Kiwi Angels

I turned thirty that year. It was the experience of a lifetime: a year’s teaching contract in Western Australia. I’d completed the mountain of contracts and legal forms required to participate in the teaching exchange program and now the opportunity was coming to fruition. The Australian school year wouldn’t begin until February 1st, so now I had three weeks, all on my own, to enjoy the journey to the other side of the world. A stopover in New Zealand would be the perfect introduction to this wilderness adventure, or so I thought.
While researching my trip, I had read about the sights and experiences of Rotorua on New Zealand’s North Island: the hot springs, the geysers and the mud holes, the bungy jumping and the jet boating, the Kiwis and the Maories. I was most interested in jet boating through Shotover Canyon in Queensland, but in the event I didn’t make it that far south, Rotorua would satisfy my appetite.
As soon as I arrived in Rotorua I could almost taste the sulfur in the air. That rotten egg smell was nauseating, but my sense of adventure saw past the foul odour as I headed into town to book myself on the next Huka Jet tour. I hired B & P Shuttle, an obscenely pink-coloured minibus, to take me from Rotorua to Taupa where Lake Taupo Hukafalls Jet Boat Ride on the Waikato River promised fun and exhilaration. It had never occurred to me that getting there safely would prove the most thrilling venture of all. Little did I know that Kiwi Tours and its pink shuttle bus would be more exciting than any organized tour Downunder.
Initially, I thought Glen had missed our cutoff. I wasn’t really paying much attention to the road. That was the bus driver’s job, right? Glen wore two hats: one as the driver, and the other as the tour guide. Maybe that was the problem. I was too busy being a tourist, amazed by the curious names of the native trees lining the New Zealand roadway. Maori names like Harakeke and Akeake tickled my tongue with their aboriginal pronunciations. Perhaps it was me who distracted the driver from his job with my barrage of questions. After all, I was the only passenger on this tour. When I boarded the bus with my bulging blue backpack in hand, I took the seat at the front to the left, directly beside the driver’s seat on the right side of the vehicle (Kiwis and Aussies drive on the left side of the road) because I wanted to hear every word. Glen welcomed my questions. I’m not a typically chatty person, but this was my first trip to New Zealand and understandably, I had questions. Glen was happy to answer them. And by the way, there weren’t any of those ridiculous signs posted above the windows, Do Not Speak To The Driver, like the ones I’d seen at home, forbidding passengers to converse with the driver for fear of distraction. Was I simply justifying my right to free speech by mentioning this point, or was I dismissing my part in this catastrophe? Hard to know for certain, but whatever the case, our haunting journey from Rotorua to Taupo was about to begin with a bang.
Despite the harsh summer heat, the grey-green foliage of this wooded highway did not seem to be suffering. I had never witnessed such monster forests in Ontario. The wonder of these leviathan Kawaka sentinels had charmed me into a fairytale trance, but when our bus made a violent turn to the right at Rainbow Mountain, I started to take notice of the road, and my mortality.
Unbeknownst to me, in the midst of his explanations of the Kauri forest, Glen was using all his wits to avoid a collision with an eastbound car. Our swerve at the intersection of State Highway 38 and the Rotorua-Taupo highway saved us from a much more serious crash with the reckless oncoming vehicle, but it was not enough to spare us. Glen blanched as his Pepto-Bismol-Pink shuttle bus was shoved into a spin and then a roll fiercer than any rollercoaster ride I’d ever known. My dream of teaching abroad was only hours away, and yet in an instant the matter was quickly morphing into sentimental details for the obituary column in the Rotorua Post. I still remember thinking as the bus began to spin and roll out of control, My life can’t end here. I’ve come too far for this. I’ve got classes to teach, and places to explore. This can’t be happening. But it was. I begged God for more time.
