A Roadie.

We took a roadie to New Plymouth.  Look at me getting all colloquial!  Okay, maybe it's not really a standard issue kiwi-ism.  I don't know.  A friend used it and I'm assimilating.

To clarify:  we didn't take a hairy dude with a bowling ball gut testing the integrity of an ancient, shredded Slayer t-shirt to New Plymouth.  We drove there on our own after Christchurch was hit by a devastating earthquake.  Although not part of the plan, the earthquake gave us something from which we could flee.  Like any true American, I can latch onto a fearsome impossibility and ride it all the way to personal benefit.  In this case, an overnight stay at a charming seaside town about five hours away.

So, we gave our roadie a purpose as clambered into our well-used and well-loved, slightly musty van, pointing our fingers and declaring "to New Plymouth."  We motored away from town, spewing our diesel fumes onto the track of the hotly contested race between the swollen, murderous wave barreling across the Cook Strait to swallow our house and the torn gash of earth, ripping along the seams of an old but virile fault line that runs under our deck.  Suck on that, Nature!  We're heading north!

The roadie required that we take two of the nation's five, maybe six, highways.  We started on the One.  At some point, we would have to circle a roundabout to join up with the Three.  We lost the wide, multi-laned ribbon of road after about 20 kilometers.  From then on, the highway was never more than a two-lane road with an occasional passing lane to permit all those eager Subarus to jump the line.  I'm sure they had to be somewhere very fast.  We saw lots of pissing cows, nursing lambs and, well, sheep along the road.  Certainly, they need tending.  They're not just going to feed themselves... oh wait.  Suffice it to say, the grass was nicely maintained on every paddock.  I counted three signs for various, local abattoirs (a word that makes me want to dress nicely for slaughter) and a few billboards advertising farm kill and rendering.  That's convenient!  The Subarus may have had appointments.


Along the route, we encountered Bulls, a small town enslaved by an apparent municipal edict that all shops and cafes must be advertised using a eponymous pun.  "Edi-Bull!"  "Socia-Bull!"  "Fashion-a-Bull!"  I was sorry the town had yet to alter the signs over the public restrooms to read, "Bull's Shit."  Maybe I'll send a letter with the suggestion.

In case you're wondering, New Plymouth is worth the trip even if you aren't running from the earth's gaping maw.  The coastal walkway sits atop a long pile of boulders that crunch and screech under the giant waves that wait until hitting land to break.  A wind wand bounces lazily 100 meters up like the ball your uncle would never surrender as long as you kept asking for it.  A lot of things were called "Puke something" and though we tried to be mature, we ultimately failed.  As usual.

On the way back, we snapped a lot of pictures of choo choo train signs that really make train crossings much more fun and even inviting.  A diner along the One claimed as its name, Route 66 on the One.  We ate hot dogs there, to give it some street cred.  It didn't really deserve it.

We returned to find the race to destroy all things good and well in our world called off.  Poor Christchurch would bear the brunt of the earth's awful fit and we would set about explaining to our family and friends that their worry, though appreciated, was unnecessary.