Saint John

The day began as the days before it had; awakening to the sound of slamming doors, careless rummaging and blindingly luminescent lights. Rolling over on the thin mattress (well, rolling as much as one can when lying in a twin-size bed with a 6 foot man), I came face to face with the sleeping giant sprawled out beside me. My relatively new travel partner, Byron, a South African whose adventurous spirit matched my own, had followed me down through the New Zealand countryside to this small hostel nestled on the edge of the great Lake Taupo. We had met 273 km farther north in Auckland, the starting point for all international backpackers, roughly two weeks prior. Our relationship had begun to revolve around hostels (and Airbnbs’ when we were feeling luxurious). There was the week and a half we stayed with Helen, an aging fashion designer with an oddly sensitive nose, in her beautiful guest room. The month we scrubbed toilets and changed bed sheets at a hostel in Wellington in exchange for a coveted bed in the staff room. And, of course, the 8-bed dorm room where we first met and spent three weeks drinking tea and nursing hangovers together.

For us, it was always about the next stop, the next place to sit down and set up. We were so fixated on where we were going to end up and what we were going to see that we neglected the most essential part of traveling: planning. Instead, we relied on half-baked ideas scrawled on napkins or receipts that included things like “Must visit that cool cave with the glowing worm things the British dude told us about. Take bus.” We were fully entrenched in our ignorance, operating under the assumption that real travel experiences could only be found through spontaneity. So, we continued to gloss over our ineptitude with this unwavering veneer of ‘adventure’, leaving us to blindly tramp through the country proclaiming ourselves master adventurers who refused to be tied down by well thought out itineraries. It was exhilarating, and terrifying, all at the same time.

Lake Taupo was but a stop on our (semi) mapped route south, and was picked only because of its close proximity to the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a 20 km trek up a volcano fondly referred to as Mt. Doom. We had hired a guide to take us up but they weren’t leaving until tomorrow. And of course, the only ‘plan’ we had for our extra day in Taupo was nothing but an inclination to visit some natural hot springs and silica terraces we had seen in a crumpled brochure on the way down. Apparently, they were just up the road! But here’s the thing about New Zealand- just up the road could mean pretty much anything. With a population of only four million but a countryside large enough to fill three Lord of the Ring movies with sweeping landscape shots, New Zealand operated on its own scale of measurement. It was nothing but vast swaths of green dotted with the occasional fluffy sheep. But after lounging in our cramped quarters for much too long, Byron and I decided to risk it and attempt the walk to the hot springs. I peeked out the little box window that our bed was pushed up against, and could see that the sky was drowning the small streets in rain. It was so grey and cold outside that my breath fogged up in a little pool on the window. If only Uber Pool serviced the middle of rural New Zealand, I wished silently to myself as I pulled on jacket after jacket.

Starting out by foot, we made our way through the broad flatlands that sprawled out from the crater that formed the lake. There was only one road that led out of Taupo, a tarmac highway that snaked through lush fern forests and farmlands. It was a picturesque sight, save for the foreboding sky above that had dulled everything to a muted shade of grey. The grey seemed endless as it washed out the trees and water. I felt myself consumed by this grey fog as we tramped along the saturated embankment of the highway, our feet sinking farther into muddied grass with each step. The mud sucked our shoes in as if it were a carnivorous plant waiting patiently for its next bumbling meal. I had not thought this through. Underneath the weak canvas of my converse were my naked feet, sockless and vulnerable. My feet started swimming in my shoes, and every step had my soles pressing down on the thick and porous interior, making my toes wriggle and curl up in disgust. The mud moved effortlessly around my feet, building drifts and carving out gorges as I went along. The bits of grass that had been swallowed whole by the waves of mud stuck up in unnatural and jagged angles, reminding me of broken bones as they tried earnestly to fight off dirt induced suffocation. It was morbidly entrancing to watch this battle ensue. Tired shoes, mud, and dying grass, all coalescing on this dreadfully wet day.

