My First Time Out of the Country

 I've been reading a book about someone else's travels and it prompted me to write about my first ever journey overseas - to New Zealand. It was 1972 and I was 18 years old.

 Leaving your homeland for the first time is exciting. I remember craning my neck backwards while watching the NSW coast recede into the distance through the window of the plane. The metaphorical umbilical cord had been cut and I was off to another land. Not too far mind – just ‘across the ditch’ to that other down under nation – New Zealand. I travelled with my friend Tony and as he had New Zealand cousins we went directly to their place in Hamilton and used that as home base for the next few weeks.

It’s interesting to look back now and note that we never for one minute contemplated any other mode of travel around NZ other than hitchhiking. We set off south together and reached Wellington in the early morn. Early enough to ‘buy’ some milk from people’s verandas in houses where they still slept. We were hungry and thirsty and no shops were open so we thought it was reasonable to help ourselves to milk from people’s verandas and leave some change to cover the cost of our theft! We clearly had a sense of what was the morally correct thing to do!

We agreed that if someone ever stopped to give us a ride but could only fit one of us in the car we would split up and meet at the next agreed destination. For the most part this worked well. But on one occasion in the South Island it left me stranded at Kaikoura. We had probably agreed to meet further down the coast at Christchurch but it got dark and I decided the public toilet at the Kaikoura train station was cosy enough and spent the night there. I’ve had hundreds of rides while hitchhiking over the years and most of them have drifted away into the past with no trace of recognition. I don’t know whether it was the fact that my first ride next morning rescued me from the toilet, or whether it was the fact that he was a priest, but a priest he was and I squeezed into his little Volkswagen for the next slow leg to Christchurch.

Our accommodation all over New Zealand was in youth hostels. It was great way to meet fellow travellers from all over, and they were cheap. You shared bunk bed style accommodation with many others, but for this privilege you had chore(s) to do each morning after breakfast. This might be cleaning the dormitories, toilets, kitchens, or sweeping up outside. It took about half an hour and there was no skipping it.

I dragged my guitar everywhere with me back then so I often got involved in sing-a-long music sessions at night. One night in Te Anau this American guy was joining in the singing but was really missing playing the guitar. He asked me if he could restring my left-handed guitar and play a few songs. I agreed and was glad I did. He was a great guitar player and everybody loved it. He happily put the strings back the other way when he was done – no mean feat. It takes a minimum of 20 minutes to do that so you really need to want to do it. That American guy was important for another reason that night. He was the first of many Americans I met while travelling who was really good at something – singing, writing, diving, skiing. Whatever it might be they had obviously dedicated a lot of time getting good at it, and were confident enough in themselves to demonstrate it or talk about it. It was in marked contrast to the Australian way where we tend to downplay our talents and prefer to blend into the crowd and not set ourselves apart as anything special – a cultural consequence of the Tall Poppy Syndrome perhaps. I thought the American way was more interesting, and more productive.

After we had been travelling for a while and had stayed in several hostels it was lovely one night – I think it was in Picton – to be recognised by one of the fellow guests. ‘You’re that Australian guy I’ve been hearing about who plays left-handed guitar and has been singing at lots of other hostels around New Zealand’ this woman said. ‘And people say you’re really good!’ Obviously there was more music and singing that night!

Somewhere in the South Island Tony and I split up again. I was standing on the edge of some town again and this small car stopped. The car was jam packed full of stuff. This woman was moving house and had everything she owned on board – including her cat! She said I could get in if I could fit me, my pack and guitar in somehow. She was quite happy for me to rearrange her stuff as needed. So I did -  got me and my stuff packed in and we set off. She really just wanted company, someone to talk to. It was an important point to understand when hitchhiking. Not everyone stopped just to help you out – though many did just that. Many picked you up because they wanted someone to talk to, help pass the time, keep them awake, and even occasionally the chance to take a break from driving.  

Our final hitchhiking stint in NZ was fantastic for me, but not so for Tony. Leaving Queenstown for our return journey to Hamilton a car pulled up and said they could take one of us. As it was Tony’s turn to take the first ride that came along he hopped in and I continued hitching. Not long after a Canadian couple who also only had room for one picked me up. A short while later we passed Tony by the side of the road – his ride had been a short one. My ride with the Canadian couple lasted for several days – up into the glacier country, across on the ferry back to the North Island, and eventually all the way back to Hamilton. Tony arrived back in Hamilton a day or so after me telling of miserably short rides, long waits, and an incredibly rough ferry crossing where he had spent much of the time vomiting. Life just isn’t fair sometimes!