"Oh my God," Glen exclaimed. "Hang on, Laurel." I reached out to grip the metal safety railing in front of me, the bar that is meant to steady the passengers’ stride as they board the bus. It had failed to do its duty as the vehicle continued to spin. The twirling sensation reminded me of the kiddies’ spinning strawberries ride at the local fair, only this one had some unknown crazy carnie at the controls. Its centrifugal force threw me out of my seat and onto the aisle floor. My knapsack landed in the very back, with me not far behind. Every window shattered into crystals of aquamarine confetti inside the bus. Seat cushions avalanched from every direction. I could feel the corrugated rubber floor mat imprinting a permanent tread on the back of my neck as my legs stretched out over my head in a modified yoga plough pose. My knees were resting on my nose. I prayed the bus would stand still as a tempest of pink leather upholstery toppled over me. And yet, if it hadn’t been for the seat cushions, my aerobic dismount would have been much more painful. It was clear I was now lying on the ceiling of the bus, on top of the strewn upholstery, so I mentally prepared myself to crawl out onto the dash if need be. With that decision made, the bus then righted itself, landing on two, then all four tires. I lay still to ensure the ride had come to a complete stop, and then looked around me to get my bearings. Directly in front of me were leftover shards of windshield glass jutting out of its naked steel frame. I was facing the front of the bus. Only New Zealand’s dehydrated summer countryside had witnessed the scene. I looked quickly to the right; the driver’s seat was empty and Glen was nowhere to be seen. Only moments earlier he had been identifying Rotorua’s gargantuan eucalypts along the route to my much-anticipated jet boating adventure at Huka Falls. Perhaps he had been too distracted to predict or prevent the next few minutes of terror. Whatever the case, my New Zealand experience proved to be far more costly than the fifty-nine dollars and fifty cents I paid for the shuttle ride to Lake Taupo.
With seat cushions and passengers where they shouldn’t naturally be, it was difficult to know to where to start looking for Glen. The impact of the accident had displaced the sexagenarian driver, now squeezed up against the back of his seat, his long legs resting under his chin. Blood pulsated from the laceration on the side of his partially balding head.
"Glen, are you O.K.?" I asked. I knelt down close enough and low enough for him to hear me. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. I prayed he was still alive. I immediately removed my sweatshirt and pressed the navy fleece against the gash to slow down the bleeding.
"I’m s-s-so sorry about this, Laurel," he stuttered. Glen was weak and barely audible. "I l-l-lost control of the wheel. Tell me you’re O.K.?" I smiled to reassure him, and myself, that we’d be just fine.
"Here, this will help," I whispered, adding more pressure to the makeshift compress. I didn’t want to frighten Glen by telling him about the profuse bleeding, so downplaying the injury seemed to be the right response when he questioned the ache in his head. How did I have the wherewithal to react so quickly? I thought. At the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, despite the fact that this absorbent cloth was my only shirt and I was now standing in my sportsbra. Instinct is an amazing source of strength. A young Kiwi brickie called through the window frame.
"Is anyone else on the bus?” he asked. “Are y’all right, Miss?"
"Yes, yes I’m fine, but the driver is injured," I said. Now the events began to accelerate as other passersby stopped to make sure we were safe, their kiwi accents a reminder of how far away from home I really was.
It became obvious that Glen needed immediate medical attention. More cars accumulated along the highway; people were rushing to the scene to see if they could help. A doctor, apparently on her own tour of New Zealand, had stopped to examine our needs until the paramedics took over. She approached the bus, and announced with assertion.
"It’s alright, I’m a doctor," she said. I was relieved to know Glen was no longer my sole responsibility.

Colleen, originally from Britain, was taking a travel break before her practice started up in September. Two male tourists from her van were assigned to carefully remove Glen from the bus. Amazingly, there was no talk of head or spinal damage. The men simply carried Glen out of the wreckage without a thought of any further injuries that could be incurred by this transfer. His distorted body now lay on the grassy boulevard outside the bus doors. Colleen sat beside me and calmly asked all the necessary questions. I continued to talk to Glen, again instinctively remembering how crucial it was to the survival of a head injury victim to keep him alert. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing. My main concern was keeping my own thoughts clear and calm without recognizing the gravity of the situation. I may have convinced Glen, but I knew I was just playing a role. A role I’d never played before.
By now, my navy-turned-purple sweatshirt was saturated with blood, but more importantly, Glen was still conscious, and I was thankful for my own safety. My swollen lip, my bruised ankle, and my scratched-up hands, fingers and knees were inconsequential.
"Thank goodness for Lesley’s yoga classes back in Carlisle," I joked. "That workout on the bus was nothing compared to her weekly sun salutation exercises," Glen smiled. This wee bit of comic relief was a much-needed distraction.
