Road map

Dunedin – Manapouri – Milford Sound – Queenstown
4 days – 739km

There’s something I didn’t say in the previous article. It’s that sitting on my headland watching waves come and go on Brighton beach, its big rock, the violent sky, I suddenly had the fear of loosing my ability to marvel. Because of the travel’s length. Of the amount of (beautiful) things I’m experiencing. Isn’t there a point at which I’ll reach an overflow?

Then come the fourth morning. I’ve set my alarm clock to watch the sunrise. On this coast, in this part of the world, I’m one of the first people on Earth to see the sun appear. February 8, 2024. I wait for a long while in a crisp air. The fine mist of the dancing water makes the horizon hazy. The sky dilutes in hues of colors that could only be faithfully reproduced by the delicate hand of a painter. Then, come the instant of birth. The emerging blazing orange, dazzling, with resolute slowness. What a moment. 

After warming up a little in my sleeping bag and swallowing some breakfast, I pack everything up again. Let’s head to Dunedin. The coasts in the morning light. There is some green, some gold, the ocean immensity, a luminous aura murmuring at my passions’ ears. For all those magical mornings, yes, I can endure loneliness and discomfort. And yes, of course I can still marvel. 

Dunedin turns out to be both a pleasant surprise and a minor disappointment. There are some major construction works all over the town, turning the city center into a noisy and metallic mess. My sense of aesthetics is little hurt by the lack of uniformity, beautiful buildings being lost amidst modern and charmless blocks. All set against the backdrop of an industrial port. Move along, there’s nothing to see, you might say.

But let’s not hurry. There’s plenty to be excited about, especially for Gothic architecture amateurs, Harry Potter Victorian ambience lovers and Art Deco details worthy of a good Wes Anderson chasers. It’s not by chance if Dunedin is often compared to Edinburg. I spend a large part of the morning and early afternoon criss-crossing the city, from the train station to the university, stopping by cathedrals and ancient houses perched high on hills. The heat is insane and I’m sweating like a beast. But I do enjoy the tour. 

2:30pm. I’ve had lunch, I treated myself with a dessert in the very cute Corner Store Café, it’s now time to start looking for a shower. I’ve spot one on the port. I pick up the van, praying I didn’t get fined. The place was free for 60 minutes. I stayed 4 hours.

Divine punishment for not respecting the elementary parking rules or just a twist of fate, the van breaks down AGAIN in the harbor’s alleys. Three times. I do not insist anymore: I contact assistance. All things considered, it’s probably the most suitable place for it to happen. There’s everything you need in a city like Dunedin. The dude on WhatsApp gives me the address of the mechanics, only 2 kilometers away from where I am. The engine stalls twice on the way. But I do reach my destination. 

A big belly in greasy overalls welcomes me, shaved head, thick accent, some teeth missing. He gives a quick look and assures me the issue is not critical. The engine won’t break down in the middle of nowhere, he says. He’ll change a part out of clear conscience, and I’ll be able to leave town tomorrow at noon, as planned initially. I appreciate his help. Very much. 

So, I can return to Brighton for the end of afternoon and the night. The sun still shines bright. I’m delighted to find a spot in the free camp that was full the day before. Just as I prefer to loop back around rather than retrace my steps, I prefer to try out several places rather than just one. And on top of that, aren’t I lucky to find an outdoor shower behind the toilets building? It’s my day!

I would have loved to stroll along the beach, but the wind blows too strong. I chill out in the van, make an attempt to boil my raviolis using my folding table as a screen and my feet get cold.

It’s day five and I’ve seen the sun rise twice this morning. The first time as it got out of the water, its sharp crimson disk already caught in a long flat grey cloud before it had fully emerged from the surface. Then a second time when it dragged out of the cloud, faster and more radiant than ever, its splendor the color of Aladdin’s treasure. I was absolutely alone. Stretches, kilometers around, were smooth and still. The sand, like a thin puddle, reflecting the seagulls flights and the dim glare of the pastel sky. The air was freezing. It was blue hour in the morning. 

Waiting for my van to be fixed, I hanged out in a café – The Standard Kitchen – and run a few errands. I set off at lunchtime, exactly as planned. Destination of the day: Manapouri. This will be my base camp for the night, before heading off tomorrow for the famous Milford Sound.

The first two hours on the road are a continuous bliss. I feel like I’m driving through a film photography. It’s 1pm, but the light is soft, washed-out, giving the hills, the meadows, the houses, the animals lovely faded shades. It’s pretty, soothing, rounded, all about curves that embrace each other. Greens, oranges, wheat yellows, the blue of the sky and the sheep that dot the scenery alternate in perfect harmony. I’ve wanted to take pictures, each time the right angle was already past me. But nothing could have done justice to this subtle atmosphere anyway. It will remain on my retina.

