IMAGES: ALAMY; GETTYI
n February 2011, I was in New Zealand to
research a set of features. It was a tricky
time to be there. A week earlier, an
earthquake had savaged Christchurch, but
I’d crossed the planet anyway and found a
country dealing with its di culties in a calm
manner. I’d explored at length, even to the
foot of Mount Cook, then gone farther south
to Queenstown.
Perhaps it was the hot a ernoon, but on
realising I’d arrived in the city early, with a
three-day stay ahead of me, I’d had an urge to
keep driving. Suddenly, the idea of dashing
to Lake Te Anau, 110 miles south-west,
seemed feasible. I could be waterside for
sunset and back in Queenstown for dinner.
A 220-mile round trip in a few hours? Why
not? I had half a tank of petrol. In my wild
enthusiasm to keep moving, I stopped to add
a splash more, using the NZ$30 (£16) in my
wallet — not pausing to think that this was
the only Kiwi cash on my person, nor that the
meagre purchase had merely pushed the
gauge to three-quarters full. I was lost in the
urgency of the daydream: sighting Lake Te
Anau at 6pm as it turned a golden hue.
It was as I was retracing my tracks that I
realised I’d underestimated my fuel needs.
But I’d spotted a petrol station in little
Mossburn when I’d sliced through the town
three hours earlier. No need to panic. I pulled
back into what, at 4pm, had been a beehive.
Now the place was deserted, including its
petrol station. I had no chance of making it
back to Queenstown — less still of locating a
hotel when my car could conk out anytime.
Then Margaret appeared, picking up a
free newspaper outside the supermarket.
Probably in her early 70s, she seemed an
implausible saviour. But nobody else had
passed me in 20 minutes.
“Do you know where I can buy petrol?”
I called across the car park.
She looked up, unperturbed by the random
man shouting at her. “Alan’s out tonight,” she
said, glancing at the shuttered gas station.
“Wedding anniversary.”
“Is there anywhere else?”
“Yes, in Limehills,” she replied. “Thirty
miles from here. That’ll be shut too.”
I explained my predicament, and why I
was loitering in her quiet corner of the South
Island. She peered at me with incredulity.
“Shouldn’t a travel writer know how to
travel?” she asked, shaking her head. “Still,
you’re in luck. I’ve a gallon of petrol in my
garage for my lawnmower. I’ll sell it to you.” WORDS BY CHRIS LEADBEATER
NEW ZEALAND
THE KINDNESS OF
STRANGERS
A regular contributor,
Chris is a full-time
freelance travel writer,
who has managed to
visit 80 countries, 35
US states and six
continents during
more than a decade in
the profession — long
enough, you’d think,
that he’d have learnt
by now when to stop
for petrol.
@leadbeaterchris“Ah, I don’t have any New Zealand
currency,” I admitted sheepishly.
Her face chalked up another notch of
disbelief. “Well, you’re having a bad day,
aren’t you?” she muttered, and promptly
turned and walked away.
I’d been standing in the car park for fi ve
further minutes, telling myself this was not a
huge issue — I could sleep in the car and wait
for Alan to reopen in the morning — when
Margaret returned. Perhaps this willingness
to help a stranger was somehow linked to the
disaster New Zealand was experiencing.
Maybe it was because — as she would later
tell me — she had a grandson travelling in
Europe. But she’d decided the petrol was
mine. “Take it,” she said.
We drove to her house. And suddenly, as
we were fi lling the tank from a battered
canister, I was aware of the disparity
between us: she half my height and twice my
age. I could have been anyone. But she was
prepared to trust me and my story.
We talked about what I’d seen in New
Zealand, and where I’d been in my career.
And we struck a deal. She didn’t want
reimbursement, but would I send her a copy
of the feature I was writing?
I don’t know why but I ignored our pact.
I was back in Queenstown that evening. The
next morning I posted her NZ$40, with a
sincere note of thanks.
A day later, up popped an email, lightly
admonishing me, saying that we’d agreed the
petrol was a gi , and that she’d given the sum
to charity. Just the feature would su ce.
So six months later, I dispatched the
fi nished article back across the globe and
later received a Christmas card.
“I hope Santa brings you some petrol, and
a little common sense,” it chided gently.The marina at Lake Te Anau88 natgeotraveller.co.uk
TRAVELLERS’ TALES