My story begins with a change of hostel. Since this is a trip without a true plan, I only booked my first 2 days in he YMCA Hostel, after which I assumed, of course, I'd have surrounded myself with a band of new friends and cohorts to go travel the country with, and we'd move along our merry way.
Haka
Wrong.
YMCA hostel, it seems, is suited for the professional traveler, or long term stays. I really wasn't sure if I was doing it wrong, or if everyone around me was just a little off, but it seemed like nobody wanted to meet new people, and nobody frequented the common areas. Also, as apparently an added bo After 2 days, I wasn't too unhappy to find that hostel booked full for the next night. I booked myself a hostel across town, Nomad Auckland. Good choice. Holy hell, did that work out well.
Immediately, everyone was much friendlier, and far more interested in actually getting to know me. I met some cool people from England and Northern Ireland, had a few pints of the local draught at the bar, and went to sleep early.
The next day I woke up early and went to read my book and watch a few movies in the common room. Ran into two American folks (could tell by the accent and a Washington Nationals cap) and decided to make friends. Another good choice. Turns out these gentlemen had just gotten into town from Georgia, and were making their way around the North Island for a week before meeting up with some friends on the South Island. Being a responsible person, I invited myself along on their adventure, because apparently that's the sort of thing I'm doing now. We'll call these folks Tim and Blake. Their names are not being changed, because none of us are innocent in this whole ordeal.
After a very long night consisting of me:
-observing possibly my favorite live sporting event of all time
-playing pool at a semi-competent level for the first time ever
-consuming several jugs (tiny pitchers) of Kiwi imitation Coors Light
-ending the night with a few rounds of free tequila shots (side note: no tequila shot is ever free. I paid full price in the morning.)
I was there!
We began our journey at 10 AM.
Act II:
Tim is a man with a dream. Blake is a man with a plan. Tim's dream was to hitch-hike his way around New Zealand. Blake was the guy with all the answers to get us there.
In the interest of full disclosure, I was informed of the intent to hitchhike their way to Rotorua (think New Zealand's version of Disneyland) well before I bought into the idea. It seemed like a fun way to get there, and certainly beat the dullness of buying a simple $30 bus ticket. So I joined up, ready for a good adventure.
Blake researched beforehand, and our first instructions directed us to a service center on the outskirts of town. We checked out of the hostel in the morning, and made our way to the train station. At the ticket kiosk, I remarked to Tim something along the lines of: "Well, we're committing money to this now. Hope we thought this through." And we were off.
It's hard to fully express how this trip began without first explaining that the trains in Auckland run slooooow. As in, for some parts of the ride to the All Blacks game, I could very well have walked faster than the train. The ride today proved that was no exception, and though the train breezed up to what seemed like 30mph, it was closer to the Disneyland Railroad than any other mass public transport I've experienced. Anyhow, we rode that wonderful train to the end of the line, Papakura, a quiet little suburb an hour out of the CBD.
It was on our way to Papakura that we learned the true reason we were taking this train: to catch a bus, which would put us in the right direction for this mystical service center. We arrived, and set about waiting for the appropriate bus, number 475 to Pukekohe.
We were getting a bit hungry, so we tracked down a suburban grocery called Countdown. We each bought a bottle of cheap wine, which we planned to drink in Rotorua that afternoon. I made what I thought was a brilliant move, and bought a $3 bacon and egg pie (New Zealanders are huge on meat pies. I figured it was a good idea.) Story of my life, not the best purchase I ever made. Turns out, pies are much better when you have an apparatus with which to reheat them. A cold bacon and egg pie at a suburban Auckland bus stop tastes about as awful as it sounds.
While we waited, Blake read us the full directions to the center. We joked about how these directions were going to lead us astray, how they'd feature fun steps like "Turn right at the road. Walk to the fourth house on the left, and knock 3 times, sharply. DO NOT KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF THE FIFTH HOUSE." The jokes weren't far off.
The directions, which were more of a blog, included great phrases like:
-"I think the #475 bus"
-"Just get off anywhere around #490"
-"Look to your right at the wood fence next to the last house."
That went about as well as you'd expect. When we got on the 475 bus, the driver had absolutely no idea where we were trying to get off. He charged us a little less than half the normal fare and sent us to sit. The rest of the people on board were traveling to Pukekohe, half an hour away. After about 5 minutes, the bus driver either forgot about us, or just decided we'd be better off in Pukekohe than wherever we were trying to go.
Incorrect. We got off the bus in Puke, as the locals affectionately call it, and realized almost immediately that this was neither the right town to hitchhike from nor to catch an intercity bus. We hopped right back on the bus, much to the confusion of the driver, who didn't charge us for the round trip. Less resilient folk would have given up right there and just taken the free trip back to Papakura and called it a day. Not us.
We asked the driver to drop us off by the freeway entrance as he passed, and he obliged after giving us a very concerned look.
Act III:
Hitchhiking is an art form. I know this because I've tried it, now.
We found a section near the on ramp that looked like prime hitching real estate, and we set up shop. Thumbs out, and all that. After about 10 minutes, we'd received more than a few blank stares, some head shakes, and a thumbs up. Not even a brake check.
At this point, we had a discussion about the merits of hitchhiking in New Zealand, which is apparently not uncommon but not easy. Part of this discussion hinged on a critical point: is "thumbs out" a universal symbol? Or is that just an American invention, and maybe these poor Kiwis in passing cars think we're just a bunch of happy travelers congratulating them on their Sunday drive?
Another important note: none of us have cell phones that work here, so there's no hope of GPSing our way somewhere, or looking up good methods and hand signals for hitching NZ. We decide that the only thing keeping us from Rotorua right now is the lack of a sign stating our intended destination. We pooled resources, and correctly spelled Rotorua in block letters on a piece of paper.
How could they not pick us up?
Despite our beautiful sign, after another few minutes still nobody stopped. Our packs were feeling pretty heavy at this point, and we had a philosophical discussion about whether we'd look too lazy if we put them down. Nobody wants to pick up a lazy hitchhiker, right? It's all about likeability. We had another brief powwow, and decided that though the sign was perfectly legible, there wasn't enough time for drivers to read it as they whizzed by. Tim had a plan for this, too.
After about 45 minutes, we finally threw in the towel, defeated. We walked a ways, ready to give in and catch the tour bus to Rotorua. We found the local watering hole, festively titled "Chill Out Bar and Grill" and sought out some wifi to book our bus tickets.
Walking to McD's to give up on our hitchhike was pretty much the low point in a series of lows, until this:
That's just mean spirited.
We trudged back to the train station, caught a train back to Auckland, and spent the entire ride thinking on our many many failures and drinking those bottles of wine. We checked back into the same hostel we left in the morning, and booked ourselves bus tickets for the next day to Rotorua.
Epilogue:
I'm writing this on the bus ride to Rotorua. This place had better be pretty damn awesome for all the trouble we've been through.
Cheers,
Jared
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