The small village of Manapouri lies on the edge of a lake. There are two campsites available – no free camp around. The one I’ve chosen is hidden away on the shores, just by the side of a forest. My spot is more than peaceful, on the outskirts of trees. A bunch of small midges assail me as soon as I go out. It’s only a little later that I realize they are those horrible sandflies…

My hair, which hasn’t seen any drop of shampoo for a week, is the happiest about the long, hot shower I gift myself with. Then my palate, that I treat with zucchinis con garlic and cherry tomatoes, enjoying the luxury of a real kitchen. I go by the water to watch the day die.

Rain is pouring as hell when I wake up the next morning. First day of bad weather since this road trip has begun. It’s not going to last, apparently. And I heard anyway that fjords are more beautiful to see when it’s raining, or has rained shortly before. Seems like luck is still walking by my side eh. 

Following the smart advices of the travel guide I read, I deliberately left myself some time to take the Milford Highway – long and only road that leads to the fjord. There are things to see all along: viewpoints, walks, lakes, waterfalls… I’ve selected a few spots, but truth to be told, it would take days to do it all. No sooner had I left the town of Te Anau that I already pull off by the side to capture the plains. I film through the windscreen, I drop some f*cks, I smile before the indecency of my good fortune: the sun, intermittently tearing through the overcast sky, dries the road in wisps of pale smoke that cling to the trees above the glistening asphalt.

I haven’t visited any of the places I’ve noted, but it doesn’t matter. Everything else I’ve seen enthralled me more than enough. It has to be said that this route gathers quite an extraordinary diversity of landscapes. And the closer you get to the destination, the more dramatic the surroundings become. Trees of a dark green, rock faces of a vertiginous verticality, valleys of a frightening deepness, sombre lakes of a troubling stillness. I love it. 

The sky isn’t perfectly clear when we board for the fjord cruise, but the sun is out and warm us up a little. We saw some seals, a raptor flying low over water, a shoal of kingfishers following the boat amidst bubbles of foam. For the rest, images speak louder than words.

The evening light along the road back offers me as much happiness as that of the outward journey. There are images that will remain forever engraved in the rearview mirror.

I spend a second night at Manapouri, in the village’s other campsite. It’s cold as hell. I wrap my fleece around my feet inside the sleeping bag, and I lock my entire body – head included – in it, but despite all my efforts, it’s still not ideal. Not to mention the venom of sandflies has seeped in my ankles and feet, it itches me so much, I want to die. I comfort myself on the morning with peanut butter toasts – toasters and showers being the two major advantages of charged campsites.

I set off to Queenstown. The road has no interest up to Mossburn, turns nice from Mossburn to Kingstown, then from Kingston… Pure beauty. By the shores of the gigantic Wakatipu lake, that stretches and weaves up between mountains, bright and profound blue of an humble quietness. I don’t stop much, I just enjoy being there. Windows open, music, warmth. 

I’ve been told very often that Queestown was the Chamonix of New-Zealand. So I came here with a certain curiosity, and quite a few expectations. First thing first, I do as everyone else does: I head straight to Ferg to get a burger and eat it up sitting on the wall facing the lake. Let’s be honest, in spite of the impressive line that constantly camps the sidewalk in front of this local institution, the burger is overrated. But apart from that, and the fact that a seagull stole one of my onion rings when I was about to put it in my mouth, I would still rate this moment a 9/10. The atmosphere and view are insane. 

Rest of the day plan: eating ice cream, wandering around, sitting in the grass field with my book, like a real tourist with no agenda and no goal – at the same time, I don’t have any. I’ve been there for a few hours now, and I have to admit, there are a lot of similarities with Chamonix. It’s funny. But Chamonix is still better eheh. 

Several persons I met in Wellington are now in Queenstown, or at least passing through, like me. This is the case of A., a French girl who had prepared a frangipane* at the hostel, and who left me her surplus ingredients so that I could make one after her departure (or how to keep clichés about French people and gastronomy alive and well). She saw on Instagram that I was in QT, she texted me, we met up an hour later. 

The end of the afternoon stretches out in pretty light, between our conversations and the ballet of strollers coming and going, paragliders amusing the sky and seagulls flying frantically over the boats. There is also a sumptuous tree. Of all the things here, it’s perhaps my favorite.

*puff pastry pie filled with almond cream 

 [To read the previous chapter of this vanlife adventure on New-Zealand’s South Island, click here ! And to read the next, head here!]

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To listen to accompany the reading…