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Published: August 1st 2006
Beef on the beach
Beacuse cows need time out to relax too.I left the dead guy in a coffin back in Kerikeri and headed north to Kaitaia (exciting start, isn’t it?). What can I say about Kaitaia? As I’m trying to keep bit this short: not much. It is primarily a base for the nationally famous Cape Reinga tours and as this is what I wanted to do, I made my way to its starting point. Cape Reinga is one of the most northerly points in New Zealand. Not the most northerly point. This lies elsewhere, presumably to the north. However the cape does have a picturesque lighthouse which the other spot does not; hence, everyone heads to Cape Reinga.
From the craggy outcrop it is possible to view where the Abel Tasman Sea meets the mighty Pacific Ocean. A distinctive line can be seen where the two bodies of water collide, except on the day I took the tour when it all just looked very wet. From the lighthouse we proceeded to the giant sand dunes further down the coast where certain members of the tour launched themselves down the steep slopes on toboggans. I didn’t. My job is not to take part in these “extreme” activities but to comment on
Cape Reinga
The end of the world. For New Zealand. them with mild disdain. Leaping about dunes, jumping off things or hurtling down mountainsides just isn’t my thing. From the dunes, we headed back to Kaitaia via 90 Mile Beach; so called because it’s 60 miles long. It is one of only two beaches in New Zealand to be classified as a highway. Every so often a LandRover would appear in the distance in a similar vein to Omar Sharif’s entrance in Lawrence of Arabia.
Once the tour was over I left Kaitaia and made my way down the west coast to the Hokianga harbour and the little own of Omapere.
*
I had previously visited Omapere on my 200 mile odyssey a few weeks before so was eager to return as I remembered it to be a stunningly beautiful spot. My memory didn’t disappoint. I spent the following week taking numerous strolls along the beach in addition to day excursions to the nearby Waipoua Forest to see the famous kauri trees. On the Saturday evening I peered across the harbour and decided that tomorrow would be the day I would visit the sand dunes on the opposite shore. I rose early, packed a lunch, took the Rawene ferry across
The Lighthouse Family
Tenuous title. Maybe those people in the background are a family. I don't know. It's defintely a lighthouse though. the water and headed into deepest, darkest bush. After half an hour’s drive I consulted my map and calculated that I was roughly half way to my destination. No wonder I hadn’t spotted anyone gallivanting sand dunes from the opposite shore: it was a bugger to get to!” Determined to make it I set off with haste. A kilometre later I crashed my car.
Not used to the gravel roads I took a corner too quickly and started to skid. Panicking, I did exactly what you shouldn’t do in these situations and jerked the wheel in the opposite direction. The car duly followed my lead. “Oh dear” I thought as the car leapt from the road and off a six foot high bank. Fortunately, I ploughed nose first into a boggy field. The soft landing resulted in no injuries to me and remarkably the car started (Japanese engineers: I salute you!). I got out and surveyed the damage. Once I had removed half a paddock from the front grille I decided that, although my car had looked distinctly better five minutes before, the field had been forgiving and the wagon was still presentable. My good fortune now turned into a
problem in that I was now stranded in a mushy field. It would be impossible for me to come out the way I came in unless my car suddenly took on Disneylike qualities and sprouted wings. I searched for a gate in which I could drive out but was dismayed to find the only exit on the other side of a particularly marshy stream. However using logic that I still feels stands up to hard reasoning I decided that I had two options. One: I leave the car where it was, in which case I would have to find help in the form of a 4x4 vehicle to pull it up onto the bank. Or two: I cross my fingers and make a crazy dash across the quagmire, in which the worst-case scenario would be that I would become stuck and have to get a 4x4 vehicle to extract me from the bog. I decided on the latter option. I started the engine, slammed my foot down and lurched across the New Zealand countryside. Of course I got stuck in the stream but for the briefest of moments, before I had reached the very softest ground, I believed everything was
going to be OK. I got out of the vehicle and walked to the nearest farm that was thankfully a mere five-minute stroll away. I explained my situation to the farmer who was surrounded by squealing pigs and barking dogs. With a deeply unenthusiastic response he said he could get his friends Ros’ tractor to help me out “…but first I have too feed my cows”. This he did whilst I sat on a nearby fence like a lemon, all the while being stared at quizzically by numerous sets of piggy eyes. Once he had finished we collected the tractor, which I was relieved to find, was a very big (with agricultural machinery I find size does matter). Fearing that this too might become stuck we then constructed a long tow-rope to pull my vehicle free consisting of a chain (excellent), some rope (very good) and, more desperately, metre-long lengths of plastic washing line lashed together (literally the weakest link).
