It was a last minute decision - but they always seem like the best ones. I managed to convince my friend Chris that what we both needed was a break from the grey English summer. We were migrating south.
As we sat by the white cliffs of Dover, my spine
tingled. The roads of Europe are the playground of the world. Chris didn't seem convinced as we queued behind family saloons crammed with picnic tables and pets. "Not exactly Ibiza is it?" he scorned.
I ignored his comments. I'd done this type of trip before. Soon we'd be surrounded by VW campers full of Aussies and Kiwis playing the guitar, drinking, and shouting about rugby.
It was only a few years ago I'd driven my Ford Transit around Europe; the happy memories were flooding back. It took only four roundabouts to be circumnavigated in the wrong direction before I realised I was in France. Near to Paris we decided to stop for the night. The campsite was listed by the Lonely Planet as lively and fun. Paraphrased, that means a lot of Antipodeans and a lot of beer. We cranked our stereo to full volume, ready to party.
Not even the cheap crates of beer we'd bought at the supermarket could make up for what we faced - line after line of enormous motor caravans. There appeared to be no one around. We pitched our tent and waited for the campers to return.
As night fell, it became clear that lights were on in the buses; TVs running, satellite dishes adjusting and toilets flushing. They came from all over Europe to sit in their mobile homes. It was like the United Nations; a representative from every country but no communication. We drank our beer and hoped that tomorrow would be a better day.
After driving the length of France in a day, we hit the Spanish border. In over 1200km I had not seen one campervan that looked likely to be carrying a bunch of Kiwis on their Overseas Experience.
I was about to give up when I saw a Bedford van near Carcassonne. The silver fern was displayed in the rear window. I wasn't going to let them get away. I trailed them to a campsite near Narbonne. After explaining that I wasn't a stalker, they told me that they were on their way to Barcelona. Blair and Dianne had picked up their van in Britain after arriving from New Zealand and thought they'd see a bit of Europe straightaway.
They were also bemused by the lack of fellow travellers on the roads. "I thought this was the thing to do," said Blair.
The next morning my car broke down on cue. We arranged to meet the Kiwis in Barcelona. Three days and 600 later, I'd reinforced my dislike of the French and collected my car.
In Barcelona, we found a travellers' bar that claimed to be "the place" to meet tourists. Hallelujah; my long search was over - it was like Kiwi central. Everyone was waiting for an all-you-can-drink seven-hour bar crawl. Several sangrias later I established from the revellers that Barcelona is a great place to come for a day or two.
"Why not longer?" I asked.
"It's much harder to get longer periods of time off work and it costs you a fortune," Jane told me.
Yes, there were many Kiwis among us. No, not one of them had travelled by campervan. Yes, they all had proper jobs: lawyers, doctors and architects. They planned to have careers in England. They wanted to save money and send it home. The plan seemed to be to stay in London for as long as possible, live frugally and go away on cheap weekends.
"When I'm 30 I'll buy a place outright in Auckland, have some security," Jim told me. I couldn't believe my ears. Have these people been possessed by the English?
I woke in Barcelona with a bad taste in my mouth. The absinthe had played its part but that would wear off; my anxiety would not. Had I really spent a night out in Europe with Kiwis? Could the OE as we know (and love) it have been swallowed by the capitalist machine?
England has enough faceless young professionals. At the drop of a hat you can hear about mortgages from any self-respecting Englishman. We expect more from Kiwis.
The Kiwi inspires us to travel, to think for ourselves and to be free. New Zealanders are, the world over, liked and respected for their kind and easy-going manner, sense of adventure and love of life. It isn't broke - so don't fix it. You're only young once. Get a campervan and do your country proud.
* Tim Glanfield is an English freelance journalist.
Opinion
It was a last minute decision - but they always seem like the best ones. I managed to convince my friend Chris that what we both needed was a break from the grey English summer. We were migrating south.
As we sat by the white cliffs of Dover, my spine
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