Loading all the gear into the Emerald Wagon was a game of Tetris.
“So glad we don’t have to take the bass amp,” Tommy said, pushing his guitar case into the last slot left, above all the other gear. So much stuff - AC30 guitar amp, the instruments, cables, our bags, all piled on top of each other quite neatly. He was really good at stacking it all so it fit. If it was up to me, we wouldn’t have been able to shut the boot.
We were ready.
After multiple runs back up the steep staircase to the flat to grab things we had forgotten, we were finally on the road. The journey to Auckland had begun. Tommy was driving; he insisted. He loved driving the Emerald Wagon - I didn’t mind. I could sit back and watch the world go by at my own leisure. Tommy put on Blondie’s Parallel Lines for the first leg. The speakers in the back pounded the classic bangers without complaint. I glanced over his way, and his pink/orange hair was flailing in the wind rushing through the window. He pulled a goofy look onto his face, and shook himself wildly just for the sake of it. “Everybody okay in the back?” He asked.
Tchik tchik .. tchik tchik tchik .. tchik tchik
I turned my head to look at the big cage taking up an entire seat in the back. A little creature was balancing on its hind legs, reaching up and drinking from a small plastic water bottle. Above the cute little animal, a crimson red hammock rocked with the bumps in the road, and a little snout was poking out the hole, sniffing. The sight made me smile. Fish and Mouse, Tommy’s pet rats. He couldn’t find anybody to look after them for the 2 weeks we were away, so he thought, why can’t they come with us? Lucky little rats, I mused to myself. What other rats get to go on an epic journey across New Zealand? I turned back ahead. “Bro, they are rock'n'roll rats!” I said, suddenly jolted with excitement. Tommy responded with the rock'n'roll hand sign. Fish and Mouse were a unique addition to our party. “Nice!” I said.
We took the North highway out of Dunedin. Farm hills and restful land rolled by outside the windows of the Emerald Wagon, and the ocean sometimes showed its great blue face, sending waves gentle in parts and heaving in others. We made haste through the small coastal towns of Central Otago - Tommy, Mouse, Fish and I - the music of Blondie swirling and banging about inside the Emerald Wagon, and with the taste of summer rushing through the open windows wildly.
Christchuch. Our first stop. It finally came upon after the seemingly endless farm flats of South Canterbury. The day was getting tired, and so were the speakers. But Tommy and I still felt amped up - so excited for what was to come later in the journey, but knowing full well that we were now in Christchurch and we had to find some friend of a friends place in the maze of suburbs that we couldn’t quite map out. We found it eventually. The sun had long since gone - seeming to make as much haste into the horizon as we did that day - but we scouted the right house number, and were ushered in by our friendly Christchurch hosts. We drank with them, sure we did! Some beers in their garage… Why not aye. They were shocked and surprised when they saw Fish and Mouse poking their little whiskers out of Tommy’s sleeve, and crawling up his arms.
We took to the pair of stuffy couches in their lounge fairly quickly, in need of sufficient rest for the drive to Wellington. Fish and Mouse had to stay in the car. The Emerald Wagon’l keep em safe, I thought, watching through the window as Tom tucked them into bed.
We were swift in the morning. We had a ferry to catch from Picton to Wellington that day, and we wasted no time. But a supermarket stop is never a silly idea. We both went inside. I grabbed confectionary, mainly, and met Tom back at the Wagon. “Bro, all you need,” Tommy started in his goofy voice, waving a jar in one hand, “is a bit of bread, and some fuckin chutney!” He plopped his shopping bag on the bonnet and pulled out his goods - some bread, a bag of leaves, and his jar of chutney. “Bloody genius. 10 bucks!” he was chuffed, and not wrong either. “True bro. Looks like it will last us all day,” I replied, giving him the satisfaction. Suddenly, he looked at a loss. “Oh shit bro. Did you bring a knife?” I adjusted my hat, amused. “Nah g. Don’t think I did aye.” He looked at the bread, and then the chutney. “Ah, whatever,” he said, shrugging, and using his finger. Somewhere on the road North, we stopped at a cafe, and I bought a cheese scone to takeaway just for the wooden knife.
