Cringe or cute? Travel excerpts from our travel diaries

Is is a cat? Is it a panther? We may never know. Photo / Getty Images

Would you dare read your travel diaries from decades ago? In between cringing and cry-laughing, Anna Sarjeant found an NZ revelation.

In 1996 I went to Scotland on a family holiday. On our final day, my dad asked me and my brother if we wanted to go to Loch Ness.

No, we wanted to go back to the beach.

In 2016 I went to Nepal and hiked hte Himalayas. Did I see the Abominable Snowman? No, I did not.

My point? I don’t make stories up about sighting the world’s most infamous mythical creatures.

Let me now take you to 2020. I’d been living in New Zealand for eight years by this point, but I’d previously visited Aotearoa in 2005 for one month as part of my OE, living in a workman’s van.

Not a campervan. A 1988 Nissan Vannette. I slept for 28 nights in the driver’s seat. Upright. You can do such a thing when you’re 18 and only get a mild crick in the neck.

Me and my travel compadre had a wonderful time here. We lived feral and freedom camped our entire way across both islands. I promise you we did not litter the countryside or contaminate picturesque lakes with our shower gel; we barely washed.

Travel diary from NZ in 2005: It wasn't all terrifying big cat sightings.

We did, however, park up every night outside a public toilet, of which there are many in NZ – this is a country that excels at clean, readily available public WCs.

The reason for this odd habit was my friend, who would later be diagnosed with an inflammatory disease. At the time, she was unaware that she had a medical issue but hadn’t responded too well to a fortnight in Fiji. The ice cubes alone caused enough intestinal distress to require thrice-nightly visits to the bathroom.

As two cheapskate backpackers, we weren’t shelling out for a Top 10 campground.

Thus, the great public toilet road trip ensued.

Is it really a travel diary if you don't stick things in it?

Now, for the purpose of this story, we must jump to 2020 again.

One day, while idly scrolling the Herald’s homepage, I came across a story about New Zealand’s notorious Big Cat, including two “new sightings” in the South Island.

First time I’d ever heard of it.

But not the first time I’d seen it.

One night in 2005, at the tail-end of our NZ adventure, my friend and I parked the van on a very long, very wide and very dark road, well away from any town centres. We’d had an earlier fright that week in Wānaka when we’d been “moved on” by a gruff warden. Taking extra precautions, we drove far out into the pitch-black abyss and found a lone toilet.

By midnight, when urgency struck, my mate climbed out of the van to do her thing.

Having the overactive imagination that I do - convinced I’d get murdered in my sleep - I sat up, turned on all the lights (yes, I drained the battery doing this at least three times) and kept watch.

We’d made the van a little more homely by making curtains out of flannel pyjamas from The Warehouse and for whatever reason that night, I peeked outside.

The toilets were a simple cinder block building, with a lamp above the men’s door, creating a small, dim halo of light on the ground.

The female toilet was well out of eyeshot further down the pathway, cloaked in darkness.

It was then a large creature, svelte and muscular, padded into the light. Nonchalant. Relaxed. And huge.

Not a domestic cat. I am well aware how big an average moggy is, and this thing was werewolf-sized. Also, small cats don’t make my heart race or cause my bladder to momentarily lose control.

It was all of a split second before the beast walked out of the light and was once again consumed by the night.

I only remember being relieved the doors were locked.

I’ve never grappled with the fear that a domestic cat might jump through a door and gouge my eyes out, while simultaneously tearing open my throat. Another indication this was not your average kitty-cat.

My friend returned (I didn’t go to save her) and promptly laughed her head off at my ridiculous story. She ridiculed me for a few days, and I never thought about it again.

That is until 2020 - 15 years after the event - when I was alerted to the latest glimpse of another prowling panther.

I went home and plucked out my old travel diary, certain I’d recorded the incident.

Behold. A revelation. In Glenorchy, no less:

Cringe or cute: Do you dare read your travel diaries from decades ago?

For the record, I was not intoxicated. 18 yes, but too poor for a good time on NZ wine.

I don’t know what I saw that night. It was as brief as it was terrifying.

All I can say is that it’s a good job 18-year-old me was still six weeks away from discovering tattoos, or I’d have a giant black panther slapped on my left hip.

You don’t want to know what’s there instead.

But that’s another story, for another time...