Join Joel MacManus on New Zealand’s longest commute as he attempts to travel from the bottom to the top of the country without a car or plane.
My mission is to get from Stewart Island to Cape Reinga as fast as possible using only public transport. Wherever I can, I’ll travel by train. In areas that are too rural or too watery for trains, I’ll take buses and ferries.
Why am I doing this? That’s a great question. Because I like public transport? Because journalism is a wildly profitable industry with money to burn? Some deep-seated desire to inflict punishment upon myself? I’m honestly not sure. I hope to learn something about New Zealand and gain new insight into the country I call home.
When New Zealanders go on their international OE, they almost always choose to get around by train or bus tours. And yet, when we travel around our own country, public transport is usually an afterthought. Decades of underfunding have left our inter-city rail slow, expensive, and infrequent. Flying and driving have become our default.
However, it is still possible to travel the entire length of the country by public transport. This is my planned itinerary:
- Ferry from Oban to Bluff
- Bus from Bluff to Invercargill
- Bus from Invercargill to Dunedin
- Bus from Dunedin to Christchurch
- Train from Christchurch to Picton
- Ferry from Picton to Wellington
- Train from Wellington to Auckland
- Bus from Auckland to Paihia
- Bus to Cape Reinga (part of an 11-hour sightseeing tour of the Far North)
The tickets cost $1,052 in total. If everything goes to plan (which it probably won’t), it will take me 150 hours. By comparison, riding the entire length of the Tranz-Siberian railway from Moscow to Vladivostok, which is five times longer than New Zealand, takes 147 hours.
I’m starting at 8am today with a ferry from Oban to Bluff, crossing Foveaux Strait. I’ll be liveblogging my journey all day, every day, until it’s over.
Starting at the end of the road
This is, quite literally, the end of the road. Or should I say… The beginning?
I’m standing at 54 Thule Road. It is the most distant section of public road in New Zealand. I landed in Oban, Stewart Island at 6pm yesterday and immediately started walking until the road ran out. Thule Road eventually stops being a road and becomes a boat ramp. It dips down onto a soft sandy beach in a sheltered bay of deep blue, filled with a flotilla of picturesque yachts. If you want to travel any further, your only options are to travel by private boat or tramping.
I’m leaving Stewart Island at 8 a.m. this morning. It is a criminally short visit to a truly breathtaking part of New Zealand. But this is only the start of my journey. In seven days, I hope to be at the very opposite end of New Zealand’s transport network, in Cape Reinga. Let’s go!
Or, maybe this is the end of the road
Almost as soon as I arrived at 54 Thule Road, a helpful local informed me that I was in the wrong place. While Thule Road is the furthest away from the Oban town centre you can get on public roads, I had been travelling west. The southernmost road in New Zealand was actually in a completely different arm of the island. Thankfully, there was a walking trail that connected to it directly around the coast. It was a nice silver lining – it would have felt like an affront to nature if I had visited Stewart Island and only ever set foot on sealed roads.
It was late on a Sunday evening, and no one else was about except for a chorus of tui and a kākā that almost flew into my face. Eventually, I made it to my new destination: 134 Ringaringa Road. It isn’t as picturesque as Thule Road, and it technically doesn’t “end” – there’s just a sign indicating that beyond that point, it becomes a private road.
In praise of the South Sea Hotel
Aside from finding the most distant road, the one other thing I wanted to do in my sole evening on Stewart Island was try the blue cod at the South Sea Hotel. At least half a dozen people recommended it to me as an absolute must.
The South Sea Hotel is everything a pub should be. Warm, hearty, and a true public house shared by the community. On Sunday evening it was heaving with punters. The entire town had come together for the weekly pub quiz – and to watch the Black Caps polish off the last few wickets against India. Unfortunately, I had wasted so much time trying to find nondescript sections of the road that the kitchen was closed by the time I arrived.
I was devastated, not just because I had missed the blue cod but because I was very hungry and had not packed dinner. “Do you have literally any food you can sell me?” I begged the barman. Taking pity on me, he sold me a bowl of Back Country Cuisine beans and mince, a pack of Jack Links beef jerky, and a big bot of Steinlager. I ate on the patio, staring out at the waves lapping the sand, the fishing boats bobbing in the bay, and the beautiful little chapel on the hill. It would have been the perfect meal if it weren’t for the daunting armies of sandflies who decided to join me.
Ferry from Oban to Bluff
I’m boarding the Foveaux Strait ferry from Oban to Bluff now. My crossing yesterday was in perfect conditions with no wind and only minor swell – and yet I still felt like my stomach was going to jump out of my mouth.
The conditions for the return look worse.
A review of the Foveaux Strait ferry
That boat should not exist. It is an affront to God, Poseidon, Neptune, and Tangaroa.
