Fear and Loathing in New Zealand: Coasting

"There was a fantastic...sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning."

Hunter S Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

"The bit I am really looking forward to," said M back in December, when we were planning the New Zealand route, and it was beginning to turn from a brilliant idea to a potential logistical nightmare, "is when we get right to the tip if the Northlands part of the north island, and we have been going a few days and are in the swing of things and can relax and really be starting to enjoy ourselves."

His prediction was not wrong. In fact our stay at the Tapotupotu Department of Conservation ('doc') campground exactly exemplifies that feeling. Doc campgrounds cone in slightly varying flavours but are generally very basic but in extremely beautiful locations, and cost very little. The Tapotupotu site costs $6 (about £3) per person per night, boasts a beautiful view over the bay, parked on the grass with awe inspiring towering cliffs either side, complete with wild and luscious grasses and crashing waves. It boasts the sound of magpies (a much more melodious call in New Zealand than in England), a pitch darkness perfect for the illumination of the stunning night sky, and not much else. There is no electricity and the toilets are 'long drop', which means they are essentially holes in the ground with a seat attached. There is a bin and a cold outdoor shower. 

And - even if it doesn't sound it - it is heaven. The fact is, things like cooking by the light of our tiny portable gas hob, taking a heart stoppingly cold shower after exercising on the beach, and even tripping by the light of a wind up torch to the toilets to get your bottom thoroughly chilled by the cold breeze from the long drop channel in the middle of the night, are more likely, and have always been more likely to delight us than to worry us. It feels, more than anything else in the, thus far rather civilised camping experience in this part of the trip, like a real adventure.  Moreover, we have, as predicted, lost the edge of our actual worries, which centred on finding campsites, driving a van without crashing it, and affording to eat. 

The adventure is heightened by the 'trippy' nature of it all. In this case, quotes from Hunter Thompson's drug fuelled memoirs don't feel especially out of place. The whole evening does unfold rather like a sort of hazy morning after memory of a substance-inspired night before. 

I exercise on the beach while M takes pictures of me, whilst seated in a camping chair reminiscent of a sort of cigar toting director of an indie movie (or possibly a porn film), except swapping the cigar for a beer. 

I take a cold shower in my bikini outdoors, dealing with the constant shock of the cold water on my skin by essentially jogging on the spot whilst shampooing, to try to get my body temperature high enough not to be constantly gasping for air. Thinking about it, that must have been quite a sight. 

In the meantime M starts to cook out of the back of the van on the gas stove, except it falls dark very suddenly so that he has to peer into the pan to see whether anything is cooked yet, resulting, inevitably, in the oil spitting on his face. I provide medical aid (consisting of bathing his face in cold water from the shower, unearthing the first aid kit and applying cream and plenty of the all important sympathy) whilst also trying to check the pan myself, all by the light of a wind up torch, which only works properly, whilst you are actually winding it. As a result the entire process is accompanied by the strange sort of mechanical wheezing sound the torch makes whilst being wound. 

M's face, you will be pleased to know, is unmarked the following day, however we face another hurdle when, finally, we climb inside the van, shivering, to eat the meal we have so eventfully prepared and find the roof of the van is literally covered in mosquitoes. I commence a brutal mosquito killing mission throughout the meal so that our conversation is punctuated by me suddenly banging my hand against the roof at frequent intervals, until the roof us smeared with the bodies of insects and the blood of the unfortunate human who had constituted their last meal. It's like an insects' graveyard.

All of which I appreciate sounds like a nightmare, but really it wasn't.

It was absolutely glorious.