The guide said there was camping at the southern end of the park. With this knowledge, I decided to push hard to the Waipoua Forest, camp there, and see the giant kauri trees early, when the park would still be empty. As the sun sank to the horizon, I could see hills rising from the coast, and knew the driving would slow down before I reached my destination.
The twists and turns started, but my progress did not slow considerably until I found myself behind a camper van. I have fantasized a little about extended travels in a van. The van I fantasize about is a Volkswagen Transporter, a Mercedes/Freightliner/Dodge Sprinter, a Ford Transit Connect (it would be tight, but I think it could be a pretty good little van), or, if I am in a "dying in a car crash wouldn't be so bad" sort of mood, a classic VW camper. Many others have this fantasy, and New Zealand is one of the countries that hosts the crazies who want to live out this dream. The problem is that the vans that most people get to realize their fantasy make the classic VW appear stylish, comfortable, safe, nimble, and powerful. I started the winding climb into the hills, and came up behind one of these campers in the starry darkness of an autumn night. It was slow going from here on out.
Behind the slow moving van, I passed a sign proclaiming the next 18 kilometers as the Waipoua Forest. The guide said the camping was "near the south entrance." In my lexicon, all 18 kilometers could be "near." In fact, Dargaville, 50 kilometers south of the park is probably also described as near. I kept my eyes peeled for camping, and saw nothing except the back of that van for 23 kilometers.
I actually did see something else in the park. I saw another van illegally camping on the side of the road. Presumably, they also could not find the campground. I decided to turn around. If all else failed, I could pull off next to them, and sleep in the car. It seemed reasonable to assume that there would be some safety in numbers when illegally camping on the side of the road. Before I was going to resign myself to sleeping inside a Corolla hatchback, I decided to check every side road for signs indicating a campground. I was in luck, the non-reflective sign for the visitor's center had an imperceptibly small symbol of a tent.
I drove down the rough, narrow, gravel road, annoyed that the guidebook did not say, "at the visitor's center." The road became rougher, I kept going. The road narrowed, I kept going. I passed a sign for a swimming hole, I kept going. I passed a building that might have been the visitor's center, I kept going. I passed a sign that said campground at a fork in the road, and continued on the fork the sign seemed to label. The road became unreasonably rough, and too narrow to turn a small hatchback around on. I shifted into reverse, and backed up the rough, narrow road back to the campground sign (complicated by the fact that Kiwi cars have only one reverse light), and tried the other fork.
Success! I had arrived at what could easily have been a depression era work camp in the Appalachians. I pulled into a camp spot, illuminated by a motion detecting light on the restroom buildings. I situated the car to block most of the light, and left just enough space for my tent to be nestled between trees and the car. This gave me what little seclusion could be had on a gravel pad. I paid the $15 (per person!), set up my tent, ate some dinner, and climbed into bed. The gravel prevented me from staking the tent, so the vestibules hung flaccidly against the mosquito netting. I drifted to sleep, in the muggy night air.
The motion detector light flashed on—
SSSCCRrreeeeeeeerreereerehehehe.
Instantly, I awoke. What was that terrible sound? I told myself it was a bird, and tried to relax back to sleep.
RRRRRRreeereereeeheheheh
The noise was closer the second time. It happened again, closer. And again, this time between my spot, and the beat-up Mazada camper in the spot across the road from me. The source of the noise was within 20 feet.
RRRRRrreerererrreeeeheheheh
It should be said that I do not recall the first time I slept in a tent. Further, while I am sure I have been frightened in a tent, I do not recall this ever happening. I have slept in bear country. I have slept with coyotes howling, and with spiders, scorpions, and snakes looking for warmth to curl up near. I have never, as an adult, been afraid in a tent.
RRRRRrreeerereeerrerehehehe
Another call in the distance answered the cry of the first. Another, an intermediate distance away, chimed in. Whatever creature was making that terrible noise was travelling through the campground in a pack. I thought about what wild animals live in the forests of New Zealand, nothing large. There are no large mammals on the island, but there are wild boar. I wondered to myself, "how big does a boar really need to be? Javalenas are not really large, but they can be vicious. Javalenas travel in packs. This could be a pack of wild boar"!
"Not to worry," I thought to myself, "the creatures will just wander through camp." "It doesn't hurt to have a contingency plan," Zoe from Firefly said in my mind. I took inventory of what I had in my tent that could work as a weapon. I decided my best defense, should a pack of wild boar attack the tent, was a pair of Converse. The odds did not seem in my favor.
I changed tactics. I focused on thinking about the non-scary alternatives, "it could be birds, or maybe a possum, but probably birds." Birds are not scary. I started trying to calm down, thinking, "They're birds, they're birds, birds, birds"—
SSSccreeeeRREEErereeerreeeheheheheh
I was way beyond calming myself down. I was freaking out, scared, for the first time, in my tent. I could not calm down. The fact that I was scared made me more scared. The fact that I was more scared made me more scared that the demonic "birds" would be able to detect fear oozing from my tent. I decided to take action. These creatures probably did not realize that I am larger than they are, and that I claimed this territory by paying my $15 fee. I decided that if they saw me, they would understand their mistake, and leave.
I put on my headlamp, unzipped my tent, and, in an act of absolute bravery, stuck out my head. I saw...trees. On the other side of my tent, I saw my car. I went back to the trees. My well protected tent spot was also without any defensible space. "See, birds," I lied to myself as I laid back down. It was quiet outside, I relaxed, and realized that even if I was to calm down, I had to pee. The only way that I could possibly sleep at all was to get up, walk to the loo, and empty my bladder.
I laid in the quiet darkness, psyching myself up for the most harrowing urination ever attempted by humans. The source of the noise seemed to have left, or had it? I could hear... footsteps in the brush. Whatever these creatures were, at least one was close enough so that I could hear it walking. I ran through how to thwart the attack with a pair of purple Converse in my mind. The soft rubber sole would arc delicately back as I swung it through the air. The brilliant white toe cap would slap into the pink, fanged, toothy snout of the boar, like a hipster Indiana Jones' whip. The pig would squeal, and run in terror of my fashion forward pummeling. One thought stayed with me through all of this, with increasing urgency there was one truth to the situation. I had to pee.
The cacophony of the devil-creature choir briefly resumed, then stopped. I decided that if I was to be the first person killed by a wild animal while camping in New Zealand, I would die without wetting myself before hand (or at least while attempting to make it so I wouldn't wet myself).
I got dressed, turned on my headlamp, and climbed out of my tent. I thought of the dude in the internet video who sat calmly while a gorilla checked his hair for insects. I channeled that calm. I looked around, and saw nothing. I stepped from my alcove into the road, and looked again. I saw eyes, eyes that were staring at me.
I looked directly into the eyes of an indignant possum. I stared it down, uncomfortable that I let something the size of a house cat frighten me. It, apparently, annoyed that I should be so bold as to have disrupted its mission of terrorizing campers. Eventually, it turned, and sauntered on. I used the restroom, climbed back into my sleeping bag, and drifted back to sleep, comfortably armed with my new found knowledge of possum calls, and my Converse sneakers.
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