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| If you're thinking that looks a long way, you don't know the half of it |
New Zealand isn't really all that big. Compared to places like the States and Australia, most of our main thoroughfares must seem more like long driveways. The idea of taking more than a day to drive somewhere in this country is simply anathema to us kiwis. That'd be like living more than an hour away from the beach. (Is that even possible?)
In saying all of that, there are a few local trips that require a little psychological preparation. The Auckland-Wellington run, while straightforward enough on a map, can be hampered considerably by heavy traffic around both cities. Driving in the South Island is beautiful of course, but geez it can be boring too. Going anywhere in the Coromandel is guaranteed to cause carsickness for at least 50% of your passengers, but you get that. The trip I was facing this weekend was Red Beach to Hawkes Bay. And back.
This was not a surprise. I knew it was coming. It wasn't like I'd been summoned to a secret headquarters based in Havelock North to join a covert league of superheroes to fight an evil genius in his attempt to take over the world. Admittedly, there are a couple of obvious flaws in that scenario; 1) I don't have any superpowers, 2) Hard to see the strategic advantage in basing your covert HQ in Hawkes Bay (unless the evil genius was targeting sauvignon blanc and stone fruit production) and 3) If I WAS on my way to a meeting of superheroes, driving would be a pretty uncool way to arrive. A FLYING car might be okay. Flying in WITHOUT a car? Even better.
No, the Domestic Manager and I had been invited to a wedding, so we'd had plenty of time to plan air tickets. (You know, just on an ordinary plane) However, flying down isn't quite as easy as it sounds either. To start with, it takes anywhere from an hour to 4 days to get from my place to the airport - there's a harbour bridge in the way, you see. What's more, it's not like the wedding was happening at Napier Airport. Apparently, a reputable Havelock North winery provides a slightly more romantic atmosphere than the sound of jet engines and a view of the tarmac. That means hiring a car and the whole weekend ends up costing an arm, a leg and a couple of vital organs to boot.
Therefore, a 6-hour road trip was really the only viable option, and when I say 6 hours, obviously I mean 12. After all, no matter how good a time you're having, you have to come home eventually.
Personally, I don't mind a bit of a drive - as long as I'm the driver. What is this curious explosion of physics and biology that causes my face to go numb the moment I have to navigate 2 consecutive corners as a passenger? If the Domestic Manager suffers even a fraction of the same affliction, it's no wonder she dreads a long-haul with such fervour.
As a result, the Domestic Manager has perfected two highly effective methods of passing the time. The first is to fall asleep. How she achieves this is a mystery to me, because not only do I find it next to impossible to nod off in the passenger seat of a moving car, but she's is also a keen contender for the title of "World's Worst Sleeper." Usually to achieve more than a few hours slumber, Domestic Manager requires complete darkness, absolute silence, at least 3/4 of the available bed space and all the stars and planets to be in alignment. Get her out on the open road though, and suddenly she's Rip van Winkle!
The main reason I can't sleep while driving (apart from the fact I'm usually driving) is the incessant head-loll. The tip back on acceleration, the tilt forward on brake. The ever-so delicate thump against the window while cornering. Domestic Manager seems completely immune. Is her beautiful head mounted on gimbals? (I actually have no idea what gimbals are. Cool word though)
This provides me with a bit of alone time, so I can really get stuck in to the important stuff driving requires. You know... picking your nose... humming the wrong lyrics to songs under your breath, that sort of thing.
The Domestic Manager's other favourite pastime is telling me how to drive. I've heard many husbands complaining of the same thing, but the exception here is, she's usually right. I'm a TERRIBLE driver. Just useless. I need all the advice I can get. Of course, I have to PRETEND to be annoyed and angry - it's a dumb man thing. Secretly I'm eternally thankful she pointed out that oncoming freight truck, or we'd both be mincemeat.
Recently, these entertaining marital exchanges have been curtailed somewhat due to the miracle that is Nokia Drive - the GPS installed by default on all Nokia Windows Phones. It's simple, it works and now we never argue about directions anymore - or so I thought.
Sadly on this trip, for the first time ever, Mrs Lumia let me down. I call her Mrs Lumia because I've selected the female voice with the UK accent to tell me where to go. Mrs Lumia has successfully navigated me all over the place for the last year, even in Australia. But this weekend, for some reason, just when I needed her most, she made a powerplay for control over the husband and she was never going to win that battle.
After 7 grueling hours (I know it was supposed to be 6, but you have to stop for food, you know. And the toilet. And to replace forgotten jewellery) our destination was in sight. I mean that literally, the little finish line flag had popped up on Mrs Lumia's screen, our ETA now down to single digits. All that lay between us and no more driving was Hastings. No offence, Hastings, but you're stupid. Why do you have 2 Heretaunga Streets and why do you have to drive around the block to get from one to the other? The real question here is, why did Mrs Lumia tell me to go that way when the Domestic Manager had pointed out a clearly signposted bypass several kilometres back.
I don't know if it actually made our long trip any longer, but every roundabout we were forced to round as we zig-zagged our way through the Hastings CBD was like another nail in Mrs Lumia's coffin.
That's how I learned a valuable lesson about long distance driving in New Zealand. While Mrs Lumia may SOUND like she knows where she's going, it's always, ALWAYS the Domestic Manger who is ultimately to be obeyed.
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| This is me driving. Why the headphones? That's not important |
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