The camper van ahead of us blows away into the field. We watch in shock and disbelief as the fierce wind upturns it and drags it through half a mile. Our hulk of a bus quivers like a frightened kitten. What is happening? "Is it an earthquake?" we wonder, as this region, seated on the Alpine Fault line, is prone to such vagaries of nature. The bus driver accelerates harder and pushes against the angry wind till the sheriff’s jeep stops us. “The roads are closed up north. You'll have to turn back," he instructs. Trying his luck, the driver keeps on for a couple of minutes and screeches to a halt. “We have a situation here. The gale storm’s getting stronger and I am afraid we can’t get to Greymouth today,” he informs apologetically, as the bus keeps shaking maniacally. All of us look aghast. We have a train to catch... The Tranz Alpine, which is said to be one of the most scenic rides in New Zealand. And that’s how we also get to Christchurch to board our flight back the next evening. There’s panic all around as we are driven back to our respective accommodations in Franz Josef.
Named after the glacier it houses, Franz Josef is a scenic resort town. It’s a small place with a small population and a toddler's handful of hotels, restaurants and a well-stocked department store. My gang of girls and I got here two days ago from Queenstown with plans of heli-hiking, glacier valley walking, skydiving and getting pampered at the specialty spas. Along with our enthusiasm we also brought the sullen rain that piled on, and was nasty enough to ruin all our plans. We did manage glacier valley walking, where we trekked up an uneven forested terrain, through gushing waterfalls, gurgling streams and massive chunks of ice towards the glacier. We sneaked past the ‘No Trespassing Point’ to a zone that’s seldom received footsteps. A large snow cave sits there looking forlorn. Just as we began photographing it, rocks of all sizes started falling around us. “That's why this place is off limits,” explained the guide as he flocked us back to safe territory. After that we entertained ourselves with a humongous meal at one of the cafes, quad biked through the rain with our teeth chattering, shopped for accessories with their special bluish-green paua stone and got sozzled by the fire at a charming little bar with other revellers playing the guitar and narrating tales of their travels. But that was when we were blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
Back to the present scenario at our resort’s reception. It’s a scene of chaos with harried travellers trying to book rooms and make frenzied phone calls. There’s no room free till 2 p.m. and it’s only 10 a.m. now. So we wait at the lobby. Looking for another accommodation is not an option as there are just a handful here, of which this place and another are the proper luxury hotels, the rest are motels and hostels, and are already occupied. The general manager of the hotel, a very good-looking man, shows us the direction of the storm. “It’s only going to get worse. I suggest you wait till tomorrow.” A brave few still manage to board a bus and head in the opposite direction back to Queenstown. Did they manage to reach? We aren’t sure. We stay back, gripped in uncertainty, and try to contact our travel agent in Auckland and India to rework our tickets. The time difference only makes it harder. It’s 3 a.m in India and our agent is fast asleep. We call the local agent and he’s just as confused as us. So we wait.
Outside, the wind gains momentum. The trees sway like they are part of a high octane metal band; the clouds glide past menacingly like the dementors in Harry Potter and stray objects fly around looking lost.
Hours pass by and after a piping hot lunch of venison steak and wine we check into our rooms where we are prisoners till the next day.
By early evening, the restaurants and cafes pull down their shutters. The howling wind bangs against the large glass windows. The lights in the hotel flicker dramatically like a scene out of a horror flick. We are lucky we have electricity. The smaller hotels have no such luck with their guests spending the night fumbling in the dark. After numerous calls, we mange to book a cab that agrees to drive us across to Greymouth the next morning. It takes around three hours and the charge… well let’s not even go there. We agree and wait.
Next morning is a disaster. The phone lines are dead, there’s no mobile connectivity and the cab doesn’t turn up. Like the last few survivors in a disaster film we know we have to get out of here, and soon. After much running around we find a bus that’s full, but the driver, who resembles a rock star from the 80s, graciously allows us onboard and we manage a few seats. The roadsides are lined by broken trees and damaged electric poles. The meadows have ravaged houses, buildings with missing roofs and distressed folks milling about. It begins to rain. “You lot are lucky you are getting out of here now. A fiercer storm is expected by the end of day,” informs the driver. With silent prayers and fingers crossed we reach Greymouth. After switching buses we reach Christchurch just in time to board our flight. “Storm evacuees?” Yes, that would be us, and in we proceed through the security checks and aboard the plane for a long and turbulent flight back home. Snuggling under a quilt, as I help myself to warm cookies and fruit cake, it finally dawns on me what escape from paradise actually means.
