On a summer day, when the sun’s rays pierced through the treetops and cast a pattern of light and shadow on the ground, I found myself on a quiet residential street just outside Copenhagen. It was here that an old acquaintance suddenly appeared in my view. The encounter brought back memories of my experiences on a journey of discovery around New Zealand back in the early 1990s.
We were both from 1971 and spent 8 months together, from the northernmost part of the North Island to the southernmost part of the South Island. Our base was the area around Hawke’s Bay on the east coast of the North Island, where we commuted to and from work on a nearby farm. In the afternoons, we strapped surfboards to your roof and went with a group of friends to the beach to surf the waves. You stayed on the beach while the rest of us surfed.
It was a time before the internet and emails. Communication with family back home in Denmark took place through letter writing and was asynchronous, with about a 14-day delay. There were no GPS devices, so the route was planned and followed on a large map that I spread out on your bonnet. I remember you as a particularly noisy type, especially when I pushed you up the mountain roads. You delivered mile after mile, but needed regular attention with fuel, oil, and water for the radiator. When the summer night heat intensified on the northernmost part of the North Island, I stretched a tarp from your roof and slept underneath. When the cold pressed in on the chilly southern Alps of the South Island, I reclined your seats and rolled out a mattress behind the front seats, wrapping myself in a sleeping bag and blankets. In the morning, condensation had frosted the inside of the windows. It was on such an icy morning in the town of Murchison that a local cop stopped his patrol car and tapped his keys against your window. He just wanted to check if everything was okay. Half-awake and confused, I mumbled that I was fine, and that I was just passing through.
On this journey from town to town in the land Down Under, I learned how to travel. I learned to take my time, to follow my curiosity, and to take as many detours from the main road as possible. It was the adventure and the encounter with the unexpected that thrilled me the most. I had no guidebook, and Google didn’t exist. I asked the locals if there was anything of interest in the area that I ought to check out. There often was. In the evenings, I parked the car outside the local pub in whatever small town I happened to end up in. Here, I had a good chat with the locals about all sorts of things over a pint. When the pub closed at 10 PM, I would hop back into the car and plan the route for the next day before turning in for the night.
This feeling of absolute freedom, spiced with a magnificent nature of another world, left its mark on my values and preferences for the future. They are the reason I have never been on a package holiday, never been on a cruise, and always read tourist guides carefully to identify popular tourist traps to avoid.
All these thoughts and memories rushed through me during the few minutes I circled around this angular vehicle from a distant past. All I wanted was to have been able to stick my head inside and sense the smell of the old interior, as it would undoubtedly have triggered even more memories.
Thanks to Peter, Sandra and Brendan for making these dreams true. I’m forever grateful.
