The car buff will know the Territory is a 4WD from across the Ditch. It was built so that an urban Aussie can don the Akubra, peep in the vanity mirror, then pop out for crocodile shooting. To prevent myself spouting unsolicited advice — ‘‘it may be chippier in sports mode, dear’’ — I concentrated on reading my recovery guide. Translated for the Jack Russell, it would direct: "Don’t drink or bark for a week, and chase slower rabbits."
I can manage the rabbit bit.
"You’ve had this car a long time," observed the Duchess, as she expertly changed lanes.
"It’s time you sold it."
"What? Dump her? SELL? God, it’s only done 80,000 and these things are built to last," I protested.
"Besides, it’s the Ghia. They never changed the bodywork. When I wash it, it can pass as new."
"Sorry, but your car’s old. It’s got shabby."
Well, to a point, but there’s nothing a car detailer couldn’t hide for a fortnight. The only true drawback with the ’05 is its gizmology. This changes so quickly, that driving any ’05 car is like setting sail in the Endeavour. There’s no TV display to picture you reversing over elderly shoppers, no smartphone hub, no inbuilt GPS, and no whizzer to beam your wozzer. Heavens, it’s so low tech, we’re listening to an audio book on CDs.
But a Lapsley is not easily separated from his motor. We’re loyal car wonks. Consider my Territory’s companion — an ageing tart dressed up as an XK8 Jaguar convertible. It’s only purposes in life (besides looking like Marilyn Monroe stuffed into a Chanel suit — and amen to that) are getting speeding tickets . . . and passing warrants of fitness.
Sell? Not bloody likely. That sorted, I settled back to enjoy being chauffeured through paradise, via Lake Tekapo, the Mackenzie country, and over the Lindis Pass. If we appointed John Keats and Barry Crump as this place’s joint poets, they may find the right words to describe it.
Content, we refuelled at Tarras and pulled back on to Highway 8 — and the drive turned into Paradise Lost.
Camper vans. A wodge of them had decided the comradely thing was to travel in close convoy. Two large Britz campers led the way; next was a crowded people carrier carrying their extra bodies, and this, in turn, tugged the entire wodge’s luggage van. Their pace was a slovenly 75kmh, and driven head to heel, the four vehicles left no room between for frustrated overtakers.
The camper van convoy turned Highway 8 into an obstructed bowel. Nothing could pass.
We flashed headlights, blew horns, and eventually I dialled 555 Traffic. Further along the road, past Cromwell, sits the esteemed premises of Mrs Jones, the Greek fruiterer. Amidst magnificent rose gardens, Mrs Jones’ fruit and nut heaven stops all the tourist buses. Our crawling camper convoy proved no exception. I was still talking to 555, so we pulled in behind the convoy, to read out their number plates.‘‘Can you also see the vehicles’ occupants?’’ asked the 555 woman. (She’d been doing a good job).
"Yes, they’re getting out. There’s at least a dozen," I told her.
"Tell me — is there anything distinctive about the group?"
Distinctive? What did she mean? Well they were distinctly selfish, they were dangerous, they were ignorant. But they weren’t wearing funny hats. They weren’t the Ashburton Rotarians, or the Arrowtown Bowling Club.
"What do you mean by ‘distinctive’?"
I asked. She chose her words carefully.
"Is there something about this group of people that stands out? Something that makes them different?"
Then the penny dropped. I hand it to the bureaucrats. Bless them, they’d found the perfect way of being ‘‘correct’’, while still asking the hot potato tourist road question.
"Oh, I see. ‘Distinctive.’ Well, they appear to be Indian."
The Duchess, meanwhile, had been offering pearls of wisdom to their navigators.
"Did you get anywhere?"
I asked. She shook her head.
"I don’t think they understood. They kept saying ‘No big deal’."
No big deal? On the road nearby were 31 rich revheads taking their 350kmh McLaren supercars on a rumble through the South. I know which wodge of vehicles is less likely to bump you off.
● John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
