I was twenty-one years old and headed out of town…far out of town. I left American soil for New Zealand in June of 1998 for six months to work and explore. I was prepared only to be released from four challenging years of college, by experiencing a country I only had seen in pictures. Nothing, however, would prepare me for what would be one of the most nerve-racking, but rewarding 36 hours of my life.
My travels began with a seat in coach near a group of inebriated, South Pacific butchers fresh from a Las Vegas convention, a questionable airline meal, and the niggling feeling that I overpacked. These things did nothing to soothe my slowly unraveling nerves. Twelve hours in coach wasn’t helpful either, but it was all part of the adventure. I had planned this journey for two years—strange plane-fellows and a grumpy stomach would not deter me.
The first morning flight to land at any airport can carry with it the feeling that, as a passenger, you have arrived on the heels of an apocalypse—or, at the very least, the eerie stillness following the aftermath of some horror movie plague.
It was fitting then that Auckland’s pre-dawn hours welcomed a 747-400 full of zombie-legged, bleary-eyed travelers, making our way clumsily down silent hallways towards customs, stiff and uncoordinated after so many hours confined to 12 inches of legroom. Those of us who traveled in coach, that is.
The first thing I did – made a B line for the restroom to see if toilets in the Southern Hemisphere did indeed flush counterclockwise. They do. Well, that particular toilet did, anyway.
I passed easily through customs, even with little makeup, a heavily wrinkled running suit, and two suitcases whose combined poundage outweighed me by a considerable amount.
Wrestling my belongings outside, I waited for the bus that would take me into the city and to my lodgings, a youth hostel. Little did I know how accurately the word “hostel” would describe the place.
I wondered vaguely if the sun would soon rise, finding it unsettling not to be able to see farther than the dimly lit parking lot several yards away. The darkness turned out to be a blessing, however, once I was seated on the bus and speeding towards Auckland’s city center.
Having never before delighted in traveling on the left side of the road, I was white-knuckled after the first right turn. There’s nothing as enjoyable as trying to convince yourself you aren’t going to careen into oncoming traffic, while your sleep-deprived brain remains stuck in its right-side-of-the-road world. Fortunately, the driver never noticed that I put a five-fingered dent in the seat in front of me.
After arriving, checking in, locking up one suitcase, wrestling the other one up five flights of stairs (the elevator was conveniently out-of-order), and eventually finding my room, I had only one mission: a hot shower.
It may have been the jetlag, or that my frazzled nerves were shorting out, but I barely noticed the half-naked German guy, wrapped in a towel from the waist down, exiting the shower stall next to mine. He issued me a cheery, “Guten Tag!” obviously unconcerned about the co-ed restroom stylings of our accommodations.
After a nap and an early lunch, I explored downtown Auckland, braving the winter chill to get a lay of the land, then returned for supper and an early night. I was still on edge, even with food and sleep—and even more so after a brief call home and, to my dismay, an unexpected surge of homesickness.
The uncertainty about my decision to go so far afield left me anxious and uneasy. I hoped a decent night’s sleep would help. The room I was given housed three other occupants, all of whom were out for the evening. Thankful for a bit of quiet, I locked the door and crashed.
It wasn’t so much a tugging in the back of my mind that told me something was wrong, rather a stomach-jerking yank that shot me full awake and bolt upright in the creaky twin bed.
A man, rather large by his shadowy bulk, was bent over my daypack, not two inches from my pillow, unzipping the outer-most pocket. He was obviously intent on locating something of value in my overstuffed bag.
“Hey!” My shout startling him upright. He bolted, and I managed to get a good look at him as he stupidly turned to face me while closing the door, allowing the light from the hallway to expose his features—the most prominent of which was a thick, red beard and moustache.
I’ve never been a victim of a crime, and up until that moment, I never thought about how I would react. I would not have picked boiling anger to be the first emotion out of the gate on such an occasion. Yet, immediate, all-encompassing rage propelled me off the bed and down the hallway after him.
I caught up with him one flight down, nonchalantly making his way to the first floor, as though he had not just attempted a five-fingered swipe of my valuables. Since I was treated to an up close look at him, I was certain that I was not mistaken in charging him with attempted robbery.
My accusations preceded us down four more flights of stairs and into the lobby, also a security station for the hostel. Despite his shouted, four-lettered denials, in an accent I didn’t recognize, he was forced to stop due to a gathering crowd, clearly drawn by our escalating shouts. If he wanted to escape, he would have had to muscle his way through a few dozen people crowding the entryway.
Now certain that he wasn’t going anywhere, I lost it. Standing halfway up the first flight of stairs, tears pouring down my face, I hurtled several explicit comments of my own at him—a few of which I’m sure I made up on the fly. The outrage I felt had only become stronger.
Perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to continue my accusations once we were around so many people—or maybe he was just surprised that a petite, freckled brunette in stocking feet, gray jogging pants and an oversized college sweatshirt could managed such colorful vocabulary at 2 a.m. Either way, the look on his face was one of complete shock.
Everything moved in slow motion after that. Several employees promised that he wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere; a guy with a similar accent, who was standing next to me, shouted yet another round of insults at him; and I went back upstairs to check that nothing was actually stolen.
Nothing had been taken, and the red-bearded, would-be thief was asked to leave and told he wasn’t welcome on the premises again. Not exactly a vindication. He was allowed to simply walk away—albeit after receiving a good tongue-lashing—but nothing else was going to come of it. This sad, misguided stranger, whoever he was, did escape with a good chunk of my self-confidence, though—something I couldn’t exactly claim on any police report.
The next morning, with my faith in the trustworthiness of everyone around me crumbling, I gathered my shredded morale and purchased a bus ticket out of the city. There was a brief moment before I took my seat when I considered giving up and going home. Why did I think I could spend six months on my own trying to fulfill a dream, when I couldn’t even make it through my first night alone without becoming the target of a thief?
I watched anxiously as the city disappeared behind me and the countryside emerged. A countryside whose reality was a hundred times more exquisite in person than in any pictures.
Impossibly green, rolling hillsides dotted with sheep and farmsteads. A river gorge laden with giant ferns. Hot tea at a roadside café, complete with a raisin scone.
Simple, maybe. Revitalizing, absolutely.
This is why I had come, I wasn’t going to leave. For the first time in nearly 36 hours, my stomach unclenched and I breathed again.
I knew at that moment the worst thing that could happen to me had most likely already occurred (assuming I didn’t detach my retinas bungee jumping off the Kawarau Bridge in Queenstown).
Looking back, those fearsome moments of my journey’s first night were stepping stones—necessary for me to appreciate how far I’d come, and to know that quitting wasn’t an option. I would not surrender to fear and miss out on so many amazing moments that were sure to come.
Roadblocks that spring up between us and our goals are there for a reason: to test our resolve. Although I was still shaken and still unsure, my resolve held. And my sense of humor eventually returned to strengthen it.
It turns out six months in New Zealand wasn’t nearly long enough. After my first stay, I returned for three more years. Aotearoa has a tendency to imprint itself onto your heart and soul if you let it, and I couldn’t stay away.
Oh, and if you’re wondering, I now travel with more wits about me—and considerably less luggage.
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