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Published: September 3rd 2012
Freeman's Bay, Auckland.
The Most Colourful Billboard in the Southern Hemisphere
Avid readers of this blog (if, indeed, such a thing exists) may recall that my travels first began in the dim and distant days of the Nineties, back when luxuries such as blogs were yet to be invented. In their stead, in those dark and distant days, your average scruffy backpacker recorded their meanderings in some mangy old dog-eared scrapbook. To a man we pretentiously referred to these as our ‘journal’, imagining in our own little world that one day our pointless ramblings would be scrutinized and dissected by scholars, keen to eek out any morsels of wisdom that may have somehow found their way onto the page.
What they’ll no doubt find odd is that our thoughts were recorded not by the dainty tap of digits on touch-screens, but by the intricate spiraling gyrations of a strange pointy plastic stick we knew way back then as a ‘pen’.
No, really.
Quite for whose benefit these efforts were made is hard to imagine. There was no web on which to unleash our scrolls, no search engine from which our thoughts could be effortlessly plucked. For seventeen years on my return the only way to access these treasures was
to break-in to my mother’s attic one night armed with a torch and a tin of biscuits and, frankly, not even I had bothered to do that. More recently they were removed, and carted halfway round the world to sit gathering dust on my bookshelves for… well, forever probably.
Maybe I’ll get round to reading them one day.
Or maybe I won’t.
These days, of course, there’s no need for such journals, as your whole life is recorded on Facebook, which, when you think about it, may prove something of a mixed blessing. I reckon we might all have been better off the old way, embarrassing excesses safely airbrushed out by our fading rose-tinted memories, but, hey, that’s progress for you.
Still, should my scribblings ever be stumbled on by some future Indiana Jones, he’ll discover that I, like countless Scots before me, had departed the docks at Liverpool to seek fame and fortune in the New World. Okay, so I didn’t exactly board a clipper for some perilous Atlantic crossing, or queue up on Staten Island in my coat and cloth cap.
No, what I did was farewell the yuppie days of the Eighties,
leave my swanky docklands flat and cruise my red convertible down the M6 to Heathrow, tossing the keys to some random stranger as I kissed the material world goodbye. I’d swapped my wardrobe for that of a hobo (not that much of a transition, frankly, in the era of grunge) and from there it was a simple matter of boarding the Virgin flight to JFK and hey presto, the world was my oyster. Which all sounds very fine, you might be thinking, apart from the fact that I’m none too keen on oysters, as frankly they tend to make me puke. Still, you get the general idea.
Fast-forward fifty pages and we’ve criss-crossed America and meandered into Mexico, before stumbling on an entirely blank entry when my Christchurch-bound Jumbo indulged in a spot of time-travel, skipping a day at the international dateline. What thoughts filled my head on that day that never was are long forgotten, but I seem to recall a sudden rush of excitement around the time the clock struck twelve.
This was it!
New Zealand!
The other side of the frickin’ world!
It’s as far from my birthplace as you can possibly
get, the terrestrial Dark Side of the Moon, and my mind raced as I dreamt of what alien landscapes I might encounter.
So you can imagine my disappointment, on arrival, to find it was just like home.
Christchurch was a typical little English town, while the rest of the South Island was just Scotland on steroids, right down to the grey-skies and persistent drizzle.
Even the culture was carbon-copy; at one Kiwi gathering I was startled to find I was the only one there not
called Hamish! Hell, this place was more Scottish than Scotland itself, my invading clansmen having transformed the land into one giant rolling sheep-farm.
They even had the Scots’ persecution complex, forever upstaged by their brasher big-brother next-door. The Antipodes consist of Australia and New Zealand, about as equal a partnership as England and Wales, which nobody, not even the Welsh, ever refers to as Wales and England.
Few realize that Auckland has its very own Sydney Harbour Bridge, which looks much like its more celebrated cousin but is just that little bit shorter and less broad. The national flag is all but indistinguishable save for a few hasty splodges of
red. But the real clincher is the name these folk have taken, proudly adopting the moniker of the kiwi, a weird nocturnal flightless bird that few have ever laid eyes on.