We were blessed with another wonderful day on our drive up through the middle and upper reaches of the South Island. The original plan was to carry on up the coast, but the road through Kaikoura was closed. We pulled up to plan the route ahead, and for a delicious chutney sandwich of course.
“Man, it was actually crazy driving through Kaikoura on the Coyote tour aye,” Tommy recounted as he prepared his chutney roll on the bonnet. (The SHEEP tour was actually his second tour this month. The day I moved to Dunedin, he had just returned from an NZ tour with his other band, Coyote. It sounded like a wild time, and he was still recovering.) “It was like the whole sea was upturned. So many buzzy rocks and stuff. It’s a real shame we can’t go that way, you would have loved it,” he said before biting into his delicious snack. I munched on mine; it did taste good… “Ah, I’m sure the other route is just as good,” I said. It was North-West, through the mountains. Not exactly a less favourable route.. Gravel churned under the wheels when we skidded off as fast as we had arrived.
Wide valleys ushered us through into Marlborough and on our way to Picton. They were ripe with grass and the colour green, with healthy trees growing plentiful up the mountain walls that defined them. The road weaved through like a black lace, branching off as the valleys split like massive cracks in old pavement. The speakers were blasting The Mint Chicks’ Crazy? Yes! Dumb? No! on this leg. It provided a tremendous sense of New Zealand rock’n’roll that seemed to bring the Emerald Wagon to life with sketchings of the tour to come. The sun beat hard through the dirty windscreen; Tommy head-banged to the music and yet managed to keep an impeccable eye on the road. I danced my upper-torso to the fast-paced garage punk, tapping my feet, envisioning being on those New Zealand stages like the Mint Chicks once had. I stole quick glances to Fish and Mouse in the back. They were snug in their hammock.
The shadow of night had long since settled over Picton when we rolled into the town. It was quiet. Too quiet. We even turned down the music. Lights were few and far between - it felt like Picton was no town at all, shrouded in the silence that it was. We found the Ferry terminal, and after some moments, were rolling into the belly of the Interislander. “I’m just gonna sleep,” I told Tommy as we vacated the car. “I’m pretty tired too,” he said, opening the back door. “But I can’t sleep on here. I’ve gotta look after Fish and Mouse.” The cage rattled as he opened the little gate and picked them up into his sleeve, greeting them fondly. What will people think if they see Fish and Mouse on here? I wondered, watching them wriggle through his jumper. Ahh, nobody will even notice.
I was so tired, I barely noticed how uncomfortable the seats were to sleep on. When I woke, I wandered the ferry, and found Tommy outside above a cargo of cattle. Wind battered us and the steel railings, and yet the smell of farms and cattle was thick. “They look really sad,” Tommy said, looking forlornly down at the pent up animals. They did look awfully confused and afraid. “Yeah, you’re right.” Tommy had some kind of deep affinity for animals - a deep sense of empathy and connection for them. He couldn’t just leave Fish and Mouse in the car… He couldn't help but feel the pain of the cattle. I felt it too, but not as strongly as him. He turned to look at me. “We should be arriving in Wellington soon,” he stated. I shivered in the wind. “Can't wait.”
Wellington was the complete opposite of Picton. It was still alive and busy at 11:00 PM when we drove off the Interislander and into the streets bright with lights and people. Wellington, I thought wonderingly. I’d only been there once before. It was tall! Impressively tall. Living in Queenstown for so long made me forget what it was like to be deep within a city. Buildings of all shapes and sizes peered down at us like titans in business suits. “Lets get some food,” Tommy announced as if he could read my mind. We got massive slices of pizza before taking the roads up to a suburb called Brooklyn, where our allies lived.
Ethan Roberts was vaping in the lounge when we waltzed into the flat. “Yo!” He said enthusiastically, vape swirling around his head. “Sup man! It’s been ages,” I said, taking a seat on one of the crumby couches. “How are you guys?” he asked. I let Tommy do the talking. There was a slender guy on the other coach, sitting with a devilish grin on his face, as if on the brink of laughter. “Denver! You live here too?” I was surprised to see him; a friend from the old Rothmans flat in Dunedin. He looked up at me. “Yueesss,” he replied.
