This is my story of how I got lost in the jungle, and survived. Just.
Going Off The Grid
I had a full day between my speaking engagement and the FullCodePress event kicking off, and I intended to make the most of it. It was my first time visiting New Zealand – rather than spend it in museums or tourist attractions, I was determined to get out of the city.
You see, before I actually set foot in the place, the words “New Zealand” conjured up two images for me (in the following order):
- sheep, and
- the breathtaking countryside of Middle Earth
As you can imagine, my trip would have felt incomplete if I had returned home without seeing a good amount of either of these things. Some hasty web-based research revealed a sleepy coastal town by the name of Paraparaumu (Para-pa-raow-moo) on the Kapiti coast – an hour’s train ride from Wellington. Given my hotel was a short walk from the train station and a ticket cost only NZ $10, it all seemed too serendipitous. And if I caught the 5pm back to Wellington, I would even have enough time to meet up with the Aussie FullCodePress team for dinner.
What could possibly go wrong?
Train travel will always be the most romantic form of travel – except perhaps rickshaw, but the only time I’ve tried that was when I was in Austin Texas for the SXSW conference one year. I was, well, drunk off my ass, and my caring colleagues kindly paid for a rickshaw to take my sorry self back to our hotel before I fell asleep in the corner of the bar. Actually, I might have fallen asleep in the bar first, which is probably why they called the rickshaw. But I digress. Damn Yahoo! and their bar tab.
Anyway … after the rickshaw, train travel is definitely up there for me. I know there are hardcore train boffins out there who can rattle off the names of every steam engine built in the last 500 years. Trust me, I’m not one of them. But I do love the speed at which long distance trains chug along – always constant, but never too hurried that you can’t appreciate the scenery outside.
And plenty of scenery there was – the railway to Paraparaumu hugs coastal cliffs and tunnels through ominous mountains. The view out the window was nothing short of stunning, and I sat glued to my window as every twist and turn revealed more lush forest, grassy meadows, and – yes – plenty of sheep.
Halfway there, it started to rain. It should have been a sign, but I shrugged it off. I’m an optimist and figured it would probably stop soon. Plus, I had my raincoat. I was in New Zealand, and it was choice, bro.
Where We’re Going, We Don’t Need Trails
The next warning sign to which I should have paid attention was the fact that the Paraparaumu information centre was closed. It had been open the day before (they were moving premises) and would be reopening the day after. But on the day I needed them their door was shut tight. There were a few brochures outside, but none of them said anything about hiking trails.
I thumbed through the maps at a local newsagency, but no luck. Determined, I asked the attendant at the train station, an elderly gentleman with a trusting face, if he knew of any hiking trails in the area. He apologised, and suggested I take a stroll along the water’s edge. “My wife and I take that walk every weekend.”
I was looking for something a little more challenging than an old timer’s regular route. Luckily, a softly spoken woman in her thirties at the station overheard our conversation, and piped up:
“There’s a hiking trail up in the Nikau Forest. It’s a bit of a walk.”
I volunteered quickly that I enjoyed walking, and pressed her for more details. She drew helpfully on my tourist map, showing roughly where the trail began. It wasn’t the clearest of maps, but it was enough for me. I had plenty of time, plenty of energy, and now I had a vague plan for where my conquering of Middle Earth would begin. I thanked both of my substitute guides, bought a packet of chips, chocolate, and some bottled water, and began my trek.
Oh. Did I mention that the rain was really starting to come down at this stage? I didn’t care. I was an explorer!
Always Cross At The Lights
The next warning bell that I chose to ignore came as I was approaching the edge of town. There weren’t any obvious pedestrian crossings, and I needed to cross the road. I waited for a break in traffic, looked both ways like a good Boy Scout, and legged it.
Around the corner, and moving with considerable momentum, appeared an old truck, rattling along the highway towards me. I picked up the pace, forgetting that the large amounts of rain had made the road kind of slippery. Oh, and the road was on quite an incline – a heady combination.
I was in no danger of being collected by the truck, but I’m sure the driver had a chuckle to himself as he thundered past. Had I been smack bang in the middle of a game of baseball, making a dash for home base, then the two-metre slide that I performed on my backside would have made me a hometown hero.
However I wasn’t playing baseball. I was just crossing the damn road. And my home base wasn’t constructed of soft, made-for-sliding dirt. It was hard bitumen. And it hurt. I still have a bruise and grazing down the side of my leg, four weeks later.
However, always the optimist, I was undeterred. You see, I really just wanted to get to the top of a whopping great hill and gaze out at the view beyond.
I grit my teeth, blocked out the pain that was beginning to creep up the side of my leg, and pressed onwards. Lush, green mountains loomed in the distance. I was determined to climb one of them.
Next issue, Part 2: Not In The Shire Anymore