Imagine, if you will, those astronauts strapped into their machine at take off. This was me, but my craft was a Toyota Hi-Lux, my propulsion wheels rather than rockets. We are about to ascend a hill, no, a small mountain, and I believe I may die quite soon. But more on that later.
Good friend Matt hitched up from South Island over New Year to catch up over a beer or two. We don’t see each other all that often so there’s always plenty to talk about. We took a trip over to Rotorua. Still in the Bay of Plenty region, and a mere hour’s drive inland. It’s a bit of a tourist trap, and is a Mecca for volcanic activity and Maori culture. Scenically situated three hundred metres above sea level on the shores of Lake Rotorua, which happens to be world famous for its trout fishing, the choice of activities is endless.
The entire area is the most volcanically active in New Zealand. As you drive into town for the first time, there will be an awkward moment in the car among your passengers. Glances will be exchanged, and if there happens to be a dog present, the usual cursing will be directed toward the rear of the vehicle to solve the problem - whether the canine is the culprit or not. But in this case, you will realise Rover is free of guilt as you wind down the window for fresh air, and the true source of the pong flows in. Rotorua is known as Sulphur City for good reason; the air hangs with the eggy stench of sulphur and you’ll wonder how you can possibly stay here. But trust me, you get used to it real quickly. You can enjoy the freedom of breaking wind in any public place, and Rover will enjoy the break.
If you ever find yourself there, I’d recommend a day visit to one of the thermal parks. (check out the shameless advertising on that link, two Swedish looking girls have a mud wrestle, disgusting). They may be a little pricey to enter (budget on around NZ$25pp), but they have gone to great lengths to get you close to the action. You can loose yourself in the steam walking over lakes of boiling water (the Maori used to boil eggs in the these), gaze at a gushing geyser and marvel at bubbling mud. The latter, I promise, will keep you entranced for hours. Everybody loves mud - it’s even better when it bubbles, splutters and explodes. You don’t have to part with cash to see this though, for the entire area is active. Steam rises from street drains or behind a shrub in somebody’s garden, and the city park has extensive thermal features for free. There was an explosion here just a few years ago, which put on a great show for a day or so; it’s an ever-changing environment.
After that you may wish to try your luck at anything from sky diving to white water rafting, trout fishing to mountain biking, or zorbing. (check out their great site) Matt & I preferred to catch a gondola up Mt Ngongotaha and race back down on The Luge - a hillside track that you race down on nifty little wheeled sledges. Good boyish fun with plenty of opportunity for gruesome injury.
After your chosen activity, relax in one of the many thermal pools. You can enjoy a volcanic mud massage, or simply choose a pool to wallow in with a temperature to suit. All good for aching joints. By night, a must for any visitor is to attend a Maori concert followed by the traditional hangi, a feast cooked on hot rocks underground.
All this time in the city, albeit a small green one, necessitated a quick jaunt into the worldiness. At this time of year, there’s only one theme a trip can take and it’s gonna involve fish. And so Dad & I loaded up his camper and made for the Coromandel Peninsular, a remote but reasonably accessible area just three hours drive away.
Now I know where the term only mad dogs and Englishmen came from…. a sizeable storm was working its way south and most people were retreating into their homes. But not us. An overly long drive, diverting three times to avoid slips and floods, eventually got us to our destination. We’d chosen a small Dept. of Conservation (DOC) camp right on the coast from where we could enjoy two days of catching no fish. It’s always interesting to experience catching no fish in a different location as, well, no fish is never the same.
A DOC campsite is for someone who is a kind of halfway house between the hard worldiness camper and a woosy trailer park goer. There is an honesty box in which to pay a small fee, for this you get unlimited use of the long drop (a classic kiwi institution, the bush toilet).
Luckily, we had passed the very worst of the storm on the way up, and so the weather was bearable. And while we didn’t catch any fish that required use of a trailer to get home, we did land enough to have a feed and have some fun. It was a relaxing time, and that’s what we went there for.
My time here is nearly over. As this journal hits the net, I’ll be about to jump on the plane back to the UK. At last, a year behind schedule, I will get this journey underway. I already have the Chinese visa ready, the Mongolian I have to get in London. To save time and expense, I have tried desperately to obtain my Russian visa here in New Zealand. It didn’t work, and now I have to face the hassle of getting it in London. The people at the embassy here have been nothing short of downright unhelpful, rude even, and I can only hope they are not an example of their fellow countrymen. But I guess we’ll soon see.