By now, the paramedics had arrived and a crowd of less-charitable onlookers had gathered to gawk at the crash site. The police arrived soon after to investigate the cause. Glen and I could recall only a few of the events leading up to the accident, so we were of little help. Off the road some 500 metres from our resting spot, and hidden behind the enormous New Zealand gums, a Maori family of five appeared out of the brush: three adults, a teen, and a baby. The three-month-old baby girl was crying, an indication that she was hungry, but not hurt. Thank goodness she especially was unharmed. Two of the adults appeared to be her parents. One adult was old enough to be the baby's grandmother. They were all fine. Their red Toyota Corolla, on the other hand,
had received irreparable damage. We learned much later that its brakes had apparently seized on the descent down Rainbow Mountain’s winding road. Despite the stifling New Zealand heat and the cramped conditions, no one in the car was injured. The police questioned the teenage driver as Glen was carefully placed on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance.
"Would you come with us to the hospital, Miss, just to make sure you’re alright?" asked one of the attendants.
"No, I’m fine. Really," I said. "I am on my way to Taupo’s Huka Jet tour, and I’d really like to get going...”
I placed a small Canadian pin in the palm of the ambulance attendant’s hand; he nodded, and dropped the keepsake in the front pocket of his light blue work shirt.
“…but please take good care of Glen, and give him this memento for me. Tell Glen it’s for good luck." The ambulance sped away, and the commotion of cars soon diminished. The circus was over.
Colleen’s tour group offered to take me to the falls to meet up with the jet boating crew. The driver radioed ahead to inform the tour I was on my way:
"G'day Rob, Carl here, just collecting our gear and we’ll be there in twenty, over." Carl placed his hand on my elbow to direct me into the shuttle. I stopped at the first step.
"Oh, my backpack," I quickly remembered. "I’ll be right back."
I turned to face the crushed pink bus behind me. I hadn’t expected it to be real. There were yellow, pink and blue tour pamphlets strewn around the doors and windows of the pink tour bus. Pebbles of broken glass sparkled between the blades of brown grass on the boulevard. The roof of the bus had been crushed like an aluminum pop can. Other cars began to assemble around the site for people to take a closer look at the damage. Sky Television was on the scene taking photographs and questioning the officers and witnesses nearby. At this point, I felt strangely detached from it all, as though someone else had endured the ordeal. Mentally, I was far far away. The hollow ache just under my ribs was the only physical reminder that the memory was mine. And then it started. The tears that I’d held back all this time to appear strong for Glen were now tugging at my insides as though I hadn’t eaten in days. I hugged my stomach to pacify the pain, but I could not control the sobbing. My body went limp with exhaustion. Carl wrapped his arms around me in a strong, safe embrace until the shaking subsided.
"Laurel, you’ll be right," he said. "Glen is alive, thanks to your quick thinking. Now we’ll make sure you get safely to your tour, no worries, mate." I convinced Carl that I was fine, but after I boarded the minibus, my knees and my hands continued to shake uncontrollably on the hot vinyl seat. Carl checked over his shoulder. Colleen held my hands to calm the tremors.
"How’s about a cuppa?" Carl suggested with enthusiasm. "We can afford a couple minutes, and besides I haven’t had me tea this mornin'."
I don’t remember nodding, but it was the best decision I’d made all day. We stopped at the nearest highway rest point, then found an empty picnic table on the patio under some blooming Bottle Brush trees. Within minutes, Carl had delivered an orange cafeteria tray to our table; the single serving silver teapot steamed with the scent of peppermint tea. The tea was strong yet soothing - just what I needed.
Carl and his group escorted me to Huka Falls, then headed off to the Maori village in town to continue their own tour. I felt as though I was saying goodbye to my family for the second time. I didn't want them to go. Carl hugged me. I took a deep breath to postpone the tears.
"All the best, mate," he said.
He climbed into the right-hand side of the shuttle bus and pulled away with a wave. I was on my own. Again. This time, my independent spirit was too bruised to feel empowered by the notion. By this stage, I just wanted to go home. I’d had enough adventure for a lifetime of scrapbooks.
