stood between us and the natural splendor we had came to experience. That’s when we learned never to trust a rental map. By 8 o’clock we were mired in rush-hour traffic, still searching in vain for an exit that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Or so we thought.
After a third fruitless pass by the missing exit, we decided to stop at a quickie-mart to refuel and regroup before our next circuit. We poured ourselves a couple of steaming cups of coffee and proceeded to the counter. That’s where we found the answers to our dilemma: a copy of the 2001 Kiwi Pathfinder Complete Road Atlas was displayed beneath the register, and a helpful Australian student (on a working holiday) was positioned behind it. He spent the next few minutes assuring us the exit really was where we were now certain it most definitely wasn’t, and then sent us on our way.
We positioned ourselves for another pass through the missing exit zone. I drove at an infuriatingly low speed, while my mother craned her neck in search for any sign of an exit ramp. “That must be it!” She pointed ahead to a single lane that branched out from our road at a perfect 90-degree angle. We had discounted it on our first pass due to the fact it was unmarked and required us to come to a standstill on a busy road before crossing over three lanes of traffic. Plus it didn’t seem to go anywhere. Driving in circles wasn’t getting us anywhere either, so I slowed down even further, said a prayer, and gunned the Kia across the oncoming traffic. Lo and behold, the skinny little lane turned in to a ramp that deposited right where we wanted to be several hours earlier – on the road to wilderness.
We found it all right. We spent the next few hours totally, blissfully lost on the steep, winding roads that clung to the mountains. Our new glossy atlas was worthless on these roads, which alternated between bona fide asphalt and narrow gravel tracks. I found myself concentrating solely on keeping the car on safe ground, while my captivated mother pointed out all the markings of a South Pacific island. Neither of us kept track of where we were going – we were out of the city and loving it. Our eventual goal was to find our way to Piha and Kare Kare on the western coast, and occasional signs reassured me that we were traveling in the right direction. Then we came around a bend and spotted the cows.
I turned to my mother and pointed to a group of cows grazing contentedly by a fence bordering the road. She had noticed them too. I had a sense of d�j� vu.
“Aren’t those…” my mother started.
“No.” I interjected. “Can’t be.”
The cows |
But I had to face the reality of the situation. We had seen these cows before. About an hour earlier, in fact. I tried to retrace our turns in an attempt to mentally draw out our route. The odds of us driving in a large circle seemed long, but there was no mistaking these cows. We stared at them in disbelief. They ignored us. And who could blame them – we were old news in their world.
I fished out my digital camera and took a picture of them, so any further encounters could be compared to hard evidence. We then continued on, turning in the opposite direction of any way that looked familiar. The going wasn’t easy. The roads all had the same qualities: twisty, unmarked, and framed with lush vegetation. We were just commenting on our odds of seeing our bovine friends again, when a break in the rainforest canopy diverted our attention. It provided a glimpse of a panoramic view of the land that stretched out for miles below us.
Turning around was not an option, so we drove a few hundred yards up the road before spotting another break in the trees. We were in luck – it was a pull-off area for motorists to take in the scenery. I eased the Kia off of the road and over what had to be the only glass bottle in the forest. Our Mentor came to rest with a splintering crunch. I cringed, crossed my fingers, and got out of the car hoping for the best. As I neared the tire in question a sickening hissing sound grew louder.
The view that caused the mishap |
My mother got out, oblivious to our situation, and quickly pointed out that we could see Auckland’s skyline in the distance. I looked up and was surprised to see the hazy silhouette of the Sky Tower on the horizon. The hissing then brought me back to the matter at hand. I pointed out the problem to my mother, who just looked at me with disbelief. Obviously, she had never changed a tire before either.
I opened up the trunk and started to remove our bags. We were sitting on a skinny shoulder on a tight turn on the side of a mountain. This was not good. I tried to reassure myself by reasoning that Kiwis were friendly, helpful people. Someone would drive by in a few moments and help us out. The farmer that owned those cows, perhaps.
The author, learning new skills |
No one came and the nuts on the deflating tire refused to budge. After 20 minutes of cursing, twisting, pulling and pushing (with four hands and one foot) we had managed to get the job done. I snapped a few shots of Auckland, and we drove on, quite pleased with ourselves. My mother wondered aloud if we could get AA service (otherwise known as AAA to Yanks like myself) in New Zealand. I stifled a laugh, imagining someone talking us through the 12 steps of tire changing.
Luckily, the tire stayed on and we eventually found Piha, quite by accident. We marveled at Lion’s Rock, walked along the beach at Kare Kare,
Ahhh – Piha at last |
and then gradually worked our way eastward to Paihia, a seaside resort in the Bay of Islands, without further incident. The next morning we found a local gas station that was willing to patch our wounded tire. I explained the previous day’s events, and asked the mechanic if we had put the tire on tight enough. He smiled and shared a bit of Kiwi wisdom with me: “No worries. When you go ’round a corner, and your tyre keeps going straight – that’s when you’ll know that she’s loose!”
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