Gisborne, North Island, New Zealand
Thursday, December 18, 2003
After leaving Gisbourne, I stopped along the route in the middle of back and beyond to visit some natural spa pools I'd read about in my guide book. The description given made the place sound idyllic and my poor aching muscles deserved a break. I locked up my bike and walked through the forest, following the signs to the furthest away and most isolated pool. The place seemed deserted and I was looking forward to a long hot soak with nothing but the trees and the birds for company. Much to my disappointment I arrived to find a couple of blokes already there, using the pool. I didn't much feel like making conversation but instead of going off to find another empty pool I climbed into the scalding hot water and introduced myself. They both nodded and grunted and after some persistence I managed to draw them into a conversation of sorts. This fizzled out after a few minutes so I stared up at the trees and did my best to ignore the uncomfortable silence ringing loudly in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed they were both staring at me intently. This started to spook me out and my overactive mind transported me away to redneck land. It slowly dawned on me that both of these guys looked like they'd recently escaped from a chain gang. One of them was small and skinny and sported a large moustache which hung lazily from a dozy looking face. He didn't so much talk as drawl very slowly and had the habit of petering off mid sentence. He was called Neil and had some evil looking tattoos. He kept his Wellington boots next to the spa pool. His friend, by contrast, was very, very big, of Maori extract, and had dreadlocks. He made a sarcastic comment about English folk being well educated. I tried to change the subject and told them how friendly I'd found everyone in New Zealand and how in London if you attempt to start up a conversation with a stranger they'll more often than not look at you as if you've just murdered their entire family with an axe. They both found this very funny and started saying that maybe I was an axe murderer, maybe they were axe murderers. Big man then asked where I was staying for the night. Help! As of yet there was absolutely no-one else staying at the hostel which was set someway back from the main road on its own and surrounded on three sides by thick woodland. Axe murderers. Oh Brother, where art I, I thought to myself. The only thing missing from the scene was a banjo playing gimp child. Feeling well and truly freaked out I got out of the pool and quickly made my way back through the forest to some kind of civilisation, all be it a café selling a miserable selection of pies. I saw them both again a couple of hours later and they were both as friendly as can be. Paranoia.
