Napier, a quaint little town of 1930s architecture, open-air cafes, and sunny ocean-side walks. The crystal sea sweeps in over a landscape of grey pebbles, warmed by the sun. In the distance, the lights of cruise ships twinkle in the mist. With eternally sad eyes, the bronze statue of Pania, the sea-maiden, gazes out across the waters to the west. Children splash in the cool fountain under beautiful trees that bend as if to kiss the ground with long, twisting limbs.
But at the top of the hill (insert scary music) a sinister presence lurks above the hapless city…
The Old Napier Prison. Seeped in stories of murder, betrayal, and desperation, the undulating corridors, twisted by the 1931 earthquake, echo with the ghosts of the long forgotten. The names of men locked away from the world are sprawled across the walls, accompanied by symbols of their hate and their loyalty. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse the quick movements of the resident ghost cat, who treads on silent paws the same hallways that once rang with the steps of damned. In the back corner, the hanging yard surrounds the gallows from which swings a noose, tied and ready, as if still waiting.
So, yeah, that’s where we lived for six weeks. Home sweet home. We slept in a prison cell and cooked in the prison kitchen and watched movies in what was once part of the prison mess hall. The cell one over from ours belonged to a schizophrenic who murdered his wife and kids—in the 1880s. Obviously, he doesn’t live there anymore. We played with the ghost cat that is supposedly possessed by a cat-lover convicted of fraud in the 1960s. During the day, we led groups of tourists around the prison, read by the beach, or walked around town. At night, we hung out with the other backpackers living at the prison, watching movies and going out to dinner and rocking quiz night at a local pub. That was about it. We had fun, and now we’re continuing our adventure.
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