I’ve always found the whole notion of flightless birds slightly irritating. As a group they’ve abandoned their one defining feature, like a toothless lion or an athletic sloth. An army that won’t fight, a pub with no beer or a curry without spice is just not worth having in my book. It’s like the world of alternative medicine, I suppose, which is a bit like real medicine but doesn’t actually make you any better.
What a shame they didn’t name themselves a thousand years earlier, back when the mighty twelve-foot Moa still roamed the lands. Now there’s a flightless bird to be proud of. Would have made for one hell of a KFC. Makes you wonder what sort of a gormless idiot wolfed down the last one. That’s it now, though. Unless there’s some sort of Jurassic Park miracle, it’s the last time we’ll ever have life-size troops at egg and soldiers.
As far as I know nobody bothers to eat the drab-feathered Kiwi, or fry
up its offspring with bacon for breakfast. Perhaps they’re put off by its comical looks. It’s not like it’s the only ugly duckling round here, though.
Take the Kea, the world’s most uncolourful parrot, which clearly failed to predict the coming of Kodachrome and the demise of Black & White. I mean really, whoever heard of a monochrome parrot? And then there’s the appropriately named Kakapo, a parrot so crap it’s not only plain but
flightless. Jeez, they must have been bullied big-time by the budgies back at bird-school. I wonder what the collective term is for a group of such creatures; if it’s a murder of crows, couldn’t we have a croc o’ Kakapos?
You may be guessing by now that the Land of the Long White Cloud didn’t exactly grab me first time round, which may explain the couple of decades it took to return.
Since then, though, there are one or two things that have changed.
Firstly, by happy coincidence, we know two separate families who’ve upped sticks, blasting off to settle right in the heart of the nocturnal lunar landscape in Auckland.
What’s more I’ve gone and got all middle-aged, and
suddenly feel empathy for the plucky underdog.
And finally, New Zealand itself has had a belated makeover, rebranding itself as Middle Earth, a magical land of hobbits, elves and portly filmmakers.
What the hell, it might just be worth a second look.
Auckland, on arrival, was a far cry from Hobbiton. No stuffy yokel village this, but a relaxed spacious metropolis in a stunning bay setting. Even in the nineties Auckland had briefly caught my attention, only to be immediately upstaged by Sydney, my next stop. Since then, though, Sydney’s gone from a confident youngster to a bloated middle-aged has-been, its ever expanding waistline creaking with strain and tension.
Meanwhile, previously pubescent Auckland has flourished into a slick understudy, a true class act in the making, its lack of pretension or illusions of grandeur a welcome and refreshing change.
For two days we wandered its environs, navigation much aided by the eternal presence of the Skytower, the highest structure in the Southern Hemisphere.
Not that that’s really saying much.
The thing about the southern hemisphere is that, other than for its preposterous population of penguins, it gets trounced by the northern hemisphere at
pretty much everything, so the ‘best in the southern hemisphere’ tag doesn’t often mean a great deal. As an accolade, it’s a bit like claiming to be the most intelligent invertebrate, the most attractive reptile or the cuddliest fish. Besides, if you’re going to exclude half the world, why not go one better, zooming right in on Google Earth for a closer look; I myself happen to live in the tallest building on my side of the street, for instance, or could claim to be the most intelligent, attractive and dare I say it, cuddliest individual in the apartment, at least until Debbie gets home.
Of course what the Kiwis are really trying to say, in a subtle roundabout sort of way, is that their tower is higher than Sydney’s. Yes, they finally got one-up on the old enemy for a change! On closer inspection it’s something of a hollow claim, as the inhabited section is actually much lower, with only the spire itself reaching for the record books. It’s an irony of towers that the tip is generally completely pointless. Gives the gulls something to gloat about, though, I suppose.
After satisfying our urban lust we set
our compass to zero and headed for the imaginatively named Northland, home of the Bay of Islands, one spot I had very much enjoyed even on the last trip, as it was one of the few times the sun had come out to play.
Despite the memories being positive, I have to say they were surprisingly hazy. Two decades on I couldn’t recall a single town in which I’d stayed, or a single view I’d taken in. Bizarrely the sole morsel retained in my grey-matter was the World’s Best Fish and Chip Shop, though quite where it was to be found I’d no idea. Perhaps I ought to leaf through that journal once in a while after all.
