New Zealand postcard

So, we went to this place to grab a pint and for me to eat dinner (Orlando — three day touring partner — was always cooking his crap meals on a camp stove). We walk in and the guy behind the bar says, “Fuckin’ tight pants bikers, we don’t serve your kind here.” We’re taken aback, staring wide-eyed, ready to be all confrontational. Then the guy starts cackling and pointing to photos of bicycles and old campy parts hanging around the place, and says, “just kidding! I used to race in the 70′s and 80′s. Sit down!” Dave (“Psycho Dave”) is the owner of the pub, our first round is on the house, I have chips and mayo and we shoot the shit for a couple of hours, making friends with all the regulars there, including another colorful Dave (“Dodgy Dave,” drunk off his ass). Eventually it’s getting dark so we head off to the beach camp area, so-called Monkey Island, looking forward to getting to sleep.

I’m in my bag for 15 minutes before there’s the sound of a jeep on the beach pulling up and parking next to our tents, headlights ablaze, loudly playing Britney Spears — I’m not even kidding — and right in the midst of all the campers. Furious, I unzip my tent to have words; it turns out it’s the Daves and our other new friend Eric (“The Mayor”). All of their licenses have been taken away for drunk driving, so they only drive on the beach. They got bored when we left, so decided to leave the bar with Dave’s wife and bring the party to us. Naturally, they brought beer, so we all got pretty jolly. The other campers were impressed, I think, that we were so well connected. Or annoyed.

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