By Lucy

Apparently, not even the 72 hours with a lack of good sleep and being on a different continent and in a different hemisphere were not enough to prevent me from waking at 7 in the morning. I groaned as I checked my phone.

Unfortunately, there was no prospect of rolling back over and falling asleep again. My stomach was growling. With my guts the way they are, hunger not only will prevent me from sleeping, but it’ll be painful for me later if I try to ignore it.

I peeled myself from my bed. The thin metal rungs on these bunks – while thematic – were painful. No one had come in later than me, and I was still annoyed that the hostel had randomly assigned me a top bunk. When I reached the ground, I knew something was wrong.

I broke/ sprained the second toe on my left foot at some point in the last 48 hours. I couldn’t bend it, either by itself or manually with my fingers, and it ached dully. I think if it were proper broken, it would be swollen or purple, but who knows. I was far beyond the auspices of OHIP, so unless it started doing something exciting I’d be tending to it myself. Because I think ahead, I had packed a small box of bandages, so I splinted it to the toe next to it.

I was generally sore from the trip, but not as bad as I expected.

I stepped outside. The air was brisk, but not cold, and dry. I expected it to be humid – apparently the sea around New Zealand is “cold”. Which makes sense – the Antarctic is frozen year-round, while the Arctic thaws out in the summer.

I took a deep breath. I expected to smell the sea, and I did, buried deep under the other smells. What smell was most predominate was flowers. Spring had sprung in Christchurch. Some trees were bare, some were budding, but some were covered in voluminous, fragrant flowers. I recognized the white ones as cherry trees right away (prunus yedeonsis, specifically noted to be common near Hagley Park), but some of the others were clearly subtropical plants. New Zealand was a subtropical forest before the Brits arrived, and it showed in the variety of flowering trees. Fields of flowers or plains are uncommon here.

I took pictures of bunches of flowers. I bet Paul would love them, since he used to work with trees and still offhandedly identifies every tree within sight out of habit. I had the urge to weave the flowers into my hair like some kind of Disney princess. It was so pretty!

It also smelled strongly of food. I was in the downtown core, or a downtown core anyway, and there were lots of restaurants vying for customers.

The website recommended a small coffee shop not even 100 meters away, so I walked there. Like England, you also order and pay at the counter, then seat yourself and they bring the food to you. I ordered a flat white and the pancakes, with rhubarb compote and maple syrup (really?).

Shot of espresso aside, by the time I’d finished breakfast and walked back to the jail, I was tired again.

It was a lovely day out – overcast, slight breeze, but I felt warm in my hoodie and jeans. I had timed my arrival perfectly.

I climbed back into bed and slept for another few hours, rising around noon. I went downstairs and asked for a towel. The guy told me the towels are free when the sign behind him said they were 4$. Umm? Not hitting on me, I hope. I went upstairs and argued with the shower until I could take one.

New Zealand money looks like ours, except covered in birds! Also they don’t have a 25 cent coin, they have a 50 cent coin.

Walked down the road and grabbed some lunch. I was on an oceanic island, some fish is in order! The only place that made sense served fish and chips. I got some of those, wrapped in newsprint of course, and walked back to the hostel. This place really is British – fries are still called chips.

They were yummy, although I regretted not grabbing some ketchup and tartar sauce. The fish was good by itself, the fries were curiously bland.

Why is this place still so British when Canada and the US isn’t? The road signs, the way the houses have lanes and little walled gardens. If I didn’t know I was in New Zealand, I’d swear I got on the wrong plane and went to the British Isles by accident.

The hostel really is perfect for me. A few rooms have been kept in their original state and protected by sheets of plexiglass for your viewing pleasure. There were little plaques everywhere explaining the history of the jail and some of the famous inmates. I was having a grand time wandering around, reading all about it.

Eventually it was time to nut up or shut up. The person who was selling the bike messaged me to let me know she was free. Last chance to back out.

Well, not entirely. Until the money swapped hands and the deed was in my name, I could always back out. But I was running out of time to decide.

Just do it, I told myself. If you buy a car, in a month or two you’ll be comfortable with driving here and kicking yourself for not getting a bike.

I booked an Uber there. It was as far away from me as it was possible to get in this city, which did not bode well for my return journey.

Dark clouds gathered in the distance. Excellent.

As I hopped out of the Uber in front of a small house, the garage rolled up automatically. An older lady with grey hair greeted me with a big smile.

“Hi, I’m Bernadette.” She said, shaking my hand. She gestured to the bike. “This is my baby.”

