I miss allure of just driving
Polly Gillespie.
Holidays were always fun. We were open to adventure 24/7. Nothing hurt. Hangovers were minimal, writes
Barley sugar and Arrowmint chewing gum. The flavours of childhood road trips every summer. It was a time when petrol stations sold petrol, oil, barley sugars and Arrowmint gum.
Dad would always buy the barley sugars as somehow they had a magic ability to stop us feeling nauseous on the long and winding roads from South Auckland to Whanganui, Hahei (my uncle owned the general store) or Orewa where we stayed most summers in a caravan and tent.
Those Orewa holidays were, I’m fairly certain, the very best days of my life. Take away the seconddegree sunburn we all experienced as children, and they were the ultimate salad days. Mum always packed a mean chillybin filled with sensible sandwiches, salads and boiled eggs.
Several thermos flasks contained coffee, tea, and Jungle Juice, which now sounds far more lethal than the sugary orange cordial that it was.
Note the main photo on this page of Dad, me, my sister and Mum departing on our traditional Christmas Eve road trip to family Christmas in Whanganui.
Dad would insist on playing either country music or test cricket on the radio. I would count blue cars, and my sister would sit pale and irritated, ready to puke at any moment. Oh, how I must have annoyed her with the cheerful chirping of ‘‘that’s 12 blue cars now, and a white horse, too!’’
Despite Dad’s all-knowing theory about barley sugar keeping nausea at bay, invariably we had to stop numerous times so my sister could vomit on the side of the road. It horrified me. I’d cry out ‘‘give her more barley sugar, Dad!’’ and my sister would reply with her head still between her knees, cars speeding by on SH1, ‘‘Shut up dummy!’’
As I got older, the trips with Mum and Dad in the Ford Escort came to a grinding halt, and I was off doing roadies with mates.
Living in Hawaii for a few years for college, those roadies either involved going to a different island, or simply around and around Oahu, camping on the beach and cooking chicken on the barbecue.
We couldn’t afford steak, so it was always chicken and Diet Coke. I don’t ever remember seeing sausages for sale in the islands. Hot dogs, sure, but the classic Kiwi banger was nowhere to be seen. We would lay on the beach on blankets. No need for covering on a Hawaiian beach at night. We’d sing stupid songs, talk about boys, eat charred chicken, and plan our next diet.
I couldn’t drive back then, so always rode shotgun or would sit in the back of Harry’s old pickup – head out the window smelling all the humid air full of kupalo blossom and gardenia, mixed with sea and surfboard wax. We were poor. The truck was pretty shady, but we were 20 and what a time to be alive.
Coming home meant change. I arrived back in New Zealand at Christmas time and had to constantly sit with a blanket around me for two weeks. However, there is something about being Kiwi that stirs within us come summer.
We feel the need to get in the car, whatever state and head out looking for adventure, old friends, or a week-long party.
I met Annie in my first couple of months in radio. We became best friends really quickly. I had left Auckland and she had left Napier. We met up in Gisborne, both knowing no-one, but quickly became ‘‘thick as thieves’’, as the olds would say.
I assume they mean ‘‘bonded tightly’’, not ‘‘stupid’’. It was summer. Annie had a car, and so we were off. We packed up Kermit, her bright green car, with clothes, booze and a pack of smokes, and off we went. I know we eventually got to her folks’ home in Taradale, but it seemed to take quite a few stops and side trips.
The photo of me in the wardrobe is at someone’s house. Not entirely sure whose, and not entirely sure why I was in the wardrobe. I look like I’d had a good night, though. Bleary-eyed and coy.
Living in Gisborne necessitated roadies, and they were not for the faint-hearted. It’s almost as if New Zealand has been planned by nature to have its most desirable spots protected by harrowing windy endless roads.
Those summer trips were always fun, though. We were open to adventure 24/7. Nothing hurt. Hangovers were minimal. Jumping in the sea in T-shirt and knickers was just part of the fun. Now I’d rather be propelled into space strapped to a
rocket than sit in a car in wet knickers and T-shirt.
I feel the nausea as I type. Where is Dad with a barley sugar when I need one?
My ex-husband Grant and I always did summer road trips, and they were always so much fun. This was naturally before children. With three young children they became torture. I think for mums, roadies are like intense slavery, plus constantly applying sunscreen. I admire the free spirits who travel long distance in the car with kids.
Somehow our family always ended up with a blown head gasket, a child with a raging temperature, or me crying, exhausted in some remote public loo.
I miss getting in the car and just driving north. Or even better, getting on the ferry and driving south. Maybe I’ll do it next week. Yikes, there’s a thought. Nothing stopping me. Who would I take? Maybe I’ll go it alone. The world is my oyster.
But can one still buy barley sugars?