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Highways to Hell: A Hitch-hiker’s Guide to a galaxy of calamity

Kevin Norquay kevin.norquay@stuff.co.nz

Like you, I am a survivor. Every summer we Kiwis pull through boating disasters, falling off mountains, being swept away by a river or a rip, being attacked by wasps, or some other nasty creature. Me? I was a hitch-hiker.

It was tough out there on roads with weirdos and drunks. There was no choice. Lack of money meant hitching to beaches, parties and even once to a wedding (to be a groomsman).

Hours alongside dusty roads in the summer heat with your raised thumb aching and sunburnt was the good bit.

Getting an actual ride was the downer, it was invariably fraught, and you were delighted when it was over.

A standout trip was from the Bombay Hills with an intensely religious middle-aged couple, the day after an all-night party. For upward of an hour, they tried to deliver me to heaven, as well as Hamilton.

By comparison to other forays, that was a shining beacon, as they spent the journey trying to save me. Many appeared to be keen on the opposite, ie sending me to hell and an early grave.

Among those alleged (by me) killers were a couple of overseas tourists, who picked me up just outside Tauranga. On the trip to Paeroa via Katikati, along what is now rated our most dangerous road, the driver showed scant knowledge of our road rules.

One of his failings was choosing the correct side of the road to drive on. This was of some concern.

Regularly his rental crossed the centre-line, where it stayed weaving at a speed higher than the law allowed (or so I believe as you can’t see much when you’re cowering in terror).

All fears were misplaced, as the driver proved highly skilled. His ability to speed towards the back end of a large truck until a crash seemed inevitable, then brake sharply within a split second of safety, is etched in the memory.

Many heartbeats were sacrificed on that zigzag journey.

OK, trigger warning, it gets worse. First, let’s introduce Garibaldi, a notoriously unreliable Fiat 1500 who quit on a journey from Wellington to Hamilton in Upper Hutt, just 550km short of his intended destination.

Garibaldi was abandoned at a service station, where his window was later smashed and his cassette player removed, while his owner set off on a quest to get to the University of Waikato in two days, for the start of lectures.

Out came the thumb. And thence into the back of a panel van where no seatbelt – not even any seats – were to be found.

Over the Remutakas we weaved, as the captive hitch-hiker bounced from wall to wall in a fashion most often seen in a pinball machine. At least he couldn’t see the sheer drops alongside the road, as there were no windows.

It was apparent the workmen were in a state commonly known as ‘‘drunk’’. While the long straight roads of the Wairarapa were some solace, the van weaved around anyway.

Just when it seemed the hell would soon be at an end, the van pulled into the carpark of the Royal Oak Hotel in Carterton, where the occupants took on yet more beer.

By now it was dark, and a University of Waikato student resembling the author had two choices.

Head off alone in the dark, risk death, and not be certain of getting to Palmerston North.

Stay with the Van of Peril, risk death, and perhaps get to Palmerston North.

From Sophie’s Choice, number two was selected. Palmerston North was reached (no idea how), and the next day the thumb was out again.

One day to get to Hamilton, and what’s this? A student friend from Waikato, headed north to Tirau. Talk about luck.

Warm fuzzy feelings lasted about 20 minutes, when the car and therefore its time-stretched occupant ignored the Bulls turnoff to Taupo. ‘‘Where are we going?’’ I asked. ‘‘Taupo,’’ said the driver.

‘‘But you missed the turnoff,’’ I said.

‘‘No I didn’t,’’ he said, with a dismissive look. Silence fell, until we came over a hill and saw a city, and river in the distance.

‘‘Where are we?’’ said my former friend. ‘‘Whanganui.’’ This time he believed me.

To cut a medium-length story short, if you drive 80km out of your way, then have to negotiate the winding Paraparas north at 40kmh, it takes a lot longer to get where you want to be.

And where you want to be is not on the side of State Highway 1 just out of Tirau, at 11pm, under the stars. Even if they are nice stars.

Soon after, hitch-hiking was abandoned as a mode of transport. Even Garibaldi the Fiat 1500 was more reliable, and less perilous. And Garibaldi was reliable only in the sense he was always being repaired.

When my daughter took up hitch-hiking, fatherly fears flourished. She had a companion, but he was a gentle environmentalist when I’d have preferred (for the only time) he was instead an All Blacks frontrower, or had a ‘‘don’t mess with me’’ facial tattoo.

In my era, only two hitch-hikers had been killed in New Zealand. By 2013 that number had reached eight, three men, and five women, with another woman hiker presumed dead.

At the inquest of murdered Czech hitch-hiker Dagmar Pytlickova in 2013, Coroner Richard McElrea was moved to issue a warning.

‘‘For your own safety, hitch-hiking or accepting rides from people you don’t know is not recommended,’’ McElrea said in his report.

I’d drink to that. In the Royal Oak Hotel, even.

Focus

en-nz

2022-01-23T08:00:00.0000000Z

2022-01-23T08:00:00.0000000Z

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