I was stunned. I’d just assumed the seller was male; the name was Bernie and the profile picture was just a dog. Plus, the bike was advertised as a beginner bike, I figured a young person who was selling his learner bike to upgrade.

“I’m so glad I’m selling it to a girl!” She added cheerfully.

I nodded. I should try to pretend I knew what I was doing. I started trying to inspect the bike. It looked fine… so far as I knew. There was every indication the bike was in mint shape, though. She even had the original driver’s manual in a plastic baggie.

“When were the brakes last done?” I asked.

“When it was last serviced?” She replied, like that was obvious.

Ok… can I get a date? Actually, nevermind. I’ll just take it apart later.

We went inside the house to complete the sale. She had me fill out both a virtual and physical copy of the seller form, which only required me to provide my legal name and an address the deed could be sent to. The physical copy was unnecessary – she just didn’t trust the internet, but since I didn’t have to do anything with it I was unconcerned. I handed her the envelope of cash and she counted it, sounding slightly surprised that it was all there.

And then it was done. I now owned a motorcycle in a foreign country.

As we stepped outside, the clouds were overhead. “Oh dear, it looks like rain. Do you have far to go?”

“Addington.”

“Oh that’s not bad, just half an hour. It’s rush hour, though. You sure you’ll be alright, dear?”

Yes and no. I was confident in my ability to drive the bike. If anything, it would be easier to drive here, because there was less ambiguity with the lights, such as no turning on a red. The driving on the wrong side of the road didn’t bother me, either. With so much traffic, it would be hard to forget which side I was supposed to be on. The real problem was the fact that I had only a vague idea of where I was going. There’s something to be said for learning on roads you know. In a car, at least, I could turn Google Maps on and follow the directions as it yelled through the speakers – I had no such luxury on a bike.

I looked the directions up on my phone, started the bike, and went to roll forward. It stalled immediately. She pursed her lips.

I was filled with annoyance at everyone I knew who owned a bike and hadn’t let me practice. Feathering the clutch really would be my biggest weakness, and what would I do if I stalled in a live lane of traffic? Get run over?

I followed the first few turns easily, just following landmarks I had seen on the way up. I stalled a few times at red lights and sat through entire green lights because I couldn’t get the bike to go, and people honked at me.

You’re supposed to ride on the far side of the lane so people don’t get tempted to overtake you, but I stuck to the outside of the road as much as I could and let people go past. Like Canada, everyone wanted to do ten over, and I didn’t want to risk being pulled over by a cop on the ride home.

This was possibly the most dangerous thing I’d done. At least if you mess up in a car, it’s unlikely to hurt you. Even the boat was not that dangerous – the water on the lake was soft and we all had to wear life jackets. But on the bike, any accident could really hurt me, and I was in a foreign country without my free healthcare, far from anyone I knew.

As I got further in, I lost track of where I was and drove past a turn. It started raining and I was freezing! After ten minutes, I pulled over and looked at the directions again. I found my way back, and the rain cleared up, but now I had a new problem. I was heading roughly west and the sun was setting, making it hard to see street signs.

After another ten minutes I got lost again. I sat on the curb, breathing heavily.

I was only ten minutes away from the jail. Just three turns to make.

I cracked open the visor on my helmet slightly. My panicked breathing was fogging it up.

The last leg wasn’t too bad. The straightforward road I had picked was stop and go, with construction and traffic, but I didn’t mind. It gave me practice with feathering the clutch, and it was one way, so there was no ambiguity of lanes or stopping at intersections. It did take a while though.

Then finally I saw the sign that said “Jailhouse”.

I parked the bike near some bushes. Kiwis, like limey’s, are also anarchic about parking. If it’s not a broken yellow line or a live lane, go nuts – park wherever. The way they cram themselves into tiny back lanes gives me heart palpitations, but at least no one was going to argue with my bike not being in a proper spot.

I took off my helmet and gloves, went inside, walked up the stairs, and froze.

Right, the bike has a key. That hadn’t been a concern when I was borrowing someone else’s bike. I sprinted back outside.

I had to check the manual for how to lock the bike, hilariously. The handlebars have to be turned all the way to the left, then the key will lock the steering. Then there’s a second, smaller key to lock the ignition.

I went back up to my room, stashed my key somewhere, and sat down on the bed, hands shaking.

Well.. I made it.

When I could convince my legs to move again, I walked down the block to a Chinese place and ordered chicken chow mien. I don’t know what I got, but it wasn’t chicken chow mien. There was chicken and noodles, but it was dry, and burnt in parts, and there was clearly some beef and pork in it as well. I ate a little bit and threw the rest in the fridge. Maybe I could fix it tomorrow.

