New Zealand Travel diary #1: The horrors of air b’n’b 

 

 

 

by Martoons’ creator Martin West.

 

 

 

Scene: Oamaru, New Zealand south island.

 

 

 

Day 1

 

 

 

As a traveller, you never know what you’re getting with air b’n’b.

 

 

 

Hotels are pretty predictable; air b’n’b not so.

 

 

 

Usually pretty good.

 

 

 

But not always.

 

 

 

The three air b’n’bs I’d stayed in six months previous (in New Zealand), were all unoccupied houses, well stocked with supplies, and immaculately clean (except for the one in Timaru whose freezer was basically a frozen rubbish disposal).

 

 

 

The best part was my two fellow travellers (relatives) and I were the only occupants.

 

 

 

No owner present.

 

 

 

No watchful eyes.

 

 

 

Fast forward to now.

 

 

 

This time I’m solo and get off the bus in Oamaru (New Zealand, south island) to be picked up by the air b’n’b owner.

 

 

 

A friendly courtesy, I thought.

 

 

 

The owner’s name was Dez and he said that after dropping me off he had to go somewhere.

 

 

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Dez said in the car.

 

 

 

“You’ll be back?” I rhetoricated.

 

 

 

 

Delay.

 

 

 

Chuckle.

 

 

 

“Where do you live by the way?” I asked.

 

 

 

Dez looked at me funny.

 

 

 

“I live in the house.”

 

 

 

I clammed up and acted unconcerned. In my mind, I was panicky.

 

 

 

I don’t do well with roommates generally but it’s mainly during the early morning.

 

 

 

When you see my routine you’ll see why.

 

 

 

And that routine would be seriously crimped because Dez would be a room beside mine for the mornings … of the next ten days!

 

 

 

Morning one: I rise at 0400 hrs (4 a.m.), per usual, to commence my exercise/healthy snack routine, requiring that I shuttle between my room and the kitchen about a dozen times over the course of an hour.

 

 

 

The room. Weight curls.

 

 

 

The kitchen. Cut up fruit.

 

 

 

The room: Squats.

 

 

 

The kitchen: Make tea.

 

 

 

Room – push ups … etc.

 

 

 

Dez is still out from yesterday so everything is smooth sailing.

 

 

 

At 6 a.m. or so, after the grand finale of my early bird routine – creative writing – I retire for a rest.

 

 

 

I wake up to the sounds of Dez’s robust laughter.

 

 

 

Through my grogginess, I decipher that Dez is in the living room chatting on the phone.

 

 

 

I fret and utter a mild curse.

 

 

 

Now my pirouette of staying out of Dez’s hair begins.

 

 

 

I venture out to the kitchen.

 

 

 

Inside the fridge . . . scarce room for my groceries.

 

 

 

Dez has both door shelves crammed tight with health products.

 

 

 

I shuffle some food around on the main shelves and access mine.

 

 

 

The clinking of a bottle alerts Dez to my presence.

 

 

 

“If you wouldn’t mind, mate, dry your dishes and right after put them away.”

 

 

 

(I’d left a cereal bowl out from my early morning routine, to air dry.)

 

 

 

I retort with an excuse and then meekly ask if I am actually allowed to use the fridge.

 

 

 

“Don’t mind at all, mate,” Dez responds.

 

 

 

I immediately scrap plans to cook up a whole batch of spicy chicken, pork and lamb in order to not stink up the kitchen and rack up more red flags with Dez.

 

 

 

I instantly wonder if I’ll even make it through 10 days under Dez’s regime.

 

 

 

It’s going to be a long week.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Morning 2

 

 

 

This is the real thing.

 

 

 

Dez is sleeping in his room just down the hall from mine, although I don’t hear any patterned sleep breathing emanating from his room.

 

 

 

A light sleeper or . . . insomniac? I tip-toe like a ballerina into the washroom to freshen up.

 

 

 

There I discover my next horror: As I damp-down a face cloth in the sink, I detect a water pump being instantaneously activated every time I turn on the tap.

 

 

 

It makes a buzzing sound somewhere down below the floorboards; I estimate it to be right beneath Dez’s room.

 

 

 

Forget washing up. It can be done later.

 

 

 

I stealthily sneak into the kitchen for some cereal.

 

 

 

I’ve got the hallway floor mapped out as to the squeaky spots, and adeptly step around them.

 

 

 

In the kitchen, not wanting to risk the clinking of a spoon on a bowl rim, I dip my weetbix into a cup of milk.

 

 

 

Cereal done. Now wash up.

 

 

 

To my enormous relief, there’s a bucket of water on the counter as Dez has been soaking some tea towels.

 

 

 

I secretly use some of the grey water to clean my dishes and thereby avoid the annoying buzzing of that water pump!

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Tomorrow’s travel blog: Our New Zealand traveller uses Feng Shui to go head on with kiwis’ backward food culture.