Do you remember the camper van I bought that promptly broke down? Well, the good news is I have fixed it. I have since whisked it away on two road trips. The bad news, as I write, it has just broken down again. And this time, I think it really may be terminal. With only a week left and far more important things to think of, I gave it a ceremonial kick in the bodywork, parked it up and put it out of my mind. It’s been a b*stard to me from the moment I saw it, swallowed every bit of spare money I had and wasted me a month of my stay here. I will never touch a Mazda again as long as I live. I may also be loosing my penchant for camper vans.
It wasn’t long before I found myself and father once again squashing gear into the camper and motoring our way north to the Coromandel. We had been planning a bush trip into the backo-beyond to hunt deer, but decided it was simply too dry, and thus too noisy out there. So the trip evolved into a mixed activity one, but mostly based on fishing.
Where a bush trip involves carrying everything in to camp, and thus travelling very light, we would now be staying in a bach (a basic, usually remote building short for bachelor pad). This is the signal to load everything we own, along with enough food and beer to feed an army, into the van.
The bach is owned by the Hamilton branch of the Returned Services Association (RSA), the keys obtained by Deano, one of our gang for the week. It was built by a returning serviceman shortly after the Second World War, and has ever since been used for rest and relaxation by such people. I think you’d all agree, they earned it. But the problem is, the land it stands on was never really owned, as such. Over the years it has been accepted, in a country with quite a bit of land to spare, the cause was good and brought much joy to many people. Unfortunately this heart warming story ends right here. Somebody on the Coromandel council, no doubt with a sharp looking suit and nice car, has decided the bach must go. The council will reclaim the land. I must point out here; the area it covers is probably a mere 30 x 50 metres on the very edge of the seashore. It is not in the way of anything or anyone. More land on this deserted peninsular of roughly 2500 sq km is lost to phone booths than this or any bach. It’s a great shame, and not what I’d have expected from New Zealand. Usually here, over zealous do-gooders are not tolerated.
Politics aside, we all settled into the rhythm. For Paul, Deano, Owen and his wife Chris, this is an annual exercise and the theme is food gathering. It’s a hugely popular activity in this country, and one that these guys take seriously; with a bit of fun thrown in for good measure. It’s about harvesting the myriad natural goods on offer here, stocking up for the winter and enjoying the skills needed to achieve this.
Using the two boats at our disposal, each morning we would head out to sea to catch a wide range of fish with a variety of means - such as conventional fishing, netting and long-lining, and a dredge for shellfish. A long lunch would be taken to clean our catch and relax, before once again heading out to sea for the prime time fishing at dusk.
The team seemed to work well; everyone had their own particular special skill to offer. Owen & Chris, who both enjoy cooking as much as catching, made us some beautiful dishes. In fact, I’m rather ashamed to admit, so good was it that neither I nor anyone else even attempted to do any cooking all week. JJ the spaniel guarded the camp, and cleaned up any spillages with utmost efficiency. Dad made the coffee, accidentally (not that anyone believes so) adding salt instead of sugar, causing an interesting reaction from the recipients. I provided the good looks of course, for want of anything else to offer, while Paul and Deano provided the snoring at night time. This they did with dedication.
This is a truly beautiful location. The weather has been on our side, and each morning we have woken to the sun rising over the mountains, and a flat calm sea. The bach nestles under a cliff at the water’s edge, at the entrance to a natural harbour. At sea, there are numerous islands to explore, many of which don’t even get a mention on the maps. Most days, the metal road (the only road) that passes nearby carries just a few vehicles, mostly farmers checking stock and maybe a dozen other vehicles heading further up for a trip.
Follow this road for a while, and you will come to Colville - the very cradle of civilization in this area. A local tells me the population here numbers around seventy; and that includes the majority of farmers who are scattered over a wide area. But with this being a popular destination with kiwis, Colville enjoys the status of being the very last stop on the way into nothingness. And so it is that it came to have a famous shop, where you can buy just about anything. There is also a café and a couple of art galleries/ethnic goods shops. Sarongs and flower power dresses rule among the wacky inhabitants.
Not being a huge fisherman, I felt it was high time I ventured off on my own to add a bit of variety to the bag. This, I decided, would take the form of a Turkey. Numerous throughout the country, they nonchalantly loiter along the roadside safe in the knowledge that no right-minded person wants to eat Turkey during the summer.
And so I took off in the van, up the coast to see what I could find. It wasn’t too long before I found one. A swift shot from my little rifle, a quick retrieval and back on the road, all in the space of ten seconds; executed like any good drive-by shooting. Perhaps, I’d have to admit, not a strictly legitimate way of acquiring a Turkey. But we are in the business of food gathering, surviving off the land. Ray Mears will always tell you, this is no straightforward affair. And with the behaviour of my Turkey, I’d have to agree.
