[I'm finally picking back up where I left off in New Zealand. This post begins at the end of our Milford hike.]
While we were at the hostel in Te Anau making preparations for our hike, we were also making preparations for our transportation back to civilization. Our grand plan was to rent a car in Te Anau for a one-way trip to Greymouth, taking us back to through Queenstown to Wanaka and up the west coast through glacier country. Mr. Farmer had checked the feasibility of this venture online ahead of time, and it seemed, indeed, such a rental was possible.
But, we hadn’t made a reservation before arriving in Te Anau pre-hike. After checking in to the hostel, we made our way to the Sandfly café (the most charming of our internet access point options) to make a reservation with Rent A Dent. After several missed attempts that lead to the message “call for info,” we looked on the map to see if we could just go to the location to make arrangements. The location? A gas station about a mile away. So away we went, schlepping through the 45 degree breezy sunny day, looking for a car.
Upon arrival, it was clear the gas station attendant doubled as the rental agent. It was also clear that this person didn’t know much. But what we did gather was that such an arrangement could be possible, but it would take a two-week advance reservation.
Crap. On to plan B.
We knew we could ultimately get out of town with my parents via the backpacker bus that went twice a day, but it was fairly pricey ($40/person) and required a 5-hour wait. Perhaps we could just track down the driver of the bus that we came on and hire him to drive us back to Queenstown in our car for $150 total? We even asked the waitresses at the Sandfly Café if they wanted a side gig. No go. Finally we asked the bus company if they’d take us via private car, and it was going to be $300 for the group.
Never mind. Backpacker bus to Queenstown it would be.
The next challenge was getting a car from Queenstown to Greymouth. This we KNEW we could do. The problem was that the bus wouldn’t arrive until after the airport closed (strangely early at 6 p.m.), so unless we could convince them to leave a car for us, we were destined to spend another night in Queenstown. Fortunately Farmer’s begging got us results – they agreed to leave a car in the airport rental lot (with the keys) for us to pick-up after hours.
The only question now was whether this would all come together.
After our lovely night on Milford Sound, driver Skip dropped us back at the hostel to collect the luggage we’d left during the hike, and the four of us pedded 10 minutes to Main Street to treat ourselves to a meat pie lunch. Then we stopped for coffee at the Sandfly to check email, and finally we went next door to watch the 30-minute picturesque documentary of the fiords that ran hourly in a quaint but hip wine-bar-meets-movie-house theater. Needless to say, with the overstuffed reclining theater seats and sweeping landscapes set to soothing music, we all fell asleep within five minutes.
When the movie let out, we had just enough time to leisurely stroll back to the hostel, gather our belongings, and wait for the bus. Right on time, the 20-passenger mini-bus from 1975 pulled up towing a luggage trailer and whisked us out of town, away from fiordland and into the thick of sheep country.
The first hour was fine – straight, flat, not a lick of traffic. But when we reached the final 45-minutes of the ride, we hit the curvy road hugging the jagged perimeter of a glacial lake, and the driver was pushing the rickety bus pretty hard. Mom’s knuckles got white from anxiety, while my face was white from attempting not to barf.
The curves abruptly ended right at the airport entrance, about 10 miles from Queenstown. Suddenly it was make or break time – did the car company really leave the car? Once we took that step off the bus, we would be in the middle of nowhere, no cell phone, no transportation. And this wasn’t airport wasn’t any O’Hare. There wasn’t a soul around, even though it was 7 p.m.
The driver pulled up to the rental lot gate, asked us incredulously once again if this was what we really wanted to do. We nodded. He pulled our bags out of the trailer, and sped away into the evening.
Mom, Dad and I waited anxiously with the luggage by the gate while Farmer searched the lot for the right license plate. We lost sight of him – how is it possible that such a small airport had so many rental cars? But sure enough, a few minutes later he whizzed around the far corner in a silver Civic, ready to be crammed to the gills with four people and our multi-month stash of goods.
gallopingnelly
