Stupid Lucky

I don’t know where we’re going, don’t ask, keep driving up the mountain in the dark...

. . . . .

It is sometime in the wee hours before sunrise. Eyes closed in a futile attempt at sleep, I can feel the springs inside the mattress of the unfamiliar twin bed, hear them creak when I turn. Far away voices filter in between my drowsy thoughts..

Voices? Heart skips a beat.

No idea where I am.. the middle of nowhere. Didn’t see a house for miles, driving up here in the dark the night before.

The sound of boots on the wooden plank floor. And voices again. Louder. Male. Rowdy.

The boots enter the room. I play possum, pretend to be asleep. They move away from me toward the other twin bed where the sweet boy who brought me here appears to be sleeping.

Eyes still closed, I peek through lashes to see two huge men roughing up the figure in the other bed. A few pushes, a couple of loud sneers and he’s sitting up. Mission accomplished, they leave the room.

I breathe a sigh of relief, open my eyes and send a questioning look - “where are we?" - to the boy on the other bed. Maybe 18, with a sweet face and long curls, he sits at the edge of the mattress and does not meet my gaze. Caught, I imagine, between his fantasy and the rude awakening he’s just had.

We had lain there all night, two people who do not know each other, side by side across the room.

He stands, still avoiding my eyes, and follows the men through the door.

Loud voices resume, the smell of coffee wafts in. That door is the only way out of this room. I do not want to go through it.

But the pup has been in the car all night. I have to make sure she’s ok. In any case, she’ll need to pee.

I stand up, put my boots on, walk through the door.

About six Maori men, all impossibly tall and strong, are crammed into a room that should barely hold three. A cooler sits on the floor next to the only chair. The Mr. Coffee bubbles away on the counter under the window, oddly out of place.

They’ve been hunting (I surmise from their conversation.) Several long knives are strewn on the counter. They laugh as I enter, casting glances between me and the boy, who sits on a crate against the wall.

And then, I recognize them.

. . . . .

Less than a year ago, my life exploded.

Within the space of a month my relationship ended, I lost my job and, when I couldn’t bear living in New York City for one more day, moved back upstate with my parents.

I was 26 and had lost nearly a decade to undiagnosed depression. Once diagnosed and under care, I was compelled to explore this newfound perspective away from the influence of family and peers. So, I loaded up my pack and headed to New Zealand - as far as I could go without heading back in the other direction.

The plan was to WWOOF my way around the islands, which I had been doing to some extent. Until I adopted a puppy, got a car, and alternated between working and aimlessly wandering, living in the car, camping on beaches.

This was one of those times.

After being in the country for about six months, I was drawn to the wild and completely undeveloped East Cape of the North Island. Beautiful, with miles of rugged beaches, just the place to be alone with the ocean.

. . . . .

The night before this morning…

It’s dusk. I’m parked in a small village near a restaurant after wandering the beach and watching the ocean all day.

Behind us, a group of guys gather in the parking lot. About ten of them, talking and passing around a joint. The pup watches for a while, gets up and trots in their direction.

The pup - Kaeshelah - is a faultless judge of character. I trust her completely. When she wanders over to the group, I follow without concern. Partly to keep an eye on her, partly to socialize.

They open up the circle, ask where I’m from, offer me the joint, pleased when I accept. There’s a comment about how they didn’t think American girls smoked weed. It’s all good-spirited banter.

Most of the guys are around my age; mid-twenties, all Maori. One kid - Thomas - a bit younger than the others, asks where I’m staying, says he lives with his parents and I’m welcome to stay for the night. He’s got a rugby game, but after that he’ll meet me back here. I figure he's an athlete in high school who lives with his parents, and take him up on the offer.

Later I’m in my car listening to the ocean, waiting for the kid to return. One of the older guys from the group - Jack - comes over, invites me to go with him and the rest of the group up to their cabin. They have food, it’s warm, and they’ve got more weed. This guy feels riskier to me than the kid. I tell him: I’ve made a plan and I’ll stick with it, thanks.

He walks away.

. . . . .

Standing in a room heavy with the smell of sweat and coffee, I realize... it’s them - the guys from the night before. This is their cabin.