There are some places that Humans are simply not meant to go, and I believe Foveaux Strait is one of them.
I’d heard the horror stories, but I wasn’t concerned. I don’t get bad motion sickness. I thought I was different. I have been punished for my hubris.
The ferry is roughly the size of the commuter ferries in Auckland and Wellington. As we set off, the captain crackled over the loudspeaker, “For those outside I’d recommend coming in.” A couple of minutes later, “Once again please come in under the roof.” Then, just as we pulled out of Halfmoon Bay, he cut the motor and turned around to address the passengers directly, “Alright, if you’re still outside I’ll turn around and take you back to the wharf.”
He left us with one final piece of advice: “Make sure you are holding onto the boat somewhere.” I grabbed the seat handle in front of me.
The first few waves were fun. The boat launched off a slope, hanging in the air for an extended moment before a grand, dramatic crash back down. I stood up, still holding my seat handle, riding the impact like a mountain bike. “Woo, what a ride,” said the elderly lady next to me. The novelty wore off quickly. My breakfast (a Kaye’s Hopgood Mutton Pie) tried to escape out one end, while my takeaway coffee (Moccona instant with milk and one sugar) fought me at the other. I saw three people vomit.
Thankfully I managed to hold things in, but it wasn’t an easy task. My knuckles are white from gripping the handle so hard. My head lolled around, my body started to go limp. It was exhausting just trying to survive.
The waves smashed the sides of the windows. Anyone foolish enough to stand up found that it was impossible to walk. Staff passed out hot towels and sick bags.
When we pulled into Bluff, I asked one of the crew, “How rough was that crossing, on a scale of 1 to 10?”
“Oh, probably a five,” he replied.
Leg two: Shuttle Bus from Bluff to Invercargill
Bluff is a nice town, especially if you like views of massive industrial buildings. The second leg of my trip is a short shuttle bus to Invercargill. It feels beautifully calm after the chaos of the ferry. I’m grateful for flat land.
A shuttle bus from Bluff to Invercargill
My trip on the shuttle bus was uneventful. It was just me and a gaggle of retired women. One of whom spent the entire trip loudly explaining what YouTube is despite all of her travel companions seeming to be perfectly aware of YouTube’s existence.
So, instead, I want to tell you about my journey yesterday on this same shuttle bus. The driver’s name was Gary. He was a classic big southern bloke who revelled in telling us everything he knew about the area. He pointed out reclaimed land, the bay where the first settler ships arrived, and the different fencing requirements for dairy vs deer farming.
Driving past a large, run-down building, Gary mentioned it was being used to grow seaweed for cattle feed to reduce methane emissions. “It all sounds a bit ridiculous to me, but I guess someone must find it useful if they’re buying it,” he said.
The woman sitting in front of me asked Gary about Stewart Island – specifically, whether she would be able to walk to her accommodation. “Well, where are you staying?” he asked. This was an apparently unexpected question because she could not remember the address, the name of the accommodation, or the owner. “I think they’re a German couple?” was all she could muster. “Oh, you’re staying with Ulrike and Manfred!” he replied. “They’re on Leask Bay Road. It’s a bit far to walk, but they’ll pick you up”.
Gary had his dog with him on the bus. It barked excitedly at any other dog we passed, no matter how far away it was. At one point, Gary warned us: “Coming up here, he’ll start barking soon”. Ten seconds later, the dog jumped up on the dashboard, yapping its head off. The reason: there was a house with two statues on the lawn. I think they were meant to be lions, but they kind of looked like dogs – at least enough to trick this little woofer.
Help! I’m stuck in Invercargill
It turns out there is only one bus per day from Invercargill to Dunedin, and I’ve missed it. The next one leaves at 8:25am tomorrow.
So yeah, the trip is off to a poor start. I could have taken the evening ferry from Stewart Island instead and enjoyed a full day of nature walks and blue cod. Instead, I get to experience the wonderful sights and cultural experiences of Invercargill.
Look, I’m not mad at Invercargill. Invercargill has done nothing wrong. I’m just frustrated with myself… for being in Invercargill.
I went to a shop called Art Fun Wear, which sold fake NBA Jerseys (mostly Steven Adams Oklahoma City Thunder and, for some reason, Victor Oladipo Indiana Pacers). I bought this pink shirt that says “Invercargill Forever”. Hell yeah, brother.
What is “public transport”?
A couple of people have asked how I define “public transport” for the purposes of this trip. I set myself the parameters that it must be a ticketed service available to any member of the public and running on a regular timetable. Technically, that definition includes flights, but that would defeat the point.
There are some ferry/water taxi services in Stewart Island that could have taken me further south, but they only run when chartered, so they don’t count.
