Never Accept a Ride From a Stranger
You will get hurt
Transport yourself back to the summer of 1963 in the vibrant coastal neighborhood of New Brighton, Christchurch. The sun casts a golden hue over Tovey Street, the cul de sac where we lived. It was a time of innocence and endless possibilities, where the streets and the beach held the promise of adventure at every turn, with the pervasive sounds of waves crashing on the shore.
The late Ray Colombus and the Invaders were on the radio with a track that was big in New Zealand music history of the time and launched his long career in pop music.
As a 5-year-old going on 6, full of curiosity and youthful energy, I reveled in the freedom and wonder of my surroundings. Tovey Street served as the gateway to my imaginative world, leading me straight to the toi toi and burning hot white sands of New Brighton Beach just a short walk from our front door. The air was tinged with the scent of saltwater and the distant call of seagulls and waves crashing on the shore filled your ears.
In this tight-knit community, the bonds of friendship were forged effortlessly. My best friend was Erin, the girl next door who shared my youthful enthusiasm. Together, we embarked on countless escapades, creating memories that would last a lifetime. Whether it was building sandcastles by the shoreline or building and going door to door singing A Penny for the Guy, an effigy of Sir Guy Fawkes, the man who tried to blow up the British parliament and was celebrated with bonfires and fireworks on November the 5th, every day was a new adventure waiting to unfold.
Together with my friends, a lively bunch between the ages of 5 and 7, I reveled in the freedom bestowed upon us by understanding parents. The streets became our playground, and the hours melted away as we embarked on daring adventures and played with unbridled joy. The concept of time held little importance in those carefree days, and none of us wore a watch to keep track.
The sound of a parent's call would eventually bring everyone back to reality. Standing atop the sandy dune at the end of the road, one of our parents would raise their voice, beckoning their child home for dinner.
Amidst this exhilarating sense of liberty, there existed one steadfast rule we were all taught never to break—an unyielding decree that echoed through the collective consciousness of our community. That rule was to never, under any circumstance, accept a ride from a stranger. For even in those bygone days, the concept of "stranger danger" held its place in our young minds.
One day, towards the end of winter, it was forecast to rain cats and dogs, and my mother had arranged for me to be picked up from school. I waited at the school gate in the rain as all my friends left one by one, until I was on my own, and soaked to the skin.
Nobody came.
Time seemed to elongate, each passing minute an eternity etched still in my memory today. I started walking home by myself.
With each laborious step, I trudged along the rain-soaked footpath, determined to conquer the journey that lay ahead. About a third of the way through, a glimmer of respite beckoned from the eaves of the local dairy. Seeking solace from the relentless downpour, I found refuge beneath this shelter.
As I stood there, drenched from head to toe, a sense of realization dawned upon me. The initial novelty of walking in the pouring rain had worn thin, overshadowed by passing cars that carelessly splashed water from the road, adding insult to the injury of already being soaked to my skin. It was at this moment, under the protection of the dairy's storefront roof, that a tinge of melancholy seeped into my spirit.
Emerging from the sheltered confines of the shop, a compassionate woman emerged, clutching a bag of groceries in her hands. To my surprise, she recognized me, a beacon of hope amidst the rain-soaked landscape. However, the recognition was not there on my part.
Approaching me with warmth in her voice, she kindly offered to lend a helping hand. With her trusty little van parked nearby, occupied by her three children, she extended an invitation for me to join them on their journey. Concern etched on her face, she emphasized the importance of my well-being, that walking in this downpour could make me sick.
As my gaze fell upon the van, I noticed the silhouette of children peering back at me through the fogged windows, their curious eyes reflecting innocence, youth, and safety. They appeared to be around my age, yet unfamiliar faces in this moment of serendipity. The words of caution, instilled in me by my mother, reverberated in my mind like a steadfast mantra.
A conflict brewed within me—an internal struggle between the allure of shelter and the unwavering guidance ingrained in my upbringing.
My mother's words echoed with conviction, emphasizing the importance of never accepting a ride from a stranger. Aware of the consequences that might follow, I mustered the courage to voice my apprehension.
I conveyed my reluctance to the woman, emphasizing that I did not know her. The weight of my mother's advice clung to my words as I expressed the potential repercussions that awaited me if I were to accept her offer. The rules etched within the fabric of my upbringing served as a moral compass, guiding me away from potential danger.
A sense of surprise flickered across my face as the woman gently addressed my concerns. With unwavering confidence, she assured me that she knew who I was, erasing the notion of being a stranger. She knew what street I lived in. As a Dutch immigrant family, we stood out to the locals, who had not initially been particularly welcoming. Neighbors of our first house in the area had thrown stones on our corrugated iron roof, telling us to go back to where we came from and stop trying to steal their jobs. But her words carried an air of reassurance, as she expressed her intention to drive me home and personally explain the situation to my mother.
