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World-Famous Kiwi Hospitality

The Banks Peninsula, near Christchurch, is one of the most scenic places we went on our Ladybug roadtrip, but we almost skipped it completely.

Toward the end of the trip, we had a few extra days, so we decided to meet up with a friend of Farley's, an Irishwoman named Sinead. After a few missed connections, she emailed to say she was on the Banks Peninsula and that we should meet her there. It was not somewhere we had planned to visit, but we drove out, and enjoyed the stunning views as we coaxed the Ladybug up and down several big hills.

Sinead was staying at the Onuku Farm Hostel, outside the town of Akaroa. We drove through the town, through a Maori village, and down a gravel road to get there. Matt and I met Sinead, and we hung around the hostel for a while until it got dark.

We had stayed in a hostel for two nights straight, so we were keen to do some free camping instead of staying at the hostel. We made plans to meet Sinead the next day, and asked the man running the hostel for a recommendation for a camping spot. He suggested a place next to the water in the Maori village and assured us it would be okay.

We drove there and were just putting up the tent and van awning when a man rode up in a motorcycle. He left his headlight on, shining at us, and it was too dark to see his face through the helmet he wore.

"Do you have permission to camp here?" he began gruffly. When we said no, he continued by telling us callously that we had better leave, that there would be big trouble if we camped there, that it was Maori land. The man was not Maori, but we didn't think to challenge him (or demand some courtesy) until after he left. He reiterated his demand that we leave and go back to the town and added, "and don't bother coming back down this road tomorrow."

I mentioned that the farmer at the hostel had recommended this spot for camping, and he replied angrily that the farmer was English and not from the area and didn't know what was "going on." He then rode off toward the Maori village and the hostel. We packed back up and drove on, silently, each of us fuming and coming up with retorts we should have used.

We drove for a long time before finding any suitable campsites. We were on a big hill and any space at the side of the road was pretty sloped. We finally settled for a somewhat flatter site and made dinner. When we had finished and were just getting sorted out to go to bed, a car drove by. We held our breath as it slowed, stopped, and reversed back to where we were parked. We approached the car, expecting another reprimand. Instead, a voice called out, "are you okay?"

Another voice asked, "Where's the party? Is this a party?"

After we explained that we were okay and just camping, they laughingly mocked our choice of a hillside for a campsite. We chatted for a few minutes, then they extended an offer of a flatter place to stay - a cottage on their property. So we accepted and followed their car in our van after hastily packing up again.

They had told us that their place was just over the hill, but we drove for at least 20 minutes down a narrow, steep gravel road, with spooky black nothingness off the side. Finally, we arrived at their farmhouse and were invited in for a drink by Bob and Marilyn, the owners, both quite drunk already. (They had been dropped off by a sober friend who left right away.) Their friend, Tanzy, was also there to crash for the night.

We accepted a drink, and before we knew it, Bob had opened his good whiskey and coaxed three or four drinks into us. We sat around and chatted, answering Bob and Marilyn's forgetfully repetitive questions about where we were from and our trip details.

Eventually, we were guided to the cottage by Tanzy. In the dark, we couldn't see much of the surroundings. The cottage was larger than we expected, and had three bedrooms in a row. We could tell that the cottage had been used by children's groups by some of the decorations. It was a bit dirty around the edges, but had electricity, plenty of space, real beds, and running water, and was a hell of a lot better than camping. We gratefully settled in and hit the sack.

To the left

Straight ahead

To the right (and the beach)

In the morning, I rose before Matt and Farley, and opened the door to a gorgeous view. There were green rolling hills (filled, as usual, with sheep and cattle), and fields leading to a beach in the distance. I took some pictures, then took a walk to the beach. I knew it was a private beach, and that Bob and Marilyn owned some or all of it, so I didn't worry about anyone bothering me. I walked the kilometer or so through fields of cows, sheep, and horses, before arriving at the small, pretty beach.


Our van at the farm (that's the neighbor's house)

I enjoyed the beach as long as I could, but the day was mostly cloudy and it was windy by the water. Eventually, I found my way back just as Matt and Farley were re-loading the van. We packed up and drove up to Bob and Marilyn's house to say goodbye.


Tanzy, Marilyn, and Bob

The six of us (Matt, Farley, Bob, Marilyn, Tanzy, and I) ended up chatting on their porch for half an hour or so, and they asked all of their questions again, this time soberly. Bob and Marilyn were quite nice and friendly, full of interesting stories about places they'd been and other travellers who had come to stay. It seems they often let travellers stay in their cottage, which I thought was great. Finally, we waved goodbye and took to the road again.

We drove back to meet Sinead, feeling happy that we had finally met some real locals and experienced the Kiwi hospitality that we'd heard about. After briefly meeting up with Sinead at the farm hostel (ignoring the mystery man's admonishment not to return), we headed out again to have some lunch before meeting with Sinead a final time so we could travel together.

We had just passed the Maori village, when Matt, who was driving, mentioned that something felt wrong with the steering. Another few seconds of driving, and he suspected we had a flat tyre. We pulled over to check, and it was true.

When we rented the van, we had been shown the location of the jack and the spare tyre, so after finally remembering where the jack was, we pulled it out. A wrench had been provided with the van so that the spare could be removed, but we discovered that it was half-broken and couldn't loosen the bolt.

Meanwhile, we also tried to jack up the van, but found that the jack, at its highest setting, didn't lift the van enough to let us remove the wheel. We were stranded.

Soon, a car drove by, with two friendly Maoris in it. They stopped and asked if we needed help. We replied that we needed a spanner (NZ term for wrench), and the driver, after checking the trunk, said he had some in town and would be right back.

While waiting, we made sandwiches. We had the good fortune to be stranded on a hillside overlooking a gorgeous bay, so we enjoyed the view and our cucumber-and-cheese sandwiches.



The Maori returned with a wrench, but it was the wrong size. He jumped back into his car and said he'd run back to the village and get his whole toolbox. He was back in a few minutes, with his well-stocked toolbox as well as a jack. With his help, we put on the spare tyre without further trouble.

I only remembered to ask his name just before he left. I think he said Daniel. He was friendly and easy-going, and while we were changing the tyre, told us he was currently unemployed, but had been in the NZ military before, and was probably going to re-enlist. After we were done with the tyre, we offered him a sandwich, but he declined and drove off, waving.


( We found out later from Sinead that the mystery man on the motorcycle had been the owner of the farmland and the farm hostel. She said he was very protective of it and didn't want any trouble with the Maoris. That explained what he had told us, but we still think he should have been more civil. )

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