Category: All

Te Ara Hura (Path of Discovery) is a new walking promotional idea to attract visitors to the island.  It’s mostly an amalgamation of existing tracks, and there are many, linked by roads and some new tracks, to create a round-the-island walk.  Doing the whole lot might take 2-3 days, so I’m setting off with my British friend Ros, to dip into parts of Te Ara Hura before she meets up with her serious walking partner to take on more challenging parts of New Zealand.

We start off locally at Rocky Bay, walking down the hill to Kuakara Bay where there is a picnic area with a sculpture and a new children’s playground.  We climb up the steep stepped path around the cliffs and down into the deserted bays which make up the Te Whau peninsular.  There are still some late Pohutukawa trees in flower, adding some red to the ocean blues and forest greens.  We’ve taken advantage of the cool morning, but by the time we reach Te Whau Drive, which runs along the peninsular ridge, it’s blazing hot.

We dip down to Okoka, aka Dead Dog Bay where once many years ago a small boy reported a dead dog on the beach.  We then climb up to a little-used track which skirts around the houses nestled in the bush and emerge on Bella Vista, almost back where we started.  After an afternoon snooze, it’s time to cool off in the high tide at Rocky Bay.

I notice in the local papers that free guided twilight walks ending in a sausage sizzle, have been arranged on Tuesdays, so I set Ros down at Little Oneroa to join in a walk of northern beaches, while I take the ferry to swimming training in Auckland.  On Wednesday it’s Rotoroa Island so we drive along the island to Orapiu and catch the Auckland to Coromandel ferry.  Rotoroa is only twenty minutes away, barely enough time for a cup of tea.  Still, we manage to get to know Christine, another Rocky Bay resident.  She hasn’t seen me before, so is surprised to learn that I live just up the road from her.  Another connection is made.

Rotoroa is a small island once owned by the Salvation Army.  General Booth made several visits to New Zealand and chose this island as a drying out place.  Drunks were picked up on the streets of Auckland, brought over by boat where they sobered up to find themselves in a cell to dry out. There was little opportunity to escape as it is too far to swim and of course there was no alcohol to be had.  The accommodation catered for men and women and there is a well curated museum near the pier, telling the story of the almost self sufficient farm which used the inmates/patients as labour.  The island had been cleared of trees to graze stock, but now a trust has taken it over and thousands of native trees have been planted by volunteers.  We walk around the island along well made tracks and everywhere there are Wekas.

These are chicken-sized brown birds which are very tame and amusing. Being ground dwellers, they thrive in this predator free environment.  Recently Kiwis have been released here, so hopefully they will multiply, but as they are nocturnal, won’t be as evident as the Wekas.

We find ourselves at Men’s Bay, presumably so-named because the male inhabitants would swim here.  It’s very hot and we are grateful to cool off in the sea before continuing on around the island to North Tower where we can get a panoramic view of nearby islands, including Waiheke.

We descend to look at the island cemetery, perched on a promontory.  It contains staff and patients. We end up at Ladies Bay which is in fact just around from Men’s Bay and cut off at high tide.  We’ve brought lunch and sit on a grassy bank eating sandwiches and enjoying the beautiful and dramatic beach.

The ferry returning from Coromandel, collects us after we’ve been counted out by the deputy conservation officer.  She had counted us all on to the island and given us an introductory talk.

We chat to Christine on the way back – she’s been in Coromandel to shop for the day and is loaded with bargains.  When we disembark and the ferry this just leaving, she exclaims ‘Where is my Daughter.’

‘How old is she?’ I ask.

‘Forty’ is her answer.

The ferry is hailed and stops just in time to let two women off.  They had been unaware that we had arrived.

On Thursday I decide to take Ros on the ‘Friends of Dorothy’ route from the November walking festival.  It’s another scorching day, lucky that we’ve set out early.  We start at Oneroa Beach where there is a very high tide and then up along the high coastal paths and beautiful bays, all the way around the headlands to the ferry port at Matiatia.

