The Great Escape: New Zealand

Petone is a gorgeous laid back town next to Wellington, gusty and clean-smelling from the sea breeze. We took our time getting here: Kiwis are notoriously strict about bio-security and so in declaring the roughly 20 granola bars, vegan soy jerky, textured vegetable protein, powdered soya milk, and chocolate that we had in our bag we were asked to go through additional checks. I asked the bio-security officer what the weirdest thing he'd seen on his job was, and his replied that in the two months he'd been working at the airport he'd seen "a whole zebra, skin, ears, everything."

Welcome to New Zealand.

Uncle Roger and Auntie Michelle were struck down with COVID, but had left detailed instructions for taking the bus from the airport to Huia Street. All went well until we realised, on our second bus, that Jacob left his bag, containing his passport, on the first bus. In the moment I felt fine, perhaps still enjoying the effects of Australian laid-backness. "These things happen when travelling," my mind yawned at me. 

The house at Huia Street was - apparently - the same one my family visited almost twenty years ago. I remember little of the house except a long table where we made gingerbread, a magical garden, and that the kitchen, living room, and hallway were connected in the most perfect way for children to run round and round and round in. The place we landed in this time felt peaceful and welcoming, and in Jacob's words, like a 1980s holiday cottage with a red waffle duvet on a cosy bed, big towels with a brown checked pattern, a comfortingly creaky floor and a kitchen stocked with the most delectable comestibles: bananas, corn, mushrooms, ginger biscuits, soya milk, pepper, pasta, salt, herbs, muesli and a fantastic seed and nut filled peanut butter, all courtesy of Uncle Rog and Auntie Michelle. We put our things down, and then went for a safe-distanced walk along the seashore with Uncle Rog. 

My Uncle Rog, in my memory, is a man with a beard. This beard was an important game in my childhood - we used to hunt for spiders in it. Uncle Rog reminds me a lot of grandma in his love of knowing the names of birds and plants, his acceptance of people in all shapes and places, his love of music and his gentleness. He showed us the church he and Auntie Michelle got married in which remains his church today, the restaurant they had their reception in, and the magical water fountain that people collect spring water from (he'd left some in the house for us too).

That evening, after the Australian effect on my brain had worn off and the Singaporean had taking back over, and I'd conjured multiple scenarios of missing our trek, not going to South America at all, and being flung into a Kiwi jail for outstaying our visa, I felt on edge. I slept well, and woke up and enjoyed a stunning trail run, and then slowly felt anxious again. But Uncle Rog came to the rescue, calling up the bus depot which had the bag, and letting us use his car to drive to the depot to pick it up.

With that sorted, our days most involved soaking in the sun, sea, and learning more about the whenua (land) we were in. That included a visit to the Te Papa museum, learning about its flightless birds, and volcanic activity, and the Waitangi Treaty, and long chats with Auntie Michelle and Uncle Rog about their lives there. I wonder how Uncle Rog feels, after so many years in that land. I've always thought of him as "My Uncle from New Zealand", but of course almost half of his life was in the UK. He seems comfortably at home in this place, as my mother does in Singapore, but - perhaps like the woman in Dod Proctor's portrait in the NGV - is there always an element of strangeness to contend with? 

But then, New Zealand, as I learned in the museum, was not a place with an 'original people' that we know of. It was a land, by itself, with large flightless birds and plants and mammals. Then the Maori came in the 1200s, bringing with them sweet potatos and pacific rats and dogs which killed many of the flightless birds. Then the Europeans came in the 1600s, bringing with them other mammals like stoats and possums, and clearing the land for activities like sheep farming. So it is a land, I suppose, that has generously welcomed people past and continues to do so now, even at its own expense. 

My hand on the fossilised remains of a Moa bird footprint - Te Papa Museum

Being by the sea also meant going into it, in three different instances. The first was born of impulse, on one of those muggy days where we'd spent most of the time indoors and I was itching to get out. "How about going for a dip in the sea?" I mentioned to Jacob, "It'll be fun." It was cold, and grey, and exhilarating. I hated it and then loved it so much I wanted to go back in. The second time was on a sunny day, after we'd been into a little art gallery and shop to buy cards for Jacob's family and my Dad. The cashier took our payment and told us where to buy stamps, and then asked "Do you want to meet the artist [who painted those cards]?" Feeling extremely fortunate, we said "Yes, please!" and he disappeared into a storeroom behind him and came out with...himself! He was the artist! I was so tickled. We sat on the beach to write the cards, allowing ourselves to get hotter and hotter until it was unbearable and we had to run into the sea again. The final moment in the sea was at Island Bay, a marine reserve where we rented the thickest wetsuits (complete with hood), fins, masks, and snorkels to explore what was below the surface of the sea. Putting my head below the water was a shock - the cold, first and foremost, which numbed everything and slid nastily into my wetsuit, and then (when my eyes adjusted) the thick fields of swaying seaweed. I heard Jacob groan into his snorkel with excitement, and finned over to see a large blue cod. There were red and purple sea anemone, and snails, and iridescent paua shell littering the sea floor. 

