Maori

There's one thing I remember of my very first day in Auckland: the pronunciation of the word Maori.

Damned it.

I wake up on a bright, sunny day and head outside for a quick breakfast at the nearby cafeteria. In an hour I'd have to meet up with this random guy to check out his '91 Honda Accord. I quickly swallow a cinnamon roll and a latte, and go back to the motel, ready to either pack my stuff and check out, or to pay for another night and resume my car-hunt. 

My man shows up on time and I meet him at the back of the motel, him being a young dude with a Major League cap, a bit of a paunch and Jesus-style hair. 

I lose him about 2,5 seconds into the conversation. I resume the use of the "Sorry?!" thing really quick - every time he opens his mouth basically - that's how much I could understand a Kiwi so far.

After a cursory check, we agree to set out for a test-drive, me at the wheel. 

"Haven't been driving this side of the road in a while", I think. 

"Let's see if I can mind the road and the language at the same time now".

While driving, the car seems ok - ain't no Lamborghini but I ain't no Donald Trump - and I take a chance at asking the guy a few questions. Yeah, about the language. I feel scared as crap at what could potentially be laying ahead of me. Language-wise. 

We have a bit of a conversation, til the point he mentions a certain word that gets my attention. He says something like "marry", which doesn't really belong to the speech. I stop him, ask him to repeat. 

"Yeah it's because the 'marry' population, you know.."

The hell. What's this marry population business?! 

Then a little light pops on in my brain. Isn't this country home to the Maori?! Could that be the way they say 'maori' over here?

I ask him, "Do you mean, the natives?"

"Yeah mate"

Bingo.

We kept talking about this and that - basically the whole thing shifted on the Maori, how they're impoverished compared to white new zealanders, and how poverty boosts alcoholism and drugs use. Same old topics that show up while referring to any native population around the world, you know. Eskimos or Aboriginals are no exception. 

Anyway, the moral: I was screwed. I understood ‘marry’ rather than ‘maori’. Really? I felt desperate. In a conversation I realized I couldn’t have gotten a decent job, I couldn’t have gotten a satisfying social life and I couldn’t have been understood by those quick mouthed folks as good as I wanted. Buying a car turned into a linguistic reality check.

By the time the tour ended though, I made up my mind.

“Alright man, how much you’re asking for it?”

“Can’t go much lower than 17 hundred”, he says.

“How about 15?”

“Hmm, let me see.. well, screw it, it’s ok!”

“Sweet”, got my deal.

I handle him the cash and receive the keys and instructions on how to go register the car under my name. We sign the papers at the nearest post office, shake hands, and off he goes in his girlfriend’s car.

I was officially a car owner in New Zealand, and I was close to finally take off to new pastures, new adventures, my planned scampers.

Back at the motel I inform the receptionist that I’d have been leaving soon, just the time to get my stuff together, dump them into the car and drive away. I was already craving for some form of stability, for a permanent place where to stay, a house, a flat, a room, a shelter in the woods, any place where I could finally drop my bags, take stuff out of them and enjoy seeing my bags empty. Basically, settling down somewhere.

It wasn’t time though, not yet. It was time to set out on a random route and drive South – the goal, as for 99% of backpackers coming down here, being Queenstown.

I hop on the road and start wandering South in the heat of the day, through green farmlands and lush countryside. I stop for lunch in a small town just outside Auckland, a nice beach to walk on while having my sandwich. Soaking in the spring sun, taking the first pictures of this unknown world, I enjoy simply being there.

I enjoy feeling completely alone, nothing (well, not exactly nothing..) to be worrying about, just enjoying the sun, the tidal waves crashing gently on the shore, a few birds chirping about. I think this is the first thought made by anybody who leaves home to travel, the thought of him enjoying life while the others at home (say him a month before) are working their asses hard, cursing their jobs, living in grey urbanized towns and dealing with duchebags all day long.

I was pleased already by the choice made.

After a few shots along the beach, to a nice red flower and a rainforest-looking tree, I walk back to the car and resume the driving. I do have a schedule, after all. I’m booked for a couch-surfing stay, in some town due South where I arranged to stay at a guy’s place for the night.

I had never couch-surfed before. Totally new to the system. I just knew I’d have never let a stranger into my house, let alone into my house without me around – as this guy was going to do with me. And apparently some other fellas.

Driving South I was thinking, “How is it even possible for this man to have literally strangers walking in his house, staying there for the night, using his bathroom and other facilities, without even him being around and keeping an eye on the situation?”. I was puzzled. Again, totally new to the system. But I was soon to find out the mechanics.

I arrive in town on time, actually earlier than needed, so I take a walk on Main street. The place looks empty, as like just swept by a tornado. Just swept of people, not buildings. I see a few familiar sights, a McDonalds, a Domino’s. I feel something in my stomach calling for pizza.

Alright, pizza will be.

I walk the pizza back to the car and drive uphill to the man’s house. I park opposite side of the road from it, waiting with a slice of pizza in my hands like a killer waiting for his prey to come out.

I was actually waiting for the man to come out: all I knew from our last conversation was to meet him on the street, he’d have come out on his way to work. It was about 6PM, no signs of human activity of sort.

My pizza eaten, just a Domino’s box to be chucked out, I wonder where in the world the guy was. I didn’t want to spend motel money so I had to make sure he didn’t run away without letting me in. I ring the bell of his supposed home, but get no answer. At that very moment, a car dashes out of the garage, driving towards the street. I run towards it, waiving at the driver, that promptly stops.

“You Emanuele?”

“Yes sir!”

“Hey, I was waiting for ya, thought you gave up. Com’on in, I’ll quickly show you around, gotta be at work in 5!”

While we enter the house from the garage, he goes on: “ Alright, so here’s the bathroom, kitchen’s down that way, these rooms are already occupied by other couchsurfers.. see that room? There’s a girl that has been there for what, a week I guess? She might be in there sleeping right now. Anyway, you can sleep in the living room tonight, there’s an air mattress inflated for ya behind the door. If you have any questions text me. Help yourself in the kitchen for tomorrow’s breakfast! I won’t be home so nice meeting ya, take care mate!”

And goes away.

Holy cow. I was in this unknown little town in what looked like a madhouse. A businessman in his forties living possibly alone but housing strangers passing by for a night, or two, or twentytwo (who knew?), without even being there to check on them. And, telling them to help themselves in the kitchen for breakfast.

For real? That’s how it works down here? “If that guy was doing this in Italy,” I thought “he’d spend more time at the police station denouncing robberies than anywhere else”. But we weren’t in Italy, and I was too tired to think about him. My only thought was for the air mattress and to unrolling my sleeping bag.

I go back to the car, take out the necessary items, and pay a quick visit to the restroom for a shower.

In opening my toiletry bag (which is nothing more than a plastic bag) I have one unpleasing present. You know, when your bags aren’t hard-cased but are handled by people who couldn’t care less about them so that they throw them without regard on the airport’s conveyor belts? Well, in those cases something might happen. In that case, something happened to me.

I open the bag and I find out that my small shower gel bottle opened. Gel everywhere: on my toothbrush, on my razorblades, on my bendages, on my swiss knife. The latter worries me the most: the blades feel like stuck in and it’s hard to pull them out. I suspect it could be already too late to save it.

On the other hand though, I’m too tired to be too worried. I give the whole package a quick cleanse, pack everything back up in a different plastic bag and head for the mattress.

“I’ll think about it tomorrow”, in my perfect do-it-tomorrow style.