On the way we pass some dramatic and architecturally impressive houses, presumably owned by the super rich.  The following week we do the biennial Headland sculpture walk, beginning at Matiatia and ending at Church Bay.  Four years ago I was a volunteer, but arrived on the island too late this time to get involved.

This year everyone is bussed to Church Bay and pointed the other way, ending up in the massive marquee where you can look at and buy sculpture, listen to bands and taste Waiheke food and wine.  It’s a retail opportunity.  It suits us to start off at the Marquee and walk the other way – it’s less congested.  As usual there’s a range of exhibits for all tastes.  A trail of wooden Maori figures emerging from the sea and coming ashore to be buried in the sand represents the sculptor’s loss.  He had twin boys, one of whom died at birth and was scattered at sea.  Small brightly coloured bundles of plastic cable clips cover objects hung like litter in the trees.  Gigantic silver-like dandelions impose on a promontory.

There’s a dramatic mirror installation that reflects according to where you stand while the only traffic lights on the island (so far) are spaced throughout the walk and change colour. At night you notice them from the ferry and hopefully no one has confused them for nautical port and starboard lights.  James Bond takes a selfie while telegraph T bars and cables are arranged like string instruments with sound effects to match.

The winning sculpture has been attacked overnight so we are not able to judge it and there’s another one which has been destroyed by the wind.  Right at the end, which is really the beginning there’s a sound sculpture which requires my mobile to scan a bar-code.  I can never get these things to work and suddenly can’t be bothered.  The volunteer sitting under a gazebo tells us we’re walking ‘the wrong way’.  It was apparently designed to be enjoyed ‘the other way’.

‘No, it’s not the “wrong way”, just another way of looking at it,’ I respond.  I’m getting quite cross, particularly as we enjoyed ‘the wrong way’.

I’ve wanted to go to Rangitoto for some time, and this is the perfect opportunity.  The island is a dormant volcano, a mere 600 years old, with a classically shaped cone.  I pass it every time I take the Waiheke ferry.  Today we have to go all the way to downtown Auckland and then get another boat to Rangitoto.  There used to be quite a community here but new batches have not been permitted since the 40’s so only a few remain and the place is now a wildlife sanctuary.  You can take a tour in carriages pulled by a tractor, up to a walkway leading to the summit, but we opt to go by foot up the dark grey pumice track.

There are still great areas of lava which has only been colonised by lichens.  It’s a perfect example of ecological succession which should eventually end up as forest.  The closer we get to the top, the more established the bush.  Everywhere are mature Pohutukawas which must look amazing in December.  We take a detour to walk through lava tunnels. The map guide provided on the boat, recommends us to bring a torch.  Lucky that I’ve managed to find the light widget on my phone and that the battery is charged.

The Views of the mainland from the crater rim are fantastic, with the city of Auckland nestled away to the South West.  We descend onto the wooden walk-way and take a westerly track.  It takes an hour on a hard and hot pumice road to reach McKenzie Bay.

By this time we are melting and gratefully plunge into the sea.  A few others have gravitated to this beautiful beach.  There’s a yacht anchored in the bay and suddenly two old guys appear, get into a tender and row ashore.  They have a net and proceed to sort it our on the front of the tender.  One of them rows out and round in a semi-circle, returning further along the beach.  They have caught quite a few small fish which they tell me will be used for bait to catch snapper.  They offer some to me and other on the beach, but I have nothing to carry them in or any way of keeping them cool on the journey back to Waiheke.  It’s another hour or so to walk back to the pier past the historic batch sites and the few remaining ones in good repair.  It’s been a lot of hard walking, but worth it.

Ros’ walking friend, Michael arrives and I drive them to Awaawaroa to walk over the hill to Te Mauku.  Later I collect them at the other end as there is no public transport on that part of the island.  The big walk is from Rocky Bay down to Whakanewha, past the endangered Dotterills on the beach and then up though the most amazing forest, much of it Nikau Palms.  This is the coast to coast walk I did in November in pouring rain.  Today is sunny and hot and I’m glad to be in the shade of the forest for most of the time.  We stop at Peackock Sky winery for coffee and then continue down though the Onetangi Reserve, looking at Kauri trees and then to the beach where we can have a late lunch.  Michael is impressed by the Waiheke walks, which is a bit of a relief.  He’s also quite impressed by the beer in New Zealand.  They go off to explore Northland the next day leaving me a couple of weeks to get ready for the next lot of visitors.