So it was something of a return journey into the unknown. Only a few miles north of Auckland the motorway petered out, and after a quick right turn towards the coast things started to get properly twisty in a satisfying middle-earthy sort of way. It did make for slow progress but, what the hell, we were on holiday. Approaching the Bay of Islands from the coastal back-roads was a spectacular stroke of luck, every curve besting the last for a
Puketi Forest Fern
Strangely they weren't silver at all, but green & gold! stunning sea view or sumptuous hilltop villa.
After a long and happy day’s drive we finally rolled into Russell and availed ourselves of the only room left in the little hamlet before nightfall.
Russell is the quintessential picture-postcard town, just about big enough to have everything without a hint of multi-storey excess. The little strip on the beachfront looks like something from a toddlers’ TV show; the butcher, baker, candlestick maker, a charming little church and the obligatory café and cake shop. Best plot of all was reserved for PC Plod, a private residence in a restored mansion right on the waterfront. It looked like the kind of place a Kiwi Magnum P.I. might reside, sporting the best moustache in the Southern hemisphere (nobody could match Tom Selleck). Higgins would undoubtedly be found at the Duke of Marlborough Hotel next-door, a damn fine spot for a first class sunset chardonnay.
Deb was certainly tempted, while I let the side down sticking to the hops, tapping along to the local ‘string quartet’ in the form of two surfy dudes on acoustic guitar who lent the place a certain ambience. It took some time to twig their entire instrumental
set was of cleverly disguised Metallica covers, which held their genteel and sophisticated audience in entirely innocent rapture.
Sweet as, Bro!
Next day we hit the waters on The Phantom, a petite racing yacht which sailed the waves with the misplaced cast of an Agatha Christie novel aboard; crusty Kiwi captain, his dreadlocked American wife, wealthy home-counties stockbrokers, gritty northern industrialists, refined Australian surgeons and, well, us. A magical day was spent cruising the bays and beaches and dodging the daredevil dolphins surfing the bow. Fortunately there was no murder, and the only mystery was why they served no booze. Sobriety was The Phantom menace, the only thing missing from an otherwise perfect day.
Fortunately salvation was found at the nearby Omata Estate, with a bottle of their Syrah Reserve. This, according to the blurb, was a fine red with chocolate tones and Christmas cake on the nose. I have to say I’ve never had wine with marzipan and icing sugar before, but it made for a cheerful enough tipple, and after a glass or two certainly had us in festive mood.
Moving north to Mangonui we rounded a bend and there it was, the legendary
Kiwi Philosophy
Or should that be all right? chippy of my muzzy memories, still serving the very best artery-filling fare on the face of the earth. This was enough to keep us in town for a couple of nights, the days spent checking out wood-chips in the fabulous fern-filled forests a few miles west.
And I’d have to say that if you’re after a laid-back lifestyle to live out your days, Mangonui’s got a lot to offer. The only thing it lacks is a crack cardiac unit, for the delectable delights of the chippy might leave you with not all that many days to live out.
Fortunately we headed back to Auckland before any clots could clog our plans, and after one last catch-up with our Kiwi cousins we were off on the flight home. As we soared smoothly skywards, I stared back at this little land with a new-found affection.
It’s a place with a little bit of everything, but not too much of anything. Bilbo could still find a spot to light up his pipe, blow a few smoke rings, and mull over the simpler things in life. And as the days and weeks and months fly by, I think I’ll grow to like it all the more. There’s a certain indefinable homeliness, the local folk retaining a touch of yesteryear, a taste for the basics, a warm welcome and a genuine smile. Wherever we went on this trip we couldn’t get over that simple old-style charm, a people who gave you so much more that just the time of day. I suppose you might say they were down to middle-earth, and it hit me, with a little sadness, that you don’t get that all that much these days.
In short, the world would be a better place if everyone was a Kiwi.
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Jo Trouble
Jo McCarthy
Great entry and some gorgeous photos! I'm always proud when I read entries from people who have left with a similar impression of the country as you did. Next time you're passing through let us know, and we'll round up some TBers for you :-)