New Zealand is a remarkably beautiful place. Green and mountainous, with such friendly locals. There's so much to do, as well. Caving, hiking, zorbing, tours over glowing underground rivers and through infamous movie scenery, horse treks and farm experiences, snow sports, and water sports of every description are all available for the energetic tourist. I had a wonderful time, and I only visited the north island.
So why was I grumbling all the way home?
I had to get up at 1am Brisbane time to catch my flight. It was cold and dark, being 4am Wellington time. We checked out of the hotel at 4:30am and set off to return our rental car. Said hotel was only minutes away from the airport and the return depot, but by 5am, we were still driving around, squinting groggily at our maps and GPS, trying to figure out where to leave the f****** car. The address we'd been given led us to a dark, locked warehouse on the corner of the street, and the maps enformed us that this was indeed the place. It looked nothing like the description we'd been given.
We drove in circles forever - I was very glad I'd decided to take shotgun instead of driving - and honestly gave up and chose to simply leave it at the airport. By total fluke, we drove past the actual depot on our way, and followed our instructions, now running slightly late.
We checked in for our flight, which went smoothly, and attempted to find our way to the departure gate. Had a crowd of people not been walking purposefully away through the duty free shopping stalls, I would never have guessed that you have to walk through the shops rather than between them. I must be too used to roads.
Then we were stopped and asked if we'd paid the tax. What tax? The departure tax. Oh. We have to pay to leave the country, apparently. We waited in another queue, and were hit with a $NZ25 fee each before we could move on to the ritual that is customs.
I suppose at least they were friendly about it, but they stopped me and searched my bag because I forgot to declare my sunscreen. Getting in with it hadn't been a problem, but leaving with it was more of an issue. Maybe they have a shortage. I persuaded them that taking my water bottle should be enough, and they let me go. My American friend resignedly went off for the same thorough search and destroy that she'd been submitted to on the way over. Customs don't like Americans, apparently. That isn't only applicable for NZ, though; their Australian counterparts are just as paranoid. Personally, I don't think she looks anything like a terrorist, but maybe that's just me.
We did make it to the gate in time for our flight, wondering why we'd paid for the fabulous experience not just in flight tickets, but with a tax just to add insult to injury. Perhaps part of the NZ sense of humour?
Well, the joke's on them. We only paid for two of the three people in our group at every hotel we stayed in bar one. And we stole a supermarket sign.
