We have a car now—sweet, mobile freedom within our grasp—gateway to Nelson, Abel Tasman and The Golden Bay.
Robert drives us out of town.
On our way to who-knows-where, we stop in a place called Arrowtown and visited Ah Lum’s ancient shack in the historic Chinese District. The walls are crumbling, old brick and mortar, clay. The ceilings are sagging and low, grass roofed. The door handles are driftwood blocks. The edifice has three openings—a door and two narrow windows—leading into the damp darkness. It’s musty inside.
We’re in Wanaka now, a small lake-town with speaking-toilets, surrounded by barren hills. We encounter two girls we’d met in Te Anau and end up lakeside chilling for 3 or 4 hours. We hit the supermarket and buy some apples, bananas, carrots, potato chips, protein bars, and water. Tonight we’re sleeping in the car.
So we’re on the road again, headed north, toward the coast—I’m driving.
Darkness falls hard.
The sky is an open window, spilling stars into our night-filled eyes. We’re in some town, passing through—wrong turn—there is a decrepit, evil looking van parked in someone’s back yard.
Fog settles in around us, we’re creeping, bumping along the dirt road. We start talking about horror movies—of course—as the atmosphere plucks at our skin, ratcheting us to our seats.
An hour later we’re stopped in front of a sign—ROAD CLOSED—submerged in darkness. There is a gross red vacancy sign dripping with invitation beside the road. We park the car beneath a tree and lay back our seats—the town is small, deserted. We take a walk. A few guys are playing pool inside the open doors of a late night bar, grunting.
Where are we?
Why is the road closed?
What is going on?
A shoddy patrol-station just off the road answers none of our questions—empty, stating the year as 2013 on a few flyers nailed to the boarded walls.
The bathrooms inside the bar are too bright, disgustingly florescent.
I wash my hands and ask the waitress what year it is.
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