When they can’t be bothered with sound discipline, it’s customary for parents to scare their children with fantastic lies.

In Brazil, for example, children are told that if they play with fire they will wet their beds, or that cockroaches will lick their mouths at night if they neglect to brush their teeth.

And there’s the mammoth childhood lie, one that crosses many cultures and is so ridiculous that its survival is nothing less than a miracle: that a fat old man in the North Pole is monitoring every child and delivers obedience rewards on a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer.

Despite their absurdity, to the literal-minded child they are devastatingly effective. The young adult, however, is not so easily fooled. But Australian tour operators at Fraser Island have adapted the childhood scare tactic with lethal efficacy.

The premise is simple: give a group of eight fun-chasing twentysomethings an immense sandy island off the Queensland coast and an expensive four-wheel drive truck to explore it with over three days. Then fill their heads with so many dangers and threats that no one would dream of doing anything memorably fun with it.

The briefing

The day before the trip, travellers to Fraser Island are shown a one-hour video on the dangers of driving on sand. A live person, usually a worker at the hostel that organizes the tour, then repeats many of those warnings and offers further instructions.

An example: if you drive too close to the sea, the salt water will rust the body and you will be fined at least $200.

Another one: If you make a sharp turn in the sand, the truck will flip over and every passenger will be seriously hurt.

Finally, the person who manages the truck fleet and the equipment inventory completes the scare session with photos of cars that flipped over and news clippings mourning a reckless death.

They clump everyone into groups of eight, based not on compatibility but to ensure that every team has enough qualified drivers. This also boosts the chances of being paired with a zealot for rules whose burning need for control makes sure any potential for adventurous exploration is snuffed out (hiya, Lucy).

A wild dingo menacingly strolls on Fraser Island.

The trip

It starts with a barge trip from the mainland to the island. It truly is an all-sand island where a rainforest miraculously thrives. When the tide is high or rocks impede safe passage along the shore, sandy inland tracks offer a detour.

Travelers are given a detailed itinerary and everything is scheduled. Go to a lake at 2pm. Leave by 3:30. Be at the campsite by 5:30.

This is because of the tides, yes, but since it’s policy to infantilize visitors to the maximum extent, responsible independent exploration is strictly verboten. If anyone veers from the itinerary, they will be fined.

Despite the military scheduling, enforced by a group’s self-appointed despot (still here, Lucy?), the trip is lovely. Driving on sand is a unique kind of exhilaration. Soft patches make the van lurch slightly sideways and washouts, creeks of inland fresh water that seep to the sea, can make spectacular splashes if negotiated well.

Fraser Island boasts several lakes. Some are topaz blue with blindingly white sand that rival Caribbean paradises. Others are at the bottom of steep sand dunes and beg for sandboarding or just a good ol’ tumbling.

Bianca risks life and limb by enjoying a casual skip down a sand dune.

The lies exposed

By the second day on the island, most participants realize that driving on sand is actually quite safe and that no, the island’s dingoes aren’t really interested in eating  people alive.

With minimal reasoning, you realize that when driving on wet hard sand – the sand operators say offers the best traction – much of the it sticks to the underbody, taking salt water with it. And anyone who lives in a snowy country knows that cars don’t fall apart at the first contact with a salted road.

You also learn that hurtling down the pillow-soft sand dunes around Lake Wabee won’t really cause lethal spinal injuries. Or that the rough sea  won’t drag you to a drowning death if you simply wade at knee height.

And no one that I heard of suffered a cardiac arrest upon contact with a jellybean-sized jellyfish.

Still, no one wants to take chances. The organizers’ scare campaign is too refined. Their repetition overpowers common sense.

Back at the hostel we asked a staffer why they exaggerate the dangers so much. “We want to make sure you’ll be completely responsible.” My parents would be beaming with pride.

or, The first time I drove on the left side of the road was the first time I bought a house and nearly drove off a cliff

Part 1: the charmless city

After a few days in Auckland, I started to suspect a government conspiracy with the hostels.