Cruising back to camp, now the provider, I was horrified to notice in my rear view mirror a large and very close police truck. My number was up, the luck has run out. Immigration would throw my case in the bin and I’d be expelled from the southern hemisphere for evermore. But then my horror turned to downright panic when I looked around again to discover my Turkey had come back to life, and was now familiarising himself with the layout of the van in order to ascertain his escape. It was only a matter of time before he would be on top of the bed, signalling for help through the rear window. Action had to be taken. My dreams of living in New Zealand now in ruins, I prepared to face the full force of the law and pulled over. The policeman slowed alongside, waived and sped off in a plume of dust. My relief was palpable. The Turkey, assessing his situation, realised things had just taken a turn for the worse.
As all the team apart from Deano were heading off to sea for the evening fish, I jubilantly announced my successful excursion. I opted to stay at base and deal with the thing, and rushed into the bach to find some tools. Approaching the van, the bird was nowhere to be seen. He could only be under the bed now. Carefully opening the rear door to gain access, all hell broke loose. This Turkey had other plans; he was out that door in a flash scarpering across the grass.
It makes me laugh now, to remember the look on Deano’s face as he came outside to see what all the fuss was about. For the sight that greeted him was straight out of a cartoon scene; me and the bird chasing each other around a bush, seemingly powerless to change direction or make a break for it. But it couldn’t go on forever, so the bird legged it across the road and up into the hills. After an hour of searching, I had to concede the it had earned his freedom and the Turkey dinner was no more. With cricket and rugby against our favour, Kiwi’s don’t need anything more to mock us Poms for; you can only imagine the fun the guys had over this one for the rest of the week.
Over the week we had all harvested our legal allowance of Scallops. For those that have yet to try them, they must be the most beautifully tasting things in the sea. Normally, whether at home or abroad they are an expensive treat. So above all on this trip, I have appreciated the opportunity to catch them in the morning, clean out the shells straight away and eat them for lunch. Owen cooked them up in the best way possible; simple, quick and fresh. Cooked for just a few minutes in a little butter, with a tiny bit of salt and black pepper. Simply delectable. They also happen to be a good aphrodisiac - not a whole lot of use to me at the moment. Another treat to come out of the kitchen was venison steaks in a Scallop mornay, surely two of the world’s finest ingredients on one plate. Living out in the bush can be tough at times.
We also tried out hand at floundering during night, which had nothing to do with wobbly walking after beer. It had more to do with catching Flounder the fish, with the aid of a torch and a spear. This really appealed to me, it’s a match of man against fish on the most basic level, and you are in the fish’s environment. They also taste mightily good for breakfast, pan-fried whole with a bit of lemon juice.
So all in all, it was a fantastic week. We caught well, enjoyed the sunshine, ate sumptuous meals and had some laughs. Watching cousin Paul fall in when trying to move from one boat to another was a particular highlight! But there was one more thing I needed to do, that didn’t involve fish. I needed to experience pig hunting, Kiwi style. Tony, who turned up on my last night, fulfilled this need. He has made a life out of hunting pigs all over the country, and I couldn’t have picked a better bloke to invite myself out with.
And so it was that I found myself on a death wish drive up a mountain in a four wheel drive, as I begun this journal. We had set off on foot, heading for the top of this small mountain of just under two thousand feet. But discovering a quad bike trail that DOC use to access the area, Tony decided we may as well drive as far up as we can. Who was I to argue?
I’m not sure if Tony had noticed, but your average quad bike is, say, just over a metre wide; whereas your average 4x4 is something like three metres. This, if you haven’t worked it out, ensured our vehicle was a very tight squeeze indeed. The views however, were breathtaking and just like taking off in a small aircraft. I’ve done plenty of off road driving before, but I have to admit I didn’t think we’d get that truck as far as we did. From there, about half way up now, we set off into the dense native bush to continue our climb. Tony explained how the wind was in our favour to hunt downhill, and also he hoped we could hunt any perspective pigs back toward the truck; saving a long climb out of the valley below.
I’m no stranger to either the bush (don’t bother with the wise cracks folks, I’ve worn that joke out now) or stalking (definitely no wise cracks please) and so moving about in there was no trouble to me. I was more interested in Tony’s dog work, and how he works with them. He showed me all the signs of pig activity, and explained from that how fresh it was and even where they were likely to be at that moment. He knows about pigs.
As I am fully expecting to stick my first pig here, I am pleased to note all the footprints we have so far seen are smallish (80lb - Tony instantly reports a weight like a human computer when he spots a print). So I am comfortable with this, we creep along listening for the dogs and reading the signs. Moving on, Tony can’t contain his excitement as the prints get bigger and bigger. In stark contrast, I pull a few funny faces behind his back; the bigger the prints get, the less enthusiastic I become out meeting the owner of them.