The kid hadn’t taken me to his parents’ house, he had brought me to his friends’ place, probably hoping to impress the American girl. He didn’t know I’d been invited there and rejected the offer. I hadn’t told him; why would I?

Turning my mind to the pup, I walk outside, see her head pop up in the car window, let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Everything is going to be ok. I’ll say a quick goodbye and drive away.

I open up the boot, let the pup out to do her business, refill her water dish.

Then I see the flat tire.

Shit.

My mind casts around for some explanation… It was a pretty rough and rocky road driving up here. This is a street vehicle, not an off-roader.

It’s ok, I have a spare. I’ll change the tire and get out of here.

Walking around to the other side of the car where the pup is sniffing in the bushes, my stomach lurches.

The other back tire is flat as well.

I must have driven over something; maybe there were nails on the ground. Whatever the reason, I don’t have two spares and I’m pretty far from town. We must have driven thirty minutes or more to get here.

I can’t leave.

It’s 1996. No cell phones, no email.

No choice then: I put on a smile, head back inside with a shrug, and ask the guys to drive me into town with the flat tires. Hopefully there’s an open mechanic who can patch them.

“Sure, no problem - throw them in the back of the truck.”

They insist that Thomas, the sweet boy who brought me up here, come with us. “Mate, you brought her up here,” they tell him. We sit across from each other in the back of the truck, the poor kid still avoiding my eyes. I hope they won’t give him too hard a time later.

It’s a long, jostling ride down the mountain. Unsettling. Silent. Eventually we arrive at a shack in the middle of a boneyard.

I grab one tire (having jacked up the car and removed both from the wheels myself) and walk inside. Old car parts cover every inch; hanging from the ceiling, on the walls, scattered on the dirt floor. The guy inside looks about 70 but is probably closer to 50. He has gentle eyes.

I explain the situation and ask if he can patch the tires. He needs to do a test; fills up a basin with water, to see where the bubbles come from. It’s not a quick process. I bring him the second tire and he tests that one as well.

The old mechanic looks right at me. I’m not prepared for what he’s about to say.

“These tires were slashed.”

Time stops.

All the pieces come together: My rejection of Jack the night before, the unexpected stay with Thomas at the cabin, the early morning voices, knives on the counter.

The conversation I overheard in the cabin earlier plays in my head, comes fully into focus now: the proud re-telling of how they flushed a wild boar out of the bush to kill it. Perfect for the upcoming pig roast.

Knives on the counter.

These guys were hunting wild boar, with knives, in the dark.

The car I drive is unmistakable; bright orange and painted with scenes of the mountains and ocean. Obvious to anyone who’s seen it before.

Knives on the counter. Slashed tires.

My heart is pounding. I’m in town now, safe. But I have to return to the cabin with these guys who slashed my tires, to get the car and my pup.

I tell the mechanic the whole story.

“Those boys?” he says. “I’ve known them their whole lives, know their families. They’re good boys, you’ll be alright.”

Those “boys” are fully-grown, very large men who had been out in the bush hunting wild boar with knives the night before. But my heart calms. I like this man, trust him. He knows the story, knows where I’ll be.

Yes, he says, he can patch the tires; it won’t take long.

. . . . .

The old mechanic was right; after another jostling, silent ride back up the mountain we arrive at the cabin. I get the tires on the car, give the pup another quick run outside, thank the guys for their help, (don’t say a word about the tires being slashed,) and hottail it out of there.

Driving back down the mountain, one thought plays in my mind:

“That was a truly, truly stupid thing to do, and I am crazy lucky to be driving away unharmed.”

Over and over again.

Stupid. Lucky.

Imagine how close you’d need to be, to injure or kill a wild boar using only a knife; the sheer strength it would take.

Stupid. Lucky. What was I thinking? I will never do anything like that again.

Heart in my throat, pounding as though it will jump from my body.

Stupid. Lucky.

Sky so blue and beautiful, cool air rushing in the car windows, pup next to me on the front seat, freedom racing through my body; high with relief, disbelief.

Safe. Lucky.