Naturally, it’s up to the dumbass to journey up the rest of the steep, winding drive to find out if anyone actually lives up here. Gemma and Amber stay behind, keeping each other company, and I start the climb, hoping I don’t run into some backward sheep farmer.
Of course, that’s exactly who I run into.
I get to the top of the crest, my body covered in sweat, when I see a small, ramshackle farmhouse amid rolling fenced pastures as far as the eye can see.
There’s a man between it and me, holding a shotgun, a border collie at his side, staring up at him as if waiting for directions. Do I kill the punk or not, master?
“Uh, hi,” I say loudly, raising my arm in a wave. “We had a bit of car trouble down the road.”
The man stares at me. He’s wearing a leather coat over dirty jeans and a thick wool sweater, a cowboy hat on his head. His face is smudged with oil or something. He couldn’t look more stereotypical if he tried.
Somewhere in the distance, among the waving tussock, a sheep baahs.
I feel like I’ve wandered into an episode of Flight of the Conchords and someone is having a laugh at my expense.
I continue, slightly unnerved. “It’s nothing major, we just ran out of gas—sorry, petrol. We’re wondering if you have a jerry can and any petrol to spare, or maybe you could give us a ride into the nearest town?”
“Nearest town is Glentanner,” the man says, totally monotone. “Nearest petrol is Twizel. They’re both out of my way.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound panicky. Guess I’ll be going back down to the bottom of the hill and trying to hitchhike or something. “Thanks anyway.”
I turn around and he calls out, “What will you give me?”
I stop and look at him. “Sorry, what?”
He just nods. “I said, what will you give me for the petrol. I have a jerry can in the shed if you’d like but petrol is expensive out here.”
“Oh, sure,” I say quickly and bring out my wallet from my jeans. “Um, I have some coins,” I say, rifling through it. The last cash I took out was in Wanaka, which reminds me that I owe Gemma a lot of money. “I have eighty cents,” I say pathetically. “But the girls probably have a load of cash.”
All right, now I’m just saying all the wrong stuff.
He raises his brow. “The girls?”
“My friends, they’re back at Mr. Orange, waiting for me.”
I can tell he wants to ask what Mr. Orange is but he only nods stiffly before turning and walking away. I wait there for at least five minutes as he disappears behind his house, debating whether to just give up and head back to the bus or stand there like an idiot and hope he comes back out.
My patience and/or stupidity pays off and he eventually emerges carrying a small red can of petrol. I do an inner whoop of joy in my head and then start walking back along the road just before he reaches me so I don’t have to do the awkward walk with a burly, silent sheep farmer.
The views are amazing on the way down, though, just as I thought, with the powder blue of Lake Pukaki stretching out to the bare suede hills of the east and up to the jagged white peaks of Mount Cook to the north. I want to stop and take a picture to paint later but I don’t dare with this man at my heels.
When we get back to Mr. Orange, Gemma and Amber are waiting, leaning against the side of the bus, facing the views and the sun. Once they see Mr. Friendly coming, they straighten to attention.
“Girls,” I say, “this kind gentleman has agreed to help us out with some petrol. Do either of you have some cash we can give him?”
The two of them start frantically digging. Amber pulls out a five-dollar bill and a bunch of lint and candy wrappers from her purse. Gemma frowns, flipping through her wallet.
“I just have my credit cards and my bank card,” Gemma says, her voice shaking slightly. “I spent my last bills this morning.”
I look at Mr. Friendly hopefully. “Will five bucks do?”
He gives me a level gaze. So does his dog. “It’s worth more than that. What else ya got?”
Oh boy. “Well, you see,” I say, scratching the back of my neck, “we were broken into the other day and they stole everything valuable.”
The farmer walks over to the bus and peers inside the window. “Sure is a nice specimen, though you should know better than to try and take her up roads like this.” Then he pauses. “What’s that?”
I join him by his side. He smells like strong cigarettes. I follow his gaze to the stack of seventies porn on the backseat. I had been rifling through it earlier, comparing the bushes of 1977 to 1979.
“Uh, really old Penthouse and such?”