It’s difficult to describe the bush. Common with all mountains, it is a series of ridges and valleys, all eventually leading to a peak. In the valleys you can be sure to find anything between a creek and a river, and you can be equally sure they will head downhill. People will know from previous stories that getting lost out there is easily done. And so the first and most important skill you need out here is the ability to use a compass and to understand how the ridges work. Because the bush canopy is thick - you can walk for some time even on the peaks and see very little. A clearing from a deadfall tree is a treat indeed. You can’t rely on visually finding your way. It is a challenge, and I look forward to learning more in the future.
The way this pig hunting game works here is this. The hunter uses his knowledge and skill to get him and his dogs into a good position, in terms of wind and where the pigs are at. The dogs, just two in this case, act as finders by casting around and following scent. Finders make plenty of noise when they find, then they become bailers or holders when they get up to a pig. As I said before, the bush is so thick you can’t see what is going on. And these dogs have no boundaries - there are no roads or anything to stop them, they go a long way. We lost Blackie for an hour or so, we suspect he’d gone into a valley so deep we wouldn’t even have heard him.
Getting the dogs back, time getting on and me supposedly leaving tonight, we headed downhill toward the truck. The dogs continued to cast around and again had disappeared off the radar. We paused a moment, and heard the sound we’d been waiting for. They were in the very bottom of the valley, perhaps a thousand feet below, but as we’d descended somewhat we could just here them.
And now happens to fun bit of pig hunting. Tony gave a whoop of joy and took off. Literally. If you ever find yourself out in the bush with a guide and he suddenly runs away, don’t take it personally. If you don’t want to be left out there on your own, you’ve just got to run with him. What followed was the craziest ten minutes I’ve had in a long time. In hot pursuit we launched ourselves down the near vertical side of the valley, pushing through the dense undergrowth. Initially in short bursts, stopping to listen for the dogs. As we got closer, it became more intense. Tony listened for the dogs, I listened for Tony; “Yeow! Common Timo! We’ve got one! Lets go! Yeeeeow!”. It was now clear to me why he’d told me not to bring my flash rifle. Instead I was carrying his very battered gun, which I found while sometimes a hindrance was also useful for using like a ski pole. I laughed out loud at the sheer madness of running down such a steep drop. It’s all consuming and momentarily any thoughts of self preservation go out of the window; you just want to keep up. I got myself into a bit of a tangle in a patch of supple jack. I don’t know how Tony had gotten through it so quickly. It’s a woody tangle that goes out of its way to slow your progress. Legs, arms, sunglasses and gun were bent to angles they were never designed to be in as I fought to get through, still laughing my head off while trying to catch my breath. The last section was vertical, but by that point you don’t care anymore. It’s like a skydive without the chute - you jump, grabbing available undergrowth on the way down to slow your fall. And there we were, at the bottom in the river. Our pig turned out to be a goat. For a pig hunter like Tony, that was a failure. But for me, the thrill of the chase had been the same, and we’d provided a useful service as DOC have spent six months in this region culling out the non native wild goats. And I didn’t have to meet the angry Boar that owned those big prints.
The river was a welcome sight, an opportunity to drink and cool down. We now had to climb the thousand feet back up to the truck, and then face the death defying drive back down. With perfect timing, we made the top in time to see a fantastic sun set over the ocean surrounded in the splendid Coromandel landscape and islands.
So that was the week that was. I’d like to thank the guys, all of you, for your generosity, hospitality and that special brand of Kiwi humour. I look forward to many such trips in the future.
In this final week, I have finally finished preparing my application for residency here. It’s been a big thing for me. But I’m confident I have prepared my case well; I had to, being off travelling I won’t be here to deal with it if I get something wrong. Choosing to do it myself has saved me GBP3,000 that a consultant wanted to charge, so it was worth the effort. I am still trying to find time to revamp some of these web pages before I go, while I have unlimited access to the net. Other than that, I’ll be spending more quality time with the family and getting out in the kayak for a last few paddles.
Even though my time here has been fraught with set-backs (campervan and Russian visas issues), it has been a fantastic trip. I didn’t get to do nearly as much as I wanted, but I must be patient. The next time I arrive here, I have a whole life ahead of me, or at least the half that’s left. One thing is for sure; this still is an awesome country, and I am itching to get back out here again.
Above all - thank you to all my family. Mum, Dad, Wayne, Sarah and little Sophie. You have gone out of your way to help me and make me welcome. I appreciate it.
Next stop - Moscow. |
