Without the van, my husband and I had no urgent reason to live in Wellington. The short European adventure we had planned soon became much more.
O ne evening in , a group of joyriders stole our van, named The Colombian, from a street outside Wellington, New Zealand. My sister-in-law was the first to notice and she alerted her husband, Ant, who immediately drove off in search of it. When he spotted the van parked on the beach, he called the police, who then gave chase as it drove off. After running a few red lights, the joyriders lost control and smashed into a building. The police caught the six joyriders β three girls in the front and three boys rattling around in the back.
This van meant so much to us. Two years earlier, Dave, then my boyfriend, had bought it before I went to visit him in New Zealand and converted the back into a mini home: a bed that folded into a sofa, a cooler box that ran off the cigarette lighter, and a portable gas cooker. We spent the summers of and on a road trip around the South and North islands.
The Colombian was at the centre of everything. At night, parked on beaches watching striking sunsets, we would make plans for our future. I had never thought to live in any country other than mine, but after travelling around New Zealand, I was head over heels for these two small islands on the edge of the world. The van had such significance to us that we decided to keep it β after all, we would be back in New Zealand in a couple of years. The theft of the van ended up changing the course of my life.
Every door I tried to open was shut in my face. It took me two years to find my way, and three to feel as if I belonged. He almost fell off his chair. London was meant to be a stop on the way, not the destination.