By now everyone at Hukafalls had learned about the accident. They had waited patiently for me to arrive in order to begin the tour and they were genuinely concerned about my safety. Nevertheless we all wanted to get on with the adventure. Yes, even me. At least on the outside I was saying yes. Chris, our jet boat driver, loaded us on the boats, then strapped us into a dinghy-like motor craft that comfortably seated eight people. A thick metal bar, much like the safety bar on a roller coaster, held us in. Within thirty seconds we were skipping across Lake Taupo.
We pirouetted in 360-degree turns to the edge of the falls, stopping just short of apparent danger. The tourists screamed as the jet boat approached the rocky shoreline, seemingly without any intention of turning away from the craggy curbs. It was fun and exhilarating, just as they’d advertised in their brochures, to sit at the base of the foaming Huka Falls while it pumped 220,000 liters per second over the cliff face toward you, then to feel the power of the 496 Chevrolet V8 as you sped through the beautiful deep green water and shallow grassy river edges, but nothing, nothing at all like B & P’s Spinning Shuttle Tour Bus Ride outside Rotorua.
By now, all the excitement I wanted was a warm bath and a soft pillow. The Huka shuttle bus took me back to Kiwi Paka Thermal Lodge on the outskirts of Rotorua where the innkeepers, Geena and Stewart Voermanek, greeted me at the gate.
"We’re so glad you’re safe, Laurel," said Stewart. "Carl told us all about the accident when he returned your sweatshirt earlier this afternoon."
Frankly, I hadn’t expected to see that sweatshirt again, and I surely didn’t need a visual reminder of the day’s events.
"Carl said he washed the shirt on the rocks by Huka Falls so you wouldn’t have to worry about it," added Geena. "He also wanted you to have this gift." Geena reached over to attach a gold kiwi bird to the collar of my T-shirt.
"It’s from Glen," said Stewart. "He referred to you as his Canadian guardian angel. He wanted to wish you well, and knew that this kiwi would keep you safe on your journey."
"Thanks to you, Glen is recovering very well," said Geena. "Now, you need to get some rest, young lady, after the day you've had."
I didn't have the energy to disagree. Geena saw me to my room, then said good night for the evening.
"See you in the morning," she said. I locked the door to my room, changed into my pyjamas, and went to bed without any thoughts about dinner.
The beams of light from the setting sun painted the hostel walls in a pinkish glow. I don’t want to think about anything pink for the rest of my life, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes, then placed the heavy feather pillow over my head for the night.
Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping that night. I really needed to talk to Glen to confirm a few details about the accident, just to make sure it hadn’t been a dream. Geena and Stewart assisted me the next morning in finding Glen’s home number.
"Hello, Glen? It’s Laurel. Thank you for the beautiful pin. I’m on my way to Picton this morning and I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye and good health."
The voice on the other end of the line was difficult to understand at first, but I knew he was straining to talk; Glen’s ribs had been bruised in the accident.
"Just take your time, Glen," I whispered.
"I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Laurel, but Glen died early last night due to complications with his heart." My legs went limp. Stewart pushed the chair closer to the telephone table to where my knees had buckled.
"I’m his son, Dean. Dad told us about your kindness and we want to thank you for being there to comfort him when you did. He also said you were very brave, and that you made him smile. I hope the kiwi pin keeps you safe. May God bless you."
I didn’t really hear the last part of our conversation; my heart was racing as I thought about my own mortality. Geena gently eased the receiver out of my hand.
"Carl didn’t want you to know about Glen’s heart attack, Laurel. Both Stewart and I promised Carl that we wouldn’t tell you. You had already been through enough. We are so sorry. I wish we could do more." A thought quickly entered my mind.
"You know, I believe you can."
At noon, I boarded the southbound coach for the final leg of my tour of New Zealand. There I spied the Kiwi Tours bus terminal. It would be my last memory of Rotorua. Posted on the electronic message board outside the station was a schedule of bus arrivals and departures. Just below the schedule an image of a kiwi bird appeared. It was holding a maple leaf in one wing and an accompanying note in the other. The note read: You'll be safe on your travels for your guardian angel is never far away.
Coach #357 pulled away from the terminal. No one on the bus took much notice of the message; they all seemed more interested in their books and their iPods and their blackberries. I, on the other hand, held my gold kiwi in the palm of my hand and kept my sights on the next destination.