Amelia Norman is Content Editor for the New Zealand travel and tourism website www.fourcorners.co.nz and recently completed a 5 day hire in a Maui Motorhome. Learn about her unique experiences.
I grew up in a family that names its vehicles. Before I was born there was Henrietta, the baby blue van. After her came Dippy, the racy red Anglia whose license plate began with ‘DP’, then Goldbug the sparkling gold Holden Kingswood station wagon. I’m sad to say I didn’t continue this tradition when I started driving. That is until I spent a week alone in the North Island driving a 6.6 metre long campervan complete with shower, toilet and microwave oven. A vehicle of this stature, I decided, needs a name. But where to begin? White in colour… 'Whitey'? License plate CHG… 'Chug'? It’s a VW… 'Dubby'? 'The Dubster'?
On the website the van is called the ‘Maui Spirit 2 T/S’. Sure, this describes its brand, sleeping capacity and extra facilities (T being toilet and S, shower) but it goes nowhere in conveying the vehicle’s character: the way it kept me cosy at night in its big double bed; comfy and cool by day as I drove for hours through the long, hot, winding roads of the North Island.
The first name I came up with wasn’t very flattering. In fact it’s unprintable. But in fairness the van and I had only just become acquainted and, rashly, we loudly blamed each other when I tried throwing him into reverse instead of 2nd gear, half way round a roundabout.
Similar names followed when we stalled at some roadworks between Auckland and Paihia, when we put the windscreen wipers on instead of the indicator, and when we spent half an hour trying to find a car park big enough for the both of us. By the end of day one we were sworn enemies, but already we’d shared some moments I won’t forget.
Like cruising through the glittering afternoon towards Northland. On either side of the road punga fronds stretched out, framing a flawless, azure blue sky. As we rumbled up gentle spiralling hills, each twisting corner presented a new scene: the emerald forest so rich, the rolling hills so endless, the Pacific Ocean so pristine I actually gasped more than once.
Through this unremitting beauty, Paihia emerged. Primed for tourists, Paihia has enormous car parks and lots of them. Paihia has a simple street layout that means you aren’t forced to execute a six-point turn (yes, I know it’s meant to be three-point) in the middle of the road if you go the wrong way. And Paihia has a quiet campervan park with soft grass, a blue swimming pool, a view of a waterfall and a pair of kingfishers that flit across the mud flats in the evening. My van and I fell in love with Paihia.
Next day we fell in love with Waitangi too. So close to Paihia it might as well be joined, Waitangi is peaceful and sedate. After stopping at the famous Waitangi Treaty House, my van (maybe 'Vanny'? 'Van Haven'? 'Buddy'? We are firm friends again, after all) takes me along a quiet back road. The idyllic views from the Waitangi golf course are as vibrant as if they’ve just been touched up by an artist’s paintbrush. There’s the bright spring green of the grass, the vivid dotted red of pohutukawa flowers and the palette of ceaseless blues sweeping the sky and the ocean below. We trundle along gravel, winding through native bush and swooping Kereru. A bright yellow sign alerts us of Kiwi in the area. A smiling couple have parked their camper at the roadside. From deck chairs they watch the sun creep towards the glittering horizon.
On day three the van becomes ‘The Monster’ – a fitting name, I reckon, given its formidable size and its tendency to emit loud roars on occasion. At a petrol station just north of Auckland the attendant asks, “Which one’s yours?” I point. “That monster?!” she cries incredulously. “And you all by yourself!” She has a peek inside and, impressed, declares The Monster “a real home away from home”.
‘She’s not wrong’, I think a few nights later as I peer out to the murky grey skies and rain of Waitomo. Exhausted from exploring the region’s famous caves I’m happily staying in for the evening. As fellow campers dash through the drizzle to the holiday park’s kitchen and shower blocks I turn on my heater, cook up a feast in my well-equipped on-board kitchen and dine - warm and comfy - at my table. After doing the dishes I draw all the curtains, shutting out the cold night and the damp campers still dashing to and fro. I take a hot shower and make up my spacious bed, snuggling under the duvet to read before I contentedly fall asleep.
On day five I wake with a sense of foreboding. I’m to drive to Auckland today, back to the airport and to return The Monster (or maybe 'The Beast'? What about 'Ma' – Maori for white? Or even 'MaVan'… 'Marvin'?!). My only ally in this northern sojourn.
Between Waitomo and Otorohanga it dawns on me that names don’t really matter. Passing farmland near Te Awamutu I realise that in 10 years time I’ll have forgotten the van’s name anyway. Approaching Hamilton I understand what I will remember: the glow worms of Waitomo and the empty, twinkling beaches of Mangawhai; the Gaelic history of Waipu and the spectacular Hundertwasser toilets at Kawakawa; the dolphins I saw in Paihia and the past I encountered in Waitangi. ‘With memories like these’, I think as I reach Auckland, ‘names just aren’t important’.
Although, I was rather fond of ‘Marvin’… Amelia is Content Editor for the New Zealand travel and tourism website http://www.fourcorners.co.nz/. |