At that moment, a glimmer of trust began to take shape within me. The notion that this woman held familiarity with my identity, eased the weight of caution that had initially gripped my heart. Her genuine concern for my well-being and willingness to take responsibility for the decision resonated.
Thinking about her offer, a sliver of hope emerged, tethered to the belief that this woman's intentions were true. What could go wrong, after all, there were 3 other kids in her car. But I also knew that I would be in trouble for going in a car with a stranger.
While I really wasn’t worried about completing the walk in the rain, the woman's argument began to sway my judgment. The thought of her stepping in, and shouldering the responsibility of the decision, became compelling.
She was a grown-up with kids and I hesitantly accepted her offer. The weight of my steps towards the van was accompanied by a flutter of uncertainty, still anxious about what my mother would say when I got home.
As we drove to my home, my thoughts were a blend of relief and anticipation. Images of the forthcoming encounter between the woman and my mother filled my mind, mingling with a sense of curiosity about the outcome.
Upon arrival, the woman followed through on her promise, leading me through our gate to face my mother, while her kids had their noses pressed to the inside of the windows in her car.
I watched as she and my mother engaged in a heartfelt conversation on our doorstep, witnessing the woman's earnest efforts to ensure I would not be held accountable for her decision. Their voices mingled, but my mother, while happy that I was safe, was angry that a woman who probably gave her children the same advice as she gave me, would persuade me to get into her car. The woman gave my mother a note with her phone number on it, for reassurance, somehow.
As the conversation concluded and the woman bid her farewell, my mother pushed me into our house through the front door with a “Just you wait till your father gets home.”
Dripping on the hall carpet, I was sent to the bathroom. Having completed the task of changing into dry clothes, I found myself faced with a new challenge—the waiting game. The passing hours stretched before me, teasingly slow as I anticipated impending doom in the form of my father's arrival home from work. Though the warmth of dryness enveloped me, a growing sense of unease gnawed at my stomach.
As the hands of the clock inched their way forward, each tick seemed to echo the mounting dread within me. The anticipation of my father's return carried with it the weight of his probable anger, casting a shadow over the respite I had found from the rain-soaked ordeal.
The thought of facing my father's ire stirred conflicting emotions within me—guilt for having disobeyed my parents, fear of the punishment that awaited me, and a tinge of resentment for circumstances that were beyond my control.
And yet, as the seconds ticked away, a glimmer of hope emerged. Perhaps, in the depths of my father's frustration, there would also be a flicker of understanding—a recognition of the situation I had been in.
As the door finally creaked open, heralding my father's arrival, a mix of trepidation and resolve coursed through my veins, as I waited in the tenuous safety of my bedroom.
His angry face heralded his arrival, as he shouted at me. He repeated that they had told me many times that I was never ever to allow myself to be picked up by a stranger. He lifted me dangling the air with his left hand, while his right hand whacked red marks onto my backside to the beat of his angry words. He lowered me to the ground, and I retreated to my bedroom in tears.
As the aftermath of the incident unfolded, my father's anger continued to simmer, seeking an outlet to address the situation and ensure accountability. With a determined resolve, he picked up the phone and dialed the number the woman had left with my mother. The conversation that ensued would serve as an opportunity for him to express his frustrations and concerns.
Hanging up the phone, my father's frustration and concern found their next target—my mother. His voice carried his disappointment and anger as he directed his words toward her. The responsibility for my safety and adherence to the rules fell upon her shoulders in his absence, and now she faced the consequences.
As I observed the interaction from the hallway, the tension in the room was palpable. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, an understanding that mistakes had been made and a need for accountability existed.
The intensity of the moment gradually subsided, making way for a somber calm. My father, having expressed himself, sought solace in the familiar pages of the Christchurch Star, his attention momentarily diverted as he waited for dinner to be served.
As the echoes of the reprimand lingered, my mother, eyes still glistening with tears, gathered her composure and made her way to the kitchen. With determination, she focused her energy on completing the task at hand—preparing dinner, while I was called to set the table. In the midst of her movements, a sense of resilience emerged with an unspoken commitment to restore a semblance of peace to the household.
Looking back on those precious years, Tovey Street holds a special place in my heart—a place where friendships blossomed, and dreams were nurtured. It was a time when the world was mine to explore, and the adventures that unfolded on the streets and shores of New Brighton Beach were etched into my memory like seashells on the sand.
Many a time, when I have traveled, or returned to live for a while in Christchurch, I would go back to look at the houses we lived in and visit the beach at the edge of our cul-de-sac. Once at the age of 18, I caught up with my friend Laura, daughter of our first neighbors, another immigrant family who lived in the basement flat of our apartment at 140 Oliviers Road, Christchurch, who taught me how to speak Hungarian at the age of 3 and drove her to the beach I had loved as a kid, on the back of my motorcycle.
They were simpler days, where we made fun with whatever was around us. A ball, a piece of driftwood, or a bucket of sand. Life is simple when you’re five.