After several mud-splattering attempts the bog finally relinquished its swampy grip. My car emerged triumphantly, much to the delight of myself, Sam the farmer, Sam’s son and a man on a horse who turned up to watch the entertainment.
I
Mentalists
I didn't want to find sand in various places for weeks on end so I didn't do this. Poor excuse but I'm sticking to it. gave Sam my thanks and drove off in the direction of Omapere thinking that, all things considered, the car and I had escaped relatively unscathed. I spoke too soon. Ten kilometres later the vehicle came to a spluttering halt. I opened the bonnet to find much hissing steam and an ever-increasing pool of liquid forming under the engine. Even with my limited knowledge of automobiles I knew that this was not good. I collected my belongings and set off on the long trudge back to the Rawene ferry.
Occasionally a car would appear and I would stick out my thumb, more in hope than expectation. My doubts were well founded. With my trainers and trousers caked in bog ooze I did not look ideal hitchhiker material. As vehicle after vehicle passed me by I feared that it was my appearance that was putting off potential rides. In a bid to rectify this I climbed down the roadside and stood ankle deep in a ditch to clean myself up. Could I sink any lower? Of course I could. With one leg “cleaned” I heard a car engine in the distance and scrambled up the ditch to flag it down. I must
90 Mile beach
That's a lot of beach and not a kiss-me-kwik hat to be seen. have looked like a demented idiot. Part man, part troll waving several plastic bags around whilst wearing a fetching pair of slacks: one leg soaking wet, the other filthy.
Amazingly the 4x4 slowed to a halt and a face appeared. It was Ros: the gentlemen kind enough to lend us his tractor!
“Hop in, we’re just heading to a pig competition” he said.
“Pig competition?”
Ros motioned to the back of his truck where a large, wild boar lay dead.
“I see”
For the next 45 minutes I was then given a lesson in the world of pigs: hunting them, gutting them, entering their carcases into competitions to find the heaviest, or the longest, or the boar with the largest tusks around. Ros suggested that I return with him and his family that evening to see if they could fix my car. I agreed. It looked like I was going to a pig comp.
*
I walked into the pub having changed my attire. I was now wearing my cleanest clothes that were also covered in mud but crucially, slightly less mud than that morning’s wardrobe. The atmosphere was tense. Once you decide to submit your pig to the competition
Omapere
These dunes will haunt my dreams to the day I die. And not in the good way. That aside, nice sunset. it becomes the property of the pub so it may be auctioned off afterwards. If you don’t think your porker stands a chance it is best not to enter thereby keeping the carcass for bacon, chops and other piggy-related treats.
The locals eyed me with suspicion. “Is the stranger here to compete? Is his pig bigger than mine?”
I bought a pint, sat down and waited for Ros to appear, which he did wearing an anxious look on his face.
“No-one has submitted yet. I can’t tell if I stand a good chance” he grumbled.
For the next hour we played a waiting game; seeing if anyone was brave enough to compete first. Finally a crowd gathered outside.
“Looks like a pig’s going up” said Donna, Ros’ wife.
