New Zealand: Stories from the Road

Part 3

Yoga on the road (literally)

I was determined to carry some remnants of my old life with me on the road. The thing I do everyday that makes me feel most like me (apart from watching telly and eating an entire, family-sized bag of crisps in one sitting) is practising yoga. Everyone told me I was mad to try and fit my yoga mat in my bag when I left the UK for Australia but I knew it would be worth it. I used that yoga mat almost every single day in Perth and had no intention of stopping whilst travelling New Zealand. It would be so easy, I thought, I’ll just set up by the van and be at one with nature. How wrong I turned out to be. On the rare occasion we were parked by an even vaguely flat and forgiving surface it was, invariably, either swampy from recent rain or still actually raining.

Nevertheless, I persevered and rolled out my yoga mat outside as often as possible, and that’s when I noticed an odd phenomenon. I would graciously allow Cam to use my yoga mat for what he strongly believed was not yoga and insisted on calling ‘his stretches.’ Whenever he was on the mat, he would attract the kind of attention that can be described as charmed bemusement. People would walk past and make well-meaning jokes or even praise him for his commitment to physical perfection. When I was on the mat, I appeared to attract the kind of attention that is best labelled ‘disgust.’ People would stare but try to appear uninterested, they would nudge each other then mutter under their breath about the mad woman who had parked up next door. I felt a little deflated. Was it something I had done, or was it, perhaps, the fact that my efforts had attracted a small but captivated audience of ducks who quacked loudly with approval at regular intervals.

Whatever the reason may have been I was eventually forced to keep my practise firmly inside the van and patented my own form of what I have dubbed Van Yoga which is neither as beneficial nor as enjoyable. It wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined, but it was mine, and that felt like enough.

Eau de Adventure

Paying for a fully equipped campsite in a country where camping in designated car parks is entirely free was, obviously, completely out of the question. Apart from as a rare treat for good behaviour. As a result, I was forced to get creative in my quest for showers. This approach brought us limited success early on and we were, unfortunately, forced to get a little less creative and resort to twice-weekly leisure centre ordeals instead.

On an early attempt to get a shower and an enjoyable experience all thrown into one we visited Ngawha Springs. Here we sampled not one, not two, but 15 different pools all geothermally heated (or not heated in some cases) to different temperatures and each with their own unique healing properties. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience once I was able to get past the familiar pongy whiff of sulphur. Alas, one brave bikini did lose its life as a result of that smell which, as some may know, is impossible to truly get rid of. What would have been even lovelier after the restorative soak would have been an equally restorative shower to wash away the smell and a few days’ worth of dirt which had been building up. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. The showers were delightful but we weren’t allowed, for some unknown reason, to use soap so a rinse would have to be enough for now.

This wasn’t a huge setback, these showers would have been nice but we were headed to a campsite with showers that night. The hot showers at the campsite were coin operated and we hadn’t yet had a chance to pick up any cash but no problem, Cam assured me I’d still be able to use the showers I just wouldn’t be able to get hot water. A cold shower it would be, at least I’d be getting clean. Well, can you guess what may have happened here? The campsite showers didn’t, as hoped, allow you to turn them on without inserting coins. Meaning I didn’t just not have access to hot water, I didn’t have access to any water at all. Dejected doesn’t quite cover it, utterly devastated probably isn’t strong enough to describe how I felt in that moment either. I hadn’t showered for days and I’d spent 2 hours earlier that day soaking in geothermal pools of varying levels of stinky-ness. I was thoroughly dirty and all I wanted was a shower and, clearly, it was all Cam’s fault. No amount of distracting me by pointing out bunnies was going to cheer me up that night. Oh okay maybe a few little bunnies would actually cheer me up. But only a little.

From then on we frequented leisure centres for a relaxing dip, tuning out the sound of screaming children, followed by a shower, tuning out the screaming children. All I really have to say about this is that we entered dirty and came out clean which was good enough. Needless to say I have not taken showers for granted again since this trip and have been revelling in my consistent cleanliness.

Another hygiene issue I encountered on my travels that, unfortunately, couldn’t be put off and dealt with every few days, was toilets. When nature calls you have no choice but to answer. Nature tends to call me at seven o’clock in the morning day in and day out. Whilst this is excellent for my metabolism it isn’t so good when toilet availability is limited. Every morning, without fail, for two months, I could be found answering nature’s call in varying levels of comfort in every weird and wonderful place around New Zealand that you could imagine. In every field and car park. By a lake or in a forest. Even at the base of a mountain. A poo with a view if I opted to keep the door open.

It very quickly became clear that I would have to lower my standards of what I considered to be a ‘poo-able’ toilet, and I would have to lower them fast. Old me’s idea of a poo-able toilet was somewhere private and secluded, ideally it would smell nice and have at least one lovely, scented hand cream, but preferably multiple. It would have nice fluffy towels, soft, quilted toilet paper, and perhaps a visually pleasing piece of art on the walls (or even a Where’s Wally, as one genius hostel I stayed in opted for). All of this had to be thrown out of the window. Initially, I set the bar at having toilet paper, a flush, and a sink. Alas, these requirements were similarly destined for the bin. Perhaps my minimum requirement could be to not be infested with flies? Perhaps not.

My morning poo was no longer a quiet and private moment of peace. It could more accurately be described as traumatic. When a flushing toilet and the ability to wash your hands afterwards is a luxury you really begin to question the choices you made that brought you that situation. Was it worth it? Without a doubt – yes.

Lib Howden