How to Almost Die on the South Island

In 2004, circling the spectacular south island of New Zealand, my baby cousin Shannon (eight years my junior and approximately zero years prepared for this chaos) and I were coughing along in a Japanese import that had clearly lived several previous lives. At the Christchurch car rental counter, a peppy young man delivered the news:

“So sorry, mate! No automateecs lift. Standard transmeession okay?”

Shannon shook her head doubtfully. I, sensing entertainment, nodded vigorously. “YES.”

“OMG. NO! This is a recipe for disaster!” Shan exclaimed.

I waved her off for two reasons: One, I was the older, wiser cousin. Two, she did not yet know that I could make a stick shift corner like it was on rails.

“I learned to drive standard in the ’90s,” I said unbothered. “Stick shifts were practically a personality trait. Don’t you trust me?” I asked, batting my eyelashes like I was auditioning for Cousins Who Cause Insurance Claims.

“…I guess,” she sighed, “it’s this or walking.”

My point exactly.

I drove first, proving that I was, in fact, not full of shit. Shannon eventually relaxed.

“Okay,” I said eventually. “Now it's your turn.”

I was mildly hungover and preferred to enjoy the sheep-dotted countryside in a horizontal emotional state. Doubtfully, Shannon got behind the wheel. The car whimpered as we limped forward like a wounded kangaroo. A few kilometres later, I sniffed the air.

“Do you smell burnt toast?” I asked. “I hope I’m not having a stroke.”

“Uh… I think that’s the transmission,” she replied, grinding us heroically into second gear.

The car had survived earthquakes and gravel roads. It was not prepared for Shannon's driving. There was something deeply suspicious about that trip. No matter where we went, wildlife seemed personally offended by our presence.

Seals charged us. Kia birds hunted us. By the look of the corpse-littered country roads, possums had apparently flung themselves dramatically into traffic by the thousands. The only creatures that didn’t attack us were the fluffy, white sheep, standing peacefully in postcard-perfect fields like they had unionized against violence.

On this sunny afternoon, we pulled over on a scenic, dirt road. Wildflowers. Rolling hills. Idyllic serenity. Shannon, still in the driver’s seat, reached for her water bottle and her supplements.

Not one.

Not three.

Approximately twenty-five.

From the organized Ziploc sandwich bags, she counted the pills out meticulously like she was about to tranquilize a horse. She dumped them into her palm, and then --- like a competitive pelican --- chucked them into her mouth in one go.

I stared at her in awe.

She caught my look, cheeks bulging. “What?”

“Holy fuck,” I said reverently. “How do you not choke on that?”

At a gas station along the way (a charming little outpost where the signage had replaced the price of gas with “An Arm and a Leg”) we picked up two ice-cream fruit bars for the journey. I devoured mine in record time, savoring each bite like it was the last frozen hope on the south island. Shannon, however, was attempting the impossible: shifting gears and eating at the same time. Naturally, her ice cream bar lasted far longer than mine.

“It’s dripping everywhere!” I complained, watching white rivulets slide down her hands like tiny glaciers.

“Sorry! I’m trying my best!” she said, gripping the wheel like it owed her money.

“Just eat the damn thing!” I snapped, reaching over and shoving the remainder of the melting bar into her unsuspecting mouth.

And that is when the universe decided to intervene.

Her gag reflex triggered, and the liquified ice cream erupted like a milky geyser, coating the windshield in a glorious chaos of dessert-fueled panic and regret. Bits of fruit ricocheted across the dash, sticking like judgmental confetti.

We collapsed into hysterics, sliding across the seats like cartoon characters on a slick stage, clutching our sides as if we were starring in a slow-motion slapstick disaster choreographed by an ice-cream-fueled tornado.

And then… I heard it.

Low at first. A hum, growing louder, vibrating through the car like some ancient, mechanical predator of the insect world.

“What is that?” I hissed, clutching her arm like we’d just walked onto the set of a killer insect horror movie.

“Shhhh… listen!” she hissed, frantically wiping streaks of ice cream from the windshield with her tank top.

The hum grew. Closer. Louder.

“What the fuck could that BEEE?” Shan muttered, and my mind immediately supplied the answer: A gigantic frigging Death Hornet, probably capable of mating with elephants.

And then it suddenly came into view.

An enormous honey bee.

Massive. Yellow fur. Black stripes. Hovering like it had a mortgage, a vendetta, and a PhD in killing tourists.

Now, I am terrified of regular bees. If one wants my cocktail, it can absolutely have it. I will leave the premises. Over the deck if need be. This one looked like it could bench-press a Volkswagen.

I screamed. Not a polite scream. A full, cinematic, blood-curdling scream, which triggered Shannon to scream even louder. Which may or may not have triggered the bee’s scream.

We did not wait to negotiate with it. Gravel sprayed, the transmission groaned in protest, and Shannon slammed the clutch like her life depended on it, which, in fact, it did. Ice cream streaked across the dash. The car groaned. And somewhere above the chaos, the bee, apparently reconsidering its career in murder, suddenly altered course.

We survived. Barely.

Shan still had a supplement stuck to her face. Three remained stuck to the windshield like tiny judgmental observers, but survival was the end-goal of that day.

And somewhere in rural New Zealand, an enormous bee is probably still telling its friends about the two, unhinged Canadians who screamed at it like it had committed a felony.

The End.