I was feeling snacky, so I went to look at the vending machine. They had chicken-flavoured chips. For candy, there was pinapple lumps, some sort of pineapple candy covered in chocolate (gross), sherbet fizz crunch (nah), or Chupa Chups chewy candy. I grabbed the chicken chips.

When I went to my room for bed, there was someone on the opposite bottom bunk. She agreed to letting me turn the light off.

When I woke up in the morning, there was another girl in the bunk under me.

Walked back to Coffee Culture and tried the lemon waffles. They were also pretty good, the flavour of the lemon nice and bright. The cashier remembered me, which made me wonder if I was an odd duck even here.

When I went back to my room, the other girl has bounced already. The one who was here last night was an American who had been in New Zealand for 7 years, although she had no accent to show for it, curiously. She also seemed to still be considering this a short trip and was planning to go back to the US eventually.

I grabbed all my papers and headed out. I need a bank account before I can apply for my tax number, annoyingly. The nearest bank was about half an hour away, so I walked there and back again.

Just like England, the wrong side of the road bit screws me up more when it comes to walking. I always find myself checking the wrong side for traffic.

I tried eating more of the Chinese food for lunch, and managed to eat enough to fill myself up before I got disgusted and threw it out.

I should be practicing on the bike, but I was uncomfortable with practicing on bustling downtown roads. I couldn’t make myself do it. I headed out on a walk instead.

The hostel was near a lovely inner city park called Hagley Park. Inside Hagley Park is the Christchurch Botanical Garden, and also another Avon river (yes, I know Avon means river. I added it for clarity). There were some people on boats in period costumes, so I wandered over.

40 NZD for a half hour boat trip. Well, why not? I was here to sight-see.

The Avon in New Zealand is a small, shallow river, maybe waist-high. It’s spring fed and you can see the springs. It was important to the Maori people because they’d hunt the eels that live in the river for food. It’s so clear you can watch the ducks fishing at the bottom!

As we settled in the flat-bottomed boat, the guide asked, “Where is everyone from?”

“Canada,” I replied.

“Whereabouts?”

“Toronto.” I said, not in the mood to try and explain where Thunder Bay is.

“Oh, me too!” She said.

Wait, really? Huh. Well, not sure that makes it more likely I’d say Thunder Bay. It’s not exactly a glamourous place.

Most of the tourists were Filipino. I guess that makes sense – Asia is a hop and a skip away. I expected to be alone in the sense of not being a lot of Canadians, but I wasn’t expecting to stand out like a sore thumb cuz I was the only white tourist!

The boat ride is 15 minutes up the river, and 15 minutes back. They tell you about everything interesting within viewing distance of the river. I thought it was worth 40 bucks!

Afterwards, I finished walking to the Botanical Gardens. There’s a small restaurant in the gardens themselves, if you so desire. They serve tapas and sangria.

I wandered the park for several hours, marveling at it all. It’s hard to explain, but I almost didn’t feel places like this existed. Douglas firs and eucalyptus trees as tall as any skyscraper. Big, bushy monocots, like palms and aloes, so big even Rob could hide behind one. The birds, minus the Canadian geese, were a riot of colours, and so big! Every bird looked big enough to beat up any of the ravens back home. And the smell! The air was thicky perfumed with a thousand different floral scents. I wished I could bottle that moment for every gardener I know back home.

Around 3:30 I ran out of garden pathways to wander down. The other tourists were starting to wear on me as well. I wandered out through the rose garden; the roses were not in bloom yet, just like when me and Damocles had gone for a wander in London.

I noted a water fountain along the walkway, with attendant short fountain for dogs.

I got some fried chicken for dinner from a generic New Zealand chain. It was much better than that burned Chinese food!

I’ve noticed 3 stray cats about the hostel. There is a tortoiseshell apparently named Pumpkin – there’s some drawings about the place with this name – who is owned or at least cared for by someone here. There is a box with a towel outside that it sleeps in, and a sign on the door saying don’t let the cat in (although every night I found it inside). There was also a grey cat, and a black cat with white feet.

One curious thing about hostels is that they’re usually run by backpackers. It makes sense, offer someone so many hours worked for free lodging, and you already know what kind of people will apply. The man working the desk spent the evening calling people to hire them on as the season started to wind up.

That night when I went to bed, there was another woman in the bunk under mine.

I woke early and showered right away, so my hair had time to dry before I put my helmet on. Then I was annoyed to discover the coffee shop doesn’t open til 8AM! I didn’t want to wake the woman by packing, so I went downstairs and talked to Paul on the phone for a bit. I was waiting at the door when they opened.

