On the South Island time seems to have a different meaning from anywhere else in the world. While travelling through the Caitlins in the middle of sheep territory (which is frankly ninety percent of this island), we were running out of gas when we rolled into a gas station that looked transported from the American Deep South in the early ’50s. An “Open” sign swung from a metal bar. Behind two rusty gas pumps stood a white clapboard building listing slightly with a faded sign that read “Melvin’s Garage.” We waited for someone to help us and then got out of the car to peer into the garage’s broken windows. No sign of life.
Malcolm walked to a small weathered cottage next door and rang the bell. Mr. Melvin himself appeared, wiping his mouth. His suspenders were loose and his flannel shirt was untucked. We explained our situation and he explained his. His station was closed from noon till one o’clock for his lunch. Every day. But it was 12:10. Did he really expect us to wait fifty more minutes for a fillup? Yes. So that’s what we did.
The other night in Dunedin, Malcolm was visiting a bar to listen to a local jazz band and I snuck in to get him, leaving the kids outside on the sidewalk. The band’s bass player motioned through the window for them to come inside. The kids walked in sheepishly and I expected the bartender to ask me to escort them out. Well, he came up, but to ask if they wanted something to drink. The kids sat up a bit straighter and quietly asked for a Coke. Fraser fit right in the scene, requesting the band’s saxophonist to play “Witchcraft,” a song written by his godfather, Cy Coleman.
The greatest show of courtesy and thoughtfulness we’ve seen so far quite possibly saved our lives. We had travelled roughly 1,500 kilometers in our rental car when we arrived in Dunedin. Our motel manager notified us that one of our tires had a slow leak, so Malcolm took the car across the street to a gas station. The attendant didn’t like the look of the tires and suggested we go to the local Firestone dealership. I frankly would have ignored it, but Malcolm drove us over to the dealership at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. Pete, the mechanic, took a look, furrowing his brow while Malcolm turned the wheel back and forth. He then brought the other mechanic, Scott, over for a consultation. Very quickly Scott said the tires were faulty and should be replaced.
“But how?” Malcolm asked. “We rented the car is up in Christchurch” (400 kilometers away).
“Easy,” replied Scott. “I’ll just put four new tires on now.”
“But how will you get paid?” Malcolm asked again.
“Well I probably won’t, but I’ll send these tires back. They are defective. We close at five so why don’t you go have a look at our new renovated train station and come back then?”
Malcolm and I stood with our mouths open in disbelief. Sure enough, when we returned shortly before five, four new tires were on our rental car, ready to go. Scott wouldn’t hear about payment, but wished us good luck for the rest of our travels.
See why we love this place?