Public transport does not necessarily need to be publicly owned (in fact, many of the world’s best services are not). The Foveaux Strait ferry and the shuttle bus I took to Invercargill are both owned by RealNZ. I’m taking KiwiRail trains, the famously reliable InterIslander ferry (also owned by KiwiRail), and InterCity buses (owned by Entrada).
The final leg of the journey is an 11-hour round-trip sightseeing tour from Paihia to Cape Reinga and back. It is definitely a tourist offering rather than a useful transport service – but you could say the same thing about the trains. It runs every day, so I decided it counts as a regular ticketed service.
The Invercargill history curriculum
This is the entire world history course taught at schools in Invercargill. The Treaty of Waitangi, Burt Munro’s very fast motorbike, and the invention of cheese rolls. There is no need to teach anything else because nothing else important has ever happened.
Correction: this is not true. Schools in Southland also teach students about one other significant historical event, which took place in the late 1930s and early 1940s: the time Southland held the Ranfurly Shield for a record eight years, 10 months and 23 days from 1938 to 1947.
Seeing the sights of Invercargill
Considering I’m stuck here until tomorrow, I’m trying to make the best of it. I’m taking myself on a walking tour of Invercargill’s best tourist attractions.
This is a big water tower. It is made out of bricks. It says “Invercargill Waterworks” on the side. I need to find a public toilet soon or I’m going to start my own “Invercargill Waterworks”.
St Mary’s Basilica
This is St Mary’s Basilica. It is a very pretty Catholic church. In fact, it’s probably my favourite in New Zealand.
This is what it looks like on the inside:
I said a prayer asking that I will be able to leave Invercargill soon.
Fleming & Company
Look! It’s the factory where they make heat pumps and left-handed Test openers.
I’m not allowed in the Victoria Railway Hotel
As part of my public transport-themed journey, I wanted to visit as many railway hotels as possible. Like most towns in New Zealand, Invercargill has one: Victoria Railway Hotel. Unlike most towns in New Zealand, when Invercargill says “hotel”, it actually means “hotel”, not “pub”.
A sign on the door informed me that it was a private hotel and only guests were allowed in the bar. I slunk away, dejected.
Mourning the death of the Southland trains
The sad irony of Invercargill’s terrible public transport infrastructure is that a perfectly good train track sits right there, barely used. Rails reach all the way from Bluff to Whangārei, but passenger trains are not available anywhere north of Auckland or south of Christchurch.
Decades of underfunding and neglect have left New Zealand’s regional rail network as a barely functioning shell of its former self. The few options for passenger rail that remain are too expensive to be a practical transport option and are marketed solely as a scenic trip for wealthy tourists.
The Southerner, which ran between Invercargill and Christchurch, was cancelled in 2002. Now, the train station is a half-empty office building with weird and ominous vibes.
I tried to visit the passenger platform, but it has been closed off with chicken wire. The best view I could get was in the corner next to the bins.
Welcome IN town
This is the sign that greets visitors driving into Invercargill. The slogan is “Welcome in town” – presumably intended as wordplay relating to the first two letters of the town’s name. Not satisfied with that weak attempt, they’ve also tacked on a second slogan, “There’s more in store,” which I can only assume is another IN-based joke.
I asked The Spinoff’s deputy editor and resident grammar expert, Alice Neville, to weigh in. Her verdict: “That’s fukt.”
I pledge my undying love to Fat Bastard Pies
OK, I was grumpy when I realised I had to spend the day in Invercargill. But, after spending several hours walking around the city, I’ve come to love it for one important reason: Fat Bastard Pies.
After conducting a scientific survey to find the best cheese roll in town (I asked a construction worker and two bartenders at the Speight’s Ale House), I was advised to visit Fat Bastard Pies.
As I walked in, I was quickly informed they had sold out of cheese rolls. All that was left was an enormous cabinet of fat, flaky pies, in a range of exotic flavours. At the recommendation of the woman behind the counter, I opted for the creamy farmhouse chicken pie.
It was the best pie I have ever eaten, bar none. The sauce was simple yet richly flavoured with just the right amount of black pepper to add some pop without throwing the cream out of balance. The chicken was tender and fell apart on contact, no mean feat for a chunk of white meat in a pie. The bacon wasn’t just there for attention – it added a smoky depth that elevated the whole arrangement. It was hearty, spirit-warming and everything a great pie should be. Oh – and the pastry! Incredible. The right mix of flaky and stodgy, airy but tactile; it’s a precise balance that very few pies manage to hit, but Fat Bastard Pies are throwing bullseye every shot. I could not recommend this place enough.
Fat Bastard Pies Forever.
Invercargill Forever.
Day one done
I’m heading back to my accommodation for the night. Thanks for following my thrilling live blog about walking around Invercargill. I’m starting again tomorrow morning with a bus to Dunedin.