I ordered the rhubarb pancakes again and ate quickly. The woman was packing to leave when I got back.

Now it was time to test my mettle. I had to lash my bags to the back of my bike.

I was glad I had decided to pack the drawstring bag the luggage came in. It was useful as a dirty laundry bag, and was the length of the luggage so it could be easily slid into the straps. In fact, the luggage in general was wonderful – so many attachment spots! The problem became the bike – there was almost nowhere to hook a bungie cord. Eventually I worked something out, but I was nervous.

“Try going up and down the lane a few times.” Rich suggested.

That’s a good idea. Plus I get to limber up a bit. I looked to the street and noted almost no traffic – Saturday morning, of course, everyone is sleeping in.

Fortune favours the bold!

I made it about halfway there before I realized I’d forgotten what my next turn is. When I pulled over, I noticed the bottom of my bag was slowly inching forward along the seat.

Aha! I’ll use the backpack strap off the bag to keep it in place.

I was pretty pleased with myself until I got to my destination. The clasp for the bag had bent, so it no longer attached itself to the bag.

Oops.

Still bent means it could be bent back. I swapped the straps so the working one was on my right shoulder.

I had decided to go to the International Antarctic Centre. I wasn’t expect at the lodge until 4 PM, I had to be out of the hostel by 10 AM, and I didn’t want to leave my bags on the back of the bike to be stolen (oh how I miss the Vagabond’s hard-top saddlebags). Fortunately, the Antarctic Centre has storage lockers, so I could take the bags off and stash them for a couple of hours.

The Centre was a nice, a couple of hours learning about the continent of Antarctica. It was sort of funny that their big selling points are that they have artificial snow and huskies to pet. Y’know, every day things in Canada!

Antarctica is different from the Arctic because there is actually land under the permanent snow. Also, they have penguins, we don’t. Several penguin species nest on New Zealand’s southern shore, and they have an exhibit of little blue penguins at the Centre. I arrived for feeding time and watched for a bit.

Eventually I ended up in a large stage area. Shortly thereafter, a large crowd came in, followed by a Maori man with a pack of huskies. He gave us a speech about huskies. I was impressed to see actual trained sled dogs. I was also impressed by his face tattoo.

I forgot, they are big on tattoos, the Maori. There’s a lot of tattoo places in Thunder Bay but they are perpetually full. I should get some tattoos done here, while I have the luxury of not paying rent or working full time.

At noon I went for the Hagglund ride. A Hagglund is an all-terrain military-style vehicle designed for traversing the Antarctic. The ride itself is only 15 minutes, but it was the bumpiest ride I’ve ever been on – comparable to a jerky roller coaster. Still recommend!

As I was talking to the man who was driving them, he said to me, “We share our research station with the US, South Korea, and Italy!”

Of course.

I had lunch at the centre and headed out around 1PM. A bit early, but I hadn’t planned for a whole lot today lest something go sideways. I tied the bags on differently this time. Gassed up before I left the city.

I was nervous about my bike being able to reach 100 km an hour and I was right to be. On a good day, 100 would be the bottom end of fifth gear. I wasn’t sure how much the weight of my bag changed things, but the wind outside of the city was punishing. I had worn 2 pairs of pants, my thick socks and boots, a t-shirt, sweater and jacket, and the wind still cut right through me. When it gusted, I watched it drop 10 clicks on the speedometer. I stuck to 90 clicks and tried to ratch up the speed ahead of a gust to keep it consistent, and stayed on the left side of the lane so people could pass me. I didn’t want to redline the bike.

Wind aside, I felt good on the bike. So far, I’d done everything I set out to do, with minimal fuss. Surely the Vagabond and Duff had similar problems when they first started riding as well – they’d just been doing it so long they made it look easy.

I had wondered, the two days at the hostel, if the snow-capped mountains I could see from the second floor window was the mountains I was destined for. Turns out that was correct. New Zealand is only around 200 kilometers wide at this point, and those mountains were 100 kilometers away, roughly.

It boggles the mind. This is taller than the Sleeping Giant or Mount McKay. Taller than the CN tower. To be visible, so far away? They grew as I sped towards them, in awe.

I got slightly lost, although I ended up where I was going, just on the road south of it instead of the road north of it. Dismaying, it was a gravel road.

What had Paul said earlier? It was basically a dirt bike dressed up like a street bike. Well, time for the bike to show its dirt bike roots. Cuz the road was dead quiet, I puttered along in second gear, not wanting to wipe out so close to my destination.

And then – I’d made it.