Kiwi Tracks by Lonely Planet Page B

Unfortunately, I’ve just discovered that there are two similar tracks here, and the travel agency booked me on the wrong one. I’m in Little River now and they don’t mind if I cancel. Do you have an opening for the four-day track, starting this evening?’
    ‘No worries, mate, we’ve got room for one more.’
    ‘I’d like to sort out the payment situation first, though. I’ve already paid the full amount to the travel agency. I’m sure that when I phone to explain, it’ll be no sweat for them to transfer the payment to your outfit instead.’
    ‘No problem, just get yourself over here, mate. We can sort it out.’ He sounds like another easy-going, laid-back Kiwi bloke. ‘You’re going to miss the shuttle bus to the first hut, leaves Akaroa at six sharp. But I can send a taxi down to get you for twenty bucks.’
    ‘Thanks, that’s very thoughtful of you.’ I look at my watch. ‘I might make the bus; I’ll start hitchhiking now.’
    As soon as I stick my thumb out, a red van stops. The driver gets out to help me hoist my pack in, and when I explain my predicament, he accelerates. It is a few minutes past six when we arrive in Akaroa, just as the shuttle bus is about to pull away. I scramble out of the van into the bus, to be driven the very short distance to the first hut, which is situated on the sloping curve of a hill, overlooking the harbour. The exorbitant offer of a twenty-dollar taxi ride must have included an open bar in the back seat.

    Arriving at the hut, I discover that the rest of the group is comprised almost entirely of Kiwis. Perfect, a chance to mix with the locals. I find myself a room with a couple of empty bunk beds. The man on the phone’s line about there being only one place left was either wishful thinking or a good marketing ploy.
    Not yet fully recovered from the flu or recurring malaria or heartache or whatever it is I am suffering from, I put my sleeping-bag on a sofa on the covered porch and crawl into it. I hear the pop of champagne bottles inside. One of the Kiwis comes out to ask: ‘Would you like to have tea with us? There’s heaps of food.’
    I’d definitely like to get to know these Kiwis, but I don’t feel up to it right now. There will be lots of time as we do the track together, staying in the same huts each night. ‘Lost my appetite, but thanks anyway. Maybe tomorrow.’
    They sit down to eat. A loud English woman dominates the conversation. She is celebrating her new Kiwi citizenship and I overhear her mocking the formal ceremony, in which she swore allegiance. The story is told as if the whole thing had been a bit of a lark: she ridicules herself and the ceremony. She tells how there was also a family of five Vietnamese at the ceremony, and I wonder if the Vietnamese family’s reaction to finding a new home, so peaceful and tranquil compared to their war-torn country, was as flippant as her own.
    I ignore the conversation and study a pair of nesting swallows with baby chicks just above my head. The parents twitter around busily as the sun drifts lower over the surrounding hills. We are perched on the edge of a gradient overlooking the filled-in caldera of an ancient volcano and the open sea, surrounded by green fields. The setting could not be more bucolic.
    Over the Kiwis’ conversation, I hear what sounds like a dirt motorbike without a muffler approaching. A man steps noisily on the covered wooden porch into the hut and says ‘G’day!’ to everyone. ‘I’m the owner of this hut,’ he announces. Then he asks: ‘Is there some single foreigner here?’ They point in my direction. He sees me lying in my sleeping-bag on the porch and struts up, reaching a hand out. At first, I think he is extending it in greeting
and reach out in return. But he is not extending a handshake. ‘I need $120 off you,’ he demands.
    His jeans are ripped, his sweater is shredded in several places, he is covered in grime and his hair is uncombed. Even backpackers do not look