The Accidental Bender

Six Weeks in New Zealand

Originally published in the spring of 2015 at the now defunct roddatrials.com

Well, it's time to wrap-up my time in New Zealand. In some ways it could be seen as a bit of a bust after the whole Stewart Island theft incident. But in other ways it was a learning experience I probably wouldn't have indulged in if I were back home. My motivation for the adventure didn’t go away, I just embraced the comfort of being completely alone, and feeling naked and anonymous in a place I’d never been. I met many people but exchanged contact information with very few of them. It was a unique experience. It was slightly hazy, often lazy, mildly anti-social tourism at its finest. If there is such a thing.

Everything kicked hard off course after my backpack, and everything in it, was lifted. I had to stay put for a few days to re-evaluate the whole situation and figure out what exactly I was going to do next. During this time of reflection, I drank. It started out innocently enough; got robbed, felt bad, found a bar, drank beer, met nice people, drank more beer, took shots, ate meat things, felt better.

But that’s ultimately what I ended up doing all the way up and across the South Island. From town to town and hostel to hotel to apartment to efficiency to the airport and on each plane home. And everywhere I went I met some of the most engaging and genuine people I’d encountered in a very long time. It was an easy decision to change my plans once I got over my assumed agenda and decided to ride the wave of intoxication I had put myself on. Although, “the wave” would then take me in the exact opposite direction of what I had set out to do in the first place. What started out as plans to undertake a heroic 870 mile march across the country ended up being more of an aimless amble in and out of whatever towns I happened upon. The main rules I gave myself were; only travel by train or boat if it’s at all possible, hitchhiking and walking are the next best options, fly only if necessary, drink a lot of the best cheap wine I’d ever had, drink lots of good scotch because it’s surprisingly much cheaper here than at home, run until my legs quit and do 100 pushups every morning, write every afternoon, always have at least one book with me, eat way too much mutton, and nap under trees or on beaches. So I did all of that the best I could. I knew it wouldn’t be sustainable for the 3 months I had planned on being there so I decided to pull the plug about halfway through. Both for my health and to avoid spending more money than I actually had.

Now, I’m fully aware that this is the exact opposite experience most people have or share when they get home from New Zealand. I've been regaled with epic tours through mountains and along breathtaking coastlines. Tales of once in a lifetime glacier expeditions followed by the usual bungee jumping or skydiving videos. Aside from my adventures on Stewart Island, I did exactly none of that. After the Rakiura Track, followed by the wetlands spitting me out, I didn’t do a whole lot more exploring on foot, unless you include my regular early-ish morning runs. That and the reading and drinking in the afternoons at whatever pub I had decided to hunker down in. It may be completely opposite, but I had what I believe will be one of the most memorable times of my life. I rarely run when I’m at home. In fact I basically despise running unless I have a very good reason to do so. But waking up early and running the empty streets of a city or town I’d never been to quickly became strangely addictive. Not only was it a great way to get my bearings, but I got to breathe the city before everyone else had woken up. And sometime after lunch, I’d find a dark and quiet bar to post up in with a book. Every once in a while I’d find myself in a conversation with the bartender or one of the other patrons, and we’d end up telling each other half-truths for a few hours.

This happened consecutively for nearly a month. I can’t comfortably call it a bender, but I’m hard pressed to find words that describe it differently. The experience wasn’t all that different from day drinking at the neighborhood dive back home. I met a handful of deckhands from various fishing and shipping vessels who had landed for the short term. Most of them were looking for a good buzz and a little distraction before throwing off the lines again in the not too distant future. Something I've had experience with myself. The familiarity and loose comradery made me sadly nostalgic, and at times a little homesick. There were the loggers and the retired miners that either said nothing at all or seemed to only speak in drunken squawks or indecipherable slurred Kiwi slang. And of course there were the usual bar flies. The folks that either worked in bars or just spent all of their time and money in bars. The lifers. In any case, the folks those of us who share that unique, unquenchable thirst, have known at one time or another that have somehow funneled their lives into living in a bar, chasing one buzz with another. Repeating every day the same as the last. Very few hobbies that I could tell outside of the drinking, yet somehow full of stories that would make any outsider believe them all to be former captains of industry. The great lovers, leaders and philosophers of their time. Almost all of them sporting the usual veil of delusion that comes from too many years sitting at the same bar, with the same people, drinking the same bourbon, solving the same problems.

I know this could seem like a sad way to spend a holiday. And at times it was, but some experiences can only be had while spending time staring into the crystal ball at the bottom of a cocktail glass in a land far from home. The Johnny Walker wisdom humming in the background reminding you that this is indeed the place to be. It was by no means a wholesome experience. But it was a genuine one in every way. One that I will never forget. One that I will cherish. I came home grateful for the life I have and the experiences I had had. From the theft of all of my belongings, to my strange last days spent in a lovesick alcoholic delirium in an apartment on the edge of the Picton Harbor. Where it became very clear that it was time to pack it in and go home. I saw the South Island of New Zealand and those who inhabit it in a way I never would have expected. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.