It only took three hours for the mud to win and for us to realize that we were in over our heads. I could tell that Byron was growing weary, his usually vibrant blue eyes dulled to a grey that matched the damn sky. Kicking myself for falling victim to ‘adventure’ once again, I grew annoyed. Traveling isn’t fun- it’s painful and frustrating and gross. I was sick of the cold, the strange accents I couldn’t understand, the food labels that looked like gibberish, the Germans who woke us up every morning at 6:30am. Why was I even here? What was I trying to prove? I wasn’t even sure anymore, and I didn’t think Byron was either.

We had been attempting to catch a lift for at least a kilometer or two, but not a single brake light lit in recognition of our outstretched thumbs. Both my arm and my ego were aching over the botched adventure. I was sinking my hands deep into my pockets to let my thumbs recover in the cradle of fleece, when I heard Byron shout in disbelief.“Holy crap! I think there’s a car pulling over!”

My head immediately yanked up and looked in the direction of his manic flailing, and I saw that a car was slowing to a stop on the side of the embankment ahead of us, waiting patiently as we lumbered towards it. It was an old silver BMW, the kind that I had always imagined people with power suits drove back in the 80s. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a middle-aged man decked out in a wrinkled suit, his friendly face drawn in deep set lines. We approached the vehicle cautiously until we were standing uncertainly in front of it, peering into the window.

“Should we… knock?” Byron asked quietly. As if in response, the window rolled down revealing a man hunched over the steering wheel, squinting at us through the glare.

“Do you kids need a ride somewhere?” asked our unassuming savior.

“We’re only going another 5 minutes or so up to road to the silica terraces. The, uh, the Waraiki hot springs, I think?” I replied hesitantly.

“Great, hop in.” commanded the man.

We both awkwardly clambered into the BMW, ducking our heads as we pushed our way into the small backseat. Sitting down, I found myself sinking into plush leather as I sat up in the darkness, my head hitting the low riding roof. Freshly laundered suits in a plastic garment bag hung from a hook next to me, making the space even more claustrophobic. I felt like I was in a carpeted tin can. The smell of cheap soap hit my nose; a much needed departure from the scent of dirt that had suffocated me for hours. Our power-suited saint pushed the car into gear and jolted us forward as we scrambled to buckle our seat belts. The car veered onto the freeway, sailing us away from the ocean of mud that had just been attempting to drown us moments before. I could feel my feet shudder in relief.

“I’m John, by the way,” said the man as he eyed us in his rear view mirror. John, whose slumping shoulders and salt and pepper hair reminded me of my father, shot us a small smile. Taking our silence as an invitation to chat, he dove into a ramble of conversation, in his thick New Zealand accent. We quickly learned that John was a lawyer by trade, and only a bona fide saint on the side. He fondly reminisced on his own days of hitchhiking, back when he was but a young lad backpacking his way through kiwi country.[MG1] He could relate to our struggle, he told us, and that’s why he stopped to give us a ride. John the lawyer was oddly charming; a simple man who carried himself with an air of indifference but spoke with purpose. His cramped and aging car complemented him perfectly, a somewhat dignified relic of the past that doesn’t particularly impress, but can’t be discounted all together. But his range of pleasantries extended only so far, as we reached our destination within a matter of minutes. The sign for the hot springs signaled for us to turn up ahead, and John the lawyer yanked the wheel hard, tipping us into the parking lot. Out we climbed, clambering through the tiny car once again.

“Best of luck kids” he shouted as he cranked the window back up. And with a nod of the head, John was gone as quickly as he had appeared, leaving us behind as took off down the street. Staring forlornly at the fading red halo of his tail lights, I realized something I should have realized a long time ago. I didn’t even care about soaking in the hot springs or meandering through the silica terraces. This was just something to take up time, to ogle at, to snap a photo of. The adventure I’ve been earnestly seeking has never been about the alpine crossing or the glow worm caves, although I always believed it was the places that defined the traveler. Instead, my most grand adventures have come from the people I’ve stumbled upon along the way- my sleeping giant, and John the lawyer, and everyone else who has helped me reach just a little bit farther and dream a little bit bigger. These true moments of borderless humanity are what you bring home when it’s time for you to leave. And if you’re lucky, they don’t have to remain just memories.