“That’s it guys. I knew it. The car is finally gone. Kaputt.” Max glances across toward Ovie, a forlorn look spread across his face.
“It’s over. She’s dead. We are fucked”
We push the beloved ghost mobile up the next bend in the gravel road, and let gravity do the work as Max does anything and everything to get the car in gear. But it’s no use- the clutch does nothing- the motor’s typical nervous rattles and shakes exchanged for loud, neutral whirring. We’ve completely lost drive. It could be the clutch, which may be fixable, or it could be the transmission, which would condemn ol’ Ghosty to death.
It’s a solid half hour drive through windy, bumpy gravel roads to the nearest signs of civilization, and our phones are completely out of service. Nothing but the chortling songs of the Tui Birds break the morning silence.
Max rolls himself a cigarette. Bryan studies maps. I pace along the road, staring unproductively at the nearby ferns, their leaves splashing outwards from the ground like fountains in freeze frame.
We heard stories upon stories of car breakdowns. I guess it was just a matter of time before it was our turn.
Luckily, a ranger from the Department of Conservation happened to drive by our road. We explained our situation, and after a few passes by, he managed to radio the nearby township and arrange a tow. A half hour passed and we were approached by a ticketing truck- an empty bottle of Speights Beer sitting in the open-faced wooden bed. A lady Kiwi steps out. “Need a tow?”
“Yes, please”
She hooks up something that I can only describe as a strong cloth strap “just don’t forget to use your breaks” she says, and we’re off- welcome to the Catlin Ghostmobile gravel road tow-coaster extreme. The lady kiwi drove like crazy- so much we feared that the tow would cause more damage than the initial problem.
Anyhow, we made it to Owaka and saw the mechanic. “Ok, what’s the matter with this piece of shit?” he says.
We explained. He gets in the seat, grinds the clutch, jiggles the key. “Maybe I can fix it. Go over there have a coffee and I’ll take a look.”
It was a long, nervous cup of coffee, full of slightly short tempers and panicked plan-adjusting.
Yet ,when we got back, the car had already been fixed, and road tested, and after a lump sum we were off on our way again, shaken but not broken.
After a solid couple hours’ drive, we made our way straight to Dunedin for a much-needed beer and sought out a bed, shower, and hot meal. The simple pleasures always prove to be the most effective in stress relief.
Dunedin, despite the misty rain and insanely steep roads (our nerves extra pressed from the clearly fragile car) was a breath of fresh air. A university town without the students (still on summer vacation) it was a perfect size- a bustling town centre that didn’t prove intimidating to navigate nor explore. We stayed at our most impressive hostel to date- a spot wittily called “Hogwartz” (yes, it did have a room 9 and 3/4) which was relaxed, but active, friendly yet not overly loud- complete with a tuned guitar and piano. Not to mention, the Speight’s Brewery was just down the road. Missing a brewery tour was out of the question.
We also took a day trip down the Otago Peninsula- famous for it’s wildlife. Though we didn’t manage to spot any penguins, we got a good dose of sea lions snoring on the rocks- or playing, or even engaging in some scuffles.
We were also fortunate to sea an Albatross. Max, Ovie and I just arrived to the viewpoint- with no one around, we were there for maybe thirty seconds before this gigantic bird grew out of the misty cliffs and headed straight towards us. It’s huge wingspan unshaken by the strong coastal wind, it effortlessly banked against the wind, hovered in the air not 20 feet from us, and dipped back down towards the surf. It was like it posed for us, showing nature’s beauty all in a moment’s breath.
And no one saw it but us.
Later, we learned from people at our hostel that some had paid twice for a guided albatross tour, and never laid eyes on the magnificent birds on the ground, yet alone in flight. And here we were, a private showing of nature’s strongest soarer.
The Royal Albatross, a wing span of 3+ metres, soars literally around the world on wind currents, high up, never flapping. Soaring for miles and miles. Maybe, I think, they just stand still, and the world turns beneath them. Or like in Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," the Albatross doesn't soar on the wind, but rather creates it- the breezes pouring out from it's powerful wings like a powerful wave or waterfall.
We’ve forsaken the wet south lands for the dry plains of Canterbury on the South Island’s east coast. As Max always exclaims: “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf, mountains!”
It’s time to go see some alpine lakes and some pointed snow-caps. It's time to keep moving. They'll be time to rest later. For now, we can only learn from the Albatross; follow its wind, and keep on soaring.
-K & B