We both went outside to see Ros’ specimen being strung up on a meat hook (incidentally I apologise for writing what in hindsight appears to be innuendo-strewn filth. It seems you can’t write about pigs without coming across like “Carry On Porking”). Ros’ entry certainly looked impressive and came in at 62kgs.
As expected, once one pig was up, more followed. Four more were entered and the timber frame holding the boars
Te Matua Ngahere
The fatest Kauri tree in the land and a logger's dream. resembled a macabre washing line.
The deadline passed, measurements were made and the winners announced. Ros’ pig came in third and was also the pig closeset to the average weight in the competition. For his trouble he won 200 dollars, some clothes and a pool cue (I assume if you win the weekly pool comp the prize is a pig).
After the auction (most went for around 80dollars) we raced off to catch the last ferry to Kohekohe. On the way back Ros and his brother stopped off at my car and attempted to revive it. After filling the radiator with water and some vitally important engine tweaking it was decided that the car should be towed to a nearby carpark where it could be looked at the following morning. This was duly done and I stayed at Ros and Donna’s house watching wrestling on TV with their three kids before retiring to bed, exhausted by the days events.
*
The next day Ros and I headed back to my car and waited for a buddy of his who was “a little bit handy with things like this”. However he wasn’t handy enough, as after half an hours toil under
Mount Hauturu
680m tall and my legs felt every metre as I went up. the bonnet he emerged defeated, citing the engine beyond repair.
I thanked them for their effort and offered the car to Ros for his troubles figuring that there was a couple of hundred dollars worth of scrap that could be salvaged from the wreak. Ros agreed and arranged a lift for me on a logging truck. This was an adventure in itself. I hopped into the passing truck and made the usual cabby small talk with the driver (”So, have you been busy today? How long are you on for?”) ,even though this was not a Hackney Carriage but a large lorry hauling 45 tons of prime timber. The driver, slightly surly gentlemen, informed me that we probably wouldn’t make the next ferry. I looked at my watch and was dismayed to find that the next ferry wasn’t for another 45mins. The reason for his pessimism was revealed when we climbed the first hill at a speed that would shame a one-legged tortoise with a fear of exercise. Still, when you are carrying that much load I suppose it is impossible to bomb around the countryside. It was better than walking it myself. In the end we reached the ferry
Me looking pleased with myself
Sitting on top of a tree trunk at the summit of Mt Hauturu I decide the world needs a record of my receding hairline. with five minutes to spare and I began my charm offensive with the ferry customers to get a lift to Omapere.
After several rejections (let’s face it, I’m not that charming) one guy agreed. I jumped into the passenger seat to share the car with Josh, his four dogs and, of course, another dead pig. Yes, Josh too had been hunting that weekend and was heading to town to divide his spoils. Now an expert on the matter I chatted to him about his technique and listened to his hunting stories; even when, mid-driving, he casually reached down, picked up a can of beer and began draining its contents.
We made the journey in one piece despite Josh’s unusual choice of travel refreshment and he dropped me back to Omapere where my adventure came to an end.
The conclusion to this tale was that there are lots of very nice kiwis out there that were prepared to help me out, for which I am very grateful. Whilst annoyed about crashing I have decided that if you do have to have an accident, do it involving a cheap car and a nice soft landing. The pig thing is an added bonus.
I’m now off to Auckland to buy another car. At this rate I will have gone through an entire fleet before I’ve finished my trip.
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Lucy Lou
non-member comment
Word, bo, holler
Hello Mr Garner! I send greetings from the mean streets of East Sussex. What super duper photos and words...sounds like you are having a mega, wicked, large, in the area time of things down yonder. I hope you are enjoying your escape from Beccles (much like the film of a similar title, I will call you Neil Plisskin) and all the wide open goodness. Congratulations of crowbaring in Fozzy Bear and Ray Mears, two of my all time heroes, who bear (arf arf) more than a passing resembelance to one another. Looking forward to the next installment of Carry on Kiwi. Love and kisses from the Northern Hemisphere.