Angels Don’t Have Facebook – The Night I Almost Became Homeless in Wellington

The unknown can’t be prepared for, yet true adventure demands we face it anyway. In that facing, we discover our greatest peril is often our own limitations, our ignorance, our weaknesses as they are revealed to us. But when we journey by faith, God intervenes where natural abilities fail. This is a story of one such intervention.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. – Hebrews 13:2 KJV

I left Auckland’s security, and that of Flint and Joy, as I headed south on the InterCity bus toward the Whanganui Journey — one of New Zealand’s Great Walks that could only be done by kayak. The route required taking the InterCity to tiny Taumarunui, completing the Whanganui Journey, re-boarding the InterCity to Picton via Wellington where I would meet up with my “hop on, hop off” bus. It made me feel extremely crazy but fiercely independent for even thinking of doing it.

Standing on Taumarunui’s dusty main street, I saw little more than a strip of shops and the bus station. Everything was shut down except one small grocery store—I’d forgotten it was Good Friday. Kiwis take holidays seriously. I spent an hour securing five days of provisions, walking out with my oversized suitcase, daypack, and two bags of groceries.

I hailed a taxi to the holiday park. Part of me was dreading this. I love camping, but being so alone just made me feel unguarded. The park was beautiful. A small picturesque stream back-dropped against the mountains complete with an antique steal bridge.

The front desk informed me I could camp anywhere I’d like to set my tent up. Guess that tent is going to come in handy after all, I thought.  I pitched my tent strategically—enough shade, enough sun, far from groups but close enough for someone to hear me scream if necessary.

My attention was suddenly grasped by sound of a man’s voice with a native Kiwi accent, “Do you need any help?”

I turned from the shade to face a well-kept, white-haired Kiwi gentleman in the overly bright New Zealand sun. “No that’s ok, I think I’ve got it.” I answered, “but thanks for the offer.”

“Interesting accent, are you Canadian?” The man inquired.

“No American.”

“An American backpacker, traveling by herself, now that’s a rarity!” The man continued.

“I had my day traveling as such when I was young.”

“Really?!?” I became all ears to this man.

“The world was not that different then than it is now,” he responded. “I traveled all over Asia, Europe. It was an amazing experience.”

“But wasn’t that the time of things like the Vietnam war?”

“Yes, but there are still wars all over the world.” He instructed. “I’ve met backpackers who have traveled to just about every country in the world. I even once met a girl from Sweden who hitch-hiked across Iran.”

“How did she get through without being murdered or raped?”

“I was curious too. Afterall, she was a beautiful blonde with stark blue eyes. Whenever she felt threatened, she’d just start doing little things—pick her nose or scratch herself. Eventually she’d disgust the driver till he dropped her at the next stop. She traveled the entire Middle East that way.”

Advice to keep in mind, I thought, should I ever find myself in such a situation.

“You’ll find that the world is not as scary a place that people make it out to be.” His words brought me peace for the evening.

The next morning I arrived at the Kayak rental place. The equipment was older and more rugged than expected, and when I asked about the tour group, the skinny, older, male, host said, “This is an independent trip.”

“I thought this would be a guided tour,” I stated, hesitation creeping into my voice.

“It’s a self-guided tour.”  he paused. “Are you ok with doing this on your own?”

“It’s just I’m not the strongest kayaker…” His face displayed growing concern.

“I don’t want to send someone down who isn’t confident. I’ll refund your money if you decide not to go.”

Walking away to wrestle with the decision, I wondered: Was this fear getting the best of me, or wisdom kicking in? Going down an unknown river with a loaded kayak could be dangerous. What if I rolled? What if I got wet and caught a chill with no one to help? After struggling for thirty minutes, I was tempted to flip another coin as I determined this was wisdom, not fear.

I returned and accepted his refund offer, repacking all my bags again. My packing was rushed by my own embarrassment and his daughter’s offer of a free ride back to town where I booked the first InterCity bus to Wellington at 2pm leaving 4 hours to kill.

At the i-Site, I felt like a true vagabond as I reorganized my crumbled mess of bags, catching another grey-haired man’s attention.

“Backpacking are you?” he asked in a distinct Kiwi accent.

“Yes.”

“I remember those days. From your accent I know where you’re from—Canada!”

“Pretty close, but American.”

“An American backpacker—you don’t see many of those.”

“I really did not know other people did this.” I added to his indictment as I noticed a theme.

“Not many Americans do. 25 years ago I took off on my own traveling journey, met a wonderful Kiwi woman, never left.” He paused, “It’s a very humbling way to see the world.” Our conversation ended as his bus arrived.

Pondering my kayak trip humiliation while readjusting my socks next to the wet tent I mumbled to myself under my breath, “Humbling, humbling indeed.”

The afternoon passed quickly on the coach bus cutting through North Island countryside. Peace came over me as I stared out the window for hours, barely noticing day turning to night—until complete darkness fell 30 minutes from Wellington.

Terror stories from the news rushed through my head. I tried to shake them. That’s because they weren’t wise about their travels. A second thought, yeah stupid, how wise was it to travel to a city, hours away from anyone I’d ever met, on the eve of a major holiday with no place to stay, no transportation, in the middle of night? There’s wisdom for you!

Fear set in. My country-girl paranoia was fully engaged. I needed a special kind of faith as I contemplated spending the night homeless.