Grim, dreadful things, they are. Entirely practical without the slightest attempt to make guests feel cozy. The rooms are barren white with little ventilation, no curtains and the smell of feet baked into the carpets. The guests look like they’re serving time: no one makes eye contact or says hello, as though doing so would make them someone’s bitch.

It’s like the hostels were purposefully built to keep people the shortest time possible in Auckland and go spend their tourism dollars in New Zealand’s isolated regions.

Not that Auckland needs much help in repelling travellers. A hackneyed sky needle tower thing beckons, “Dumb rich tourists welcome.” The little charm it has – mostly among its parks, the university campus, and the gritty K Rd. – quickly wears away.

Example: We learned that the city’s artists and lefties gather monthly at St. Kevin’s Arcade, a tiny shopping gallery with eccentric shops and cafés, at an event called First Thursdays. We went, hoping to soak in the alternative vibe. Yes, there was a DJ. Yes, there was a kiosk with local artists’ work on display. Some half-baked hipsters milled around it. But it was entirely unremarkable. If this is the height of the city’s grassroots artsy scene, where the weirdos and creative sufferers gather, there’s little hope.

Part 2: the highway

Getting out of Auckland was like trying to leave a bad concert early, but the venue is packed and you’re in the first row. Traffic out of the city was dreadfully slow. The highway looked like any other.

Then traffic cleared. The business clusters ran out. More trees emerged in the landscape. And then you see them, dotting the olive hills, one of the trademarks of this country, of which there are three for every person, a symbol of softness and tenderness and timidity and an unavoidable point of metaphor for the nation’s citizens.

You guessed it. Sheep.

Part 3: the peninsula

Coromandel is a strip of land, probably 10 km in width, that sticks out from the North Island just east of Auckland. Lonely Planet compares it to a middle finger pointed at the metropolis nearby. We were told it’s just as lovely as the Bay of Islands, on the northern tip of the country, but much closer.

Nothing could have prepared us for the drive up its west coast. It’s what car commercials use to sell on emotional impulse when the vehicle is like any other. The kind of road drivers dream of but seldom navigate.  It’s the kind of landscape that inspires countless clichés like “rolling hills” and “languid waves.”

The canopy of trees clear to expose a breathtaking coastline where the milky sapphire sea meets deep brown rocks. A twist around a mountain obscures the ocean only to reveal it again from far above, a deep emerald against the pastoral mountains. You want to stop every 200 metres but can’t, as the rattly gravel road is barely wide enough for two.

We finally hit Coromandel Town, a pioneer mining settlement that became tourist trap with its quaint wooden shops. It was getting dark. We found a campsite but the office was closed. We took an empty lot anyway, dined on corn soup and bread and watched one of the most brilliant starry skies we ever saw. Then we spent a lousy first night in the van as the plywood panels holding up the mattress shifted and fell, taking my ass down with it.

Part 4: the tip

Coromandel has incredible smoked mussels but little else. One might enjoy the seafood fritters or the local bar. But out mission was the end of the world, the very northern tip of the peninsula.

The road got progressively rougher and I wondered if our Edgar would come back in one piece. The pots, mugs, and cutlery seemed to rattle in unison at each coarse patch of gravel. But the landscape never disappointed. We were driving a mere foot way from the edge, which was often the start of a 100-metre drop into treacherous rocks and the pounding sea. I would get lost in thought and panic when I saw an oncoming car on the right side of the road, but tame the impulse to swerve left when I realized that all was in order. We drive on the left side here.

We finally arrived at Fletcher Bay, where the road ends. The only way to reach the road on the east side of the peninsula was 3.5-hour hike over the Coastal Walkway, which hugs the mountain, cuts though sheep pastures and meets a bay or two.

We only did one third of the hike and walked back, chasing sheep along the way. We’d meet a person once an hour. The campsite was equally desolate. We dined on a rustic puttanesca and slept much, much better.