All too soon, we left Petone to head north. We found a car that needed driving from Wellington to Auckland and so aside from the price of petrol and one extra driver, we had a free ride up the island. Driving in New Zealand felt like being in a music video, and brought me back to our family holiday in New Zealand years ago, when Dad drove us around the South Island. I felt strangely emotional, realising that I was the adult driving now, seeing Dad in my joy in the open road, and knowing how proud he'd feel of me. 

We stopped for two nights in the Riverstone Lodge in Turangi, above the Tongariro National Park. We'd hoped to do the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, one of New Zealand's 'Great Walks', but I hesitated and wanted to wait till the night before to book the necessary shuttle to the trailhead so that we could check the weather forecast. Unfortunately, by the time we'd checked (strong winds forecast, but no rain), we weren't able to book the shuttle and I felt like I'd let the team down. Instead, though, we walked the Tama Lakes and Taranaki Falls trail. The skies were brumous and it begun to drizzle as we walked. The dark coppers and greens of the bush reminded me of Scotland. We walked in silence, occasionally chatting, and I realised how much I rely on verbal communication to 'sense' things; when we were silent I worried that Jacob was disappointed that we weren't on the Alpine Crossing. When I broached this, Jacob thankfully assured me he was very happy on this walk. We crossed a stream, and hiked up a hill, and were rewarded by the view of a brilliant turquoise lake and soon after that, the sun came out from behind the clouds. Walking back felt like being in a different land - the sunshine made the greens stand out and the browns mellow. Birds sang, which made me realise how quiet the place had been before. When we returned to the hostel, we heard that the Alpine Crossing had been cancelled that day because of poor weather, and I felt entirely vindicated.

After getting up to Auckland, we rented a self-contained campervan for the next few days. This gave us the flexibility of camping in the free sites around the island. All our campsites ended up being beside water - by the sea on our first night, and lakes on the other two. The inside of the van was cramped and small, though perfectly sufficient, but it encouraged us to spend as much time as possible outside. When it was cold and wet out, it was a cosy place to shelter.  

On our first day we drove down to Mt Manganui. The Maori legend has it that this mountain was a servant mountain who was in love with Pūwhenua, another mountain, but she loved Otanewainuku, the king mountain. Lovesick and sad, the servant mountain asked the patupaiarehe (the magic people of the forest) to pull him into the sea to drown. One night, the patupaiarehe pulled the mountain closer and closer to the sea, but when the sun rose, they fled back to the shade of the forest, leaving the mountain on the edge of the sea. There he stayed, and was named Mauao which means "caught by the morning sun", and he became greater event than Otanewainuku.

The next day we drove to Lake Rotorua, where we mountain biked in and around the Whakarewarewa forest. The forest begun with tall, straight, redwood trees and a strong scent of pine, but as we went on the forest would change, sometimes emerald green with moist air, other times dry and dusty. There were sections dotted with foxgloves, and other areas that opened out to give us a view of the lakes in the distance. Sometimes the forest was silent and other times it echoed with a chorus of cicadas, and occasionally the sound of traffic would surprise us. The downhills were hypnotic, laser-focus and the world whipping past you. The uphills were first pleasant opportunities to slow down, but begun to feel very difficult. I really struggled here, and to my confusion at around 18 kilometres in I found myself sobbing. It was as if my exhausted body, breathing so hard, had breathed its way into a panic attack. I didn't know if I'd be able to finish it, and felt slow and weak. When we stopped, and Jacob noticed my tears, he comforted me and firmly said we could cut through the forest to go back, or rest for a while, or go on at whatever pace was comfortable. I knew I wanted to keep going, and I did after taking that moment to convince my body that i wasn't trying to kill it with exertion. The uphills after that still felt hard, but I slowed down, and relished the downhills. The sandwiches we had after we finished were just incredible.