The bus pulled into Wellington’s terminal on schedule. I sat patiently as others gathered their things, buying time to come up with a plan. For one of the rarest moments of my life, I was completely clueless. Faith was the only thing I had.

Disembarking, my anxiety was subdued by physical exhaustion. I managed to carry both bags of groceries, my daypack, and oversized suitcase efficiently. Leaving the terminal, I entered a traditional English station. A concave ceiling greeted me as my wheels clanked across the brick floor. What I’ll never forget was the sheer hollow emptiness. No one followed me in. My every move echoed. I stopped in the dead center—silence so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Time seemed to stop. Looking left and right at two seemingly endless corridors, reality felt more symbolic of my emotional state than actually real.

My mind went to an encounter with a red-headed Brit who’d traveled the world for nearly two years and his story about being stranded on a cold, dark Siberian train platform in a snowstorm: “I stood there as the snow fell on my face, each flake melting as it hit. It was in that moment I realized I could do this. I could travel the world on my own.”

Looking at the endless corridors, I felt completely alone. But then I remembered I was never alone. Tired and loaded down with luggage, I knew I could do it. On second thought, regardless of what I thought, I was going to have to.

Time resumed. Looking forward, I noticed a taxi. “Excuse me sir, could you tell me where the nearest hostel is?”

“Right there.” The dark-skinned, heavy-set Maori man pointed to the first building from the station—less than a quarter-mile walk.

Half embarrassed, half relieved, I rolled my loaded-down self to the hope of a bed. Reaching the front desk, I flopped my arms upon the high counter.

“Just one bed please.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have any beds open,” the young blonde receptionist said calmly.

“This is a several-story hostel. Every single bed is full?”

“Yes, because of the Easter holiday. Actually, every hostel in the city is booked.”

I began pleading to God in my mind. I was really facing sleeping on the streets. With all this luggage, what if someone tried to rob me? Kidnap me? I was too exhausted to think about handling the situation.

My silent prayer was interrupted by a babbling black-haired Swede stumbling in. “I need a bed, I need a bed.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but all our beds are booked.”

“I knew I should have booked earlier. This morning I was on the computer—yes, no, yes, no…”

A flood of peace swept over me. I have never seen an angel, but if I ever encountered one in disguise, this girl was it. As I was contemplating my kayak trip that morning, I suppose God was contemplating if this girl would get a room. Suddenly my boldness returned.

“Are you sure every bed in the city is booked?” I responded with authority. “There’s gotta be something.” If not, I was determined to stand in the lobby and bug that receptionist all night, if only to keep my stuff from being stolen on the street.

“Here, I found something. It’s expensive but they have two beds that just became available. Ten-minute walk—let me get you a map.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the Swedish girl professed. Then to me: “Thank you, I’m so glad you’re here.” I did not really know what to say. I really did not do all that much.

“Well let’s take a look at this.” I instructed I held up the map plotting our course twisting it in my attempts to get my fizzled brain to comprehend a new city.

Reaching for the map, she broke my focus. “Here, let me take care of this.”

We headed out, her with her wheels, me with my load of grocery bags. At the first stoplight, she noticed my exhaustion.

“Here let me take those.” She grabbed my groceries, adding them to her own load while still managing to drag her bags, carry mine, and steer the map simultaneously.

“I’m so glad you were there tonight,” she began to ramble, telling me of her struggles to book and her plan to sleep in a movie theater if unsuccessful. I placed the timing of her story—she couldn’t decide at the same time I couldn’t decide whether to kayak that river. I could only imagine the debate in Heaven as our encounter was so carefully orchestrated. Her Swedish accent made her movie theater plan sound rather hilarious, though I was impressed—at least she had more of a plan than I did.

We wheeled through unlit alleys and under bridges for over half an hour—so much for ten minutes. Finally, we arrived.

I offered her dinner from my groceries—canned soup was easy. “Thank you for everything tonight.”

“It’s what travelers do, they help one another,” she responded without hesitation.

“Let’s go take a walk around the city,” she invited. Neither exhaustion nor my country-bumpkin fear of cities seemed to be a thought in her mind. With food in my stomach and a safe place secured, I was up for it. Besides, this was my only plan to see Wellington.

She walked around Wellington like she owned it, rattling off adventure stories. “Then I quit my job,” she mentioned casually.

“Wait—you quit your job? Just like that.”

Flying to foreign countries was one thing, but just quitting a perfectly good, well-paying job was sacrilegious to my American mind. But conviction pierced my heart—was it really crazy, or had I just been bound by stupid fears? I was ashamed of my doubts. This girl was fearless, and her bravery put me to shame while somehow comforting me with hope and courage. That night my mind and heart forever changed.

The last two remaining beds happened to be in the same room. We crashed into deep sleep.

A few hours later I arose at 5am to catch the first ferry through the Marlborough Sound to Picton. Before leaving, I peeked out the window at the sun breaking behind the sound in pink and yellow hues making an astounding Easter morning.

But I couldn’t leave without making sure to stay in touch with the girl who helped “keep me off the streets” for a night. I left my email address on a piece of paper in her bag so she could look me up on Facebook.

Surely angels don’t have Facebook, I thought to myself as I walked off into the hallway.

Interesting thing is, we never connected on Facebook. To this day, I never heard from her again.

Maybe she was.