The first thing I noticed about Ethan was his short hair. Last time I saw him, he had long hair falling past his shoulders, and was known as Jesus in the community of gigsters. He was joining us on the tour as our ‘advisor’, perhaps, or ‘promoter’. Yeah, that sounds professional. Biggest fan, even. He was helping us organise shows around the country - he knew people; had connections with bands. I couldn’t think of anybody more adept in the New Zealand scene than Ethan. He seems to know everybody.
We spent the next day milling about Wellington, weaving up, down and around the rickety streets. Ethan ‘shot-gunned’ the front seat; I didn’t complain. He knew the best destinations in this city, and took us to them. The Emerald Wagon puttered up the hills, one person heavier. I sat in the back with Fish and Mouse, watching as they rose to their hind legs and sniffed the city aromas. Tommy had said that rats have an extraordinary sense of smell. I gazed out at Wellington behind us, the thick city-scape tucked between taller green hills and a glass harbour. Mouse was sniffing vigorously. I wonder what Wellington smells like.. It must smell good!
We wasted no time the following morning. It was the final leg - the drive from Wellington to Auckland. The motorway carried us, all bunched up in the Emerald Wagon, up and out of Wellington like a leaf on a river. Soon enough, we were on the open road - this time listening to King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, I believe. Ethan insisted on being the aux-wielder, and this was his favourite band. He seemed to have a wealth of bands and music up his sleeve. Ethan is more knowledgeable with music and bands than anybody I’ve ever known… I realised, gazing out at the farmlands of the lower North Island as he rambled on about some festival that was coming up. A couple of hours into the drive, I began dozing off.
I woke slouched over myself, and wiped sleep from my eyes as I straightened. Ahead of us, bold in the distance, was Mt Ruapehu. It is a king in this land - albeit a stout one - and still wore only the thinnest sleeves of snow. It’s brothers, Mt Tongariro and Mt Ngauruhoe, came into vision as we rounded the great hump of land. They were equally impressive. “Ahh, National Park,” I heard Ethan say from the back, simultaneously exhaling a puff of vape, the wisps of which curled around my nose, sweet. The volcanoes were indeed a welcoming sight. Despite the distance we had yet to travel to Auckland, I felt very much at home - the home I had grown up in, and first explored. The North Island.
As we hurtled along the bleak Desert Road on the shoulder of Ruapehu, I suddenly became aware of a light pain on my neck. I pulled my finger up to feel the area - it was a boil. A big boil. I noticed something there earlier on the journey, but thought nothing of it. Now it seemed… plump. And angry. Like a volcano, growing out of my neck, I thought dryly. I hope it doesn’t erupt during a show..
The remainder of the drive was the least exciting of the journey up the country. We had seen the best of the countryside after the road smoothed out into the Waikato flats. From there on, the Wagon glided on the edge of farmlands like a blade, swift and with purpose, despite its party’s weariness. Tommy was getting restless; I could see he needed a guitar in his hands instead of the driving wheel (he insisted on driving the whole way). Ethans tunes and sweet vapour filled the Wagon to its brim when the windows were closed, and were drowned when they were open. It carried on like this right until the sun vanished, and we were at last on the Auckland motorway.
When we officially arrived in Auckland city, it took us almost two extra hours to make it back to our homes. From the very bottom suburbs of South Auckland where the motorway began, we climbed all the way up to the North most suburbs to drop Ethan off at his North Shore home, and then finally back into the Central suburbs, were Tommy and I once lived in our family homes. It was one of those ‘So close but so far away!’ moments. We were DONE. I watched as Tommy all but dragged himself and the rat cage to the front door of his house.
I arrived at the front door of my family home in Mt Eden, tired, hungry, and still a little bit grumpy. Travel-grumpy… Justified. It was a long trip. But it felt good to be back in Auckland. My home… Gosh I’ve been gone for so long. The mountains… I had visited home, but via an aeroplane. There was something special about driving all the way up the country. In the Emerald Wagon. I let out a great sigh as I stepped up to the red door. What a journey! And it’s only half done…
Knock knock knock
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