I’ve lost a friend, Warwick Broadhead, who met me off the ferry on my return to Waiheke and drove me plus luggage in his little red car to Rocky Bay.  He’d organised two Argentinean Guys to un-pack my store room, unroll the rugs and place the furniture. Warwick unpacked some kitchen boxes until the teapot and kettle came to light then made tea. He was famous for making tea. I’d been away – off Island – for the first performance on his new solo show, Monkey, which he planned to perform in 30 episodes on the first Saturday of every month.  It is now Friday and I am about to phone him to find our how it all went.  There’s a voicemail on my phone from mutual friend, Richard asking me to call, and an email from both Richard and my cousin Mary Taylor saying that Warwick had died.

I collect Richard from the ferry and drive him to the Warwick’s house, collecting victuals on the way.  His house is on top of a hill above Palm Beach, looking over native bush to the west towards Auckland and east over the Hauraki Gulf. Warwick’s friends and family, led by his younger sister, Anne are gathered – there are nephews, wives, partners and close friends.  The house is mostly one large bare room of specific and magical dimensions.  It has a curved ceiling meeting at a high point in the centre where a cupola entertains a small glass chandelier. At the kitchen end the wife of one nephew is preparing food – people sit on the built in banquettes talking, but the main activity is through the hall in Warwick’s small bedroom where he has been laid out. Strict instructions have been left for the procedures around his death, preparation and burial. There is to be no embalming or refrigeration and he is not to be cremated but buried on a bier (no coffin) at a depth of less than two metres.  There is to be no headstone, just a Kauri tree planted on top of him.  It’s a hot January and Richard is worried about the no refrigeration rule.  Warwick’s sister and family are washing the body and rubbing on fragrant oils and eventually we are invited into the bedroom where he is lying on his side wearing only a loincloth.  As predicted, the body is already starting to go black and we are all invited to place Kawakawa leaves on him.  These have great medicinal properties and were used by the Maori people, so it seems to make sense.  I place a few leaves on his feet, but there is a crowd all eager to help, so I pick the leaves off the branches and hand them to the other mourners.  He has to be turned and with guidance from Anne, everyone contributes.

The family want to use St Mathew’s in the city but are worried that a non religious ceremony may be unacceptable.  I’m able to offer reassurance as the service for Phillip three years ago was held there and they are known to be inclusive.  I make myself useful by driving a couple to catch a ferry, then go home and ring my cousin Marie, the celebrant for Phillip’s funeral. She confirms that St Matthews is inclusive and that there should be no problems and also there is an Auckland cemetery for natural burials.  I ring Warwick’s number and talk to Anne.  They are in the middle of discussing arrangements and so are glad to get the information.  Apparently the natural burial cemetery is full and he will have to go in Waikumete Cemetery in west Auckland at a depth of two metres.  He can’t have everything.  Richard phones, asking me to come and have something to eat and collect him but there’s not much left by the time I get there and we are just about to leave when there is another arrival.

‘Will we see you tomorrow?’ Anne asks.

‘Just to bring Richard up, I think you need the space and there are so many others to visit.’

Her face brightens in tired gratitude.

The funeral is on Tuesday, five days after the death and I’m worried how decayed the body will be in the summer heat.  It’s time to get the black suit on but wearing the jacket is just impossible in this heat.  I pack sandals and shorts and my swimming gear for training later.  There are others on the ferry obviously going to the same funeral. I’ve time for a coffee in town, but this means that when I get to the church it’s fairly full – standing room only or seats behind pillars in the nave.  I eventually find a good seat in the gallery at the back with a clear view of the proceedings.  Warwick is already in position on a bier which has low plywood sides with cut out handles.  He’s covered with white fabric, an ostrich feather fan and flowers.  Someone is swinging an incense burner around to reduce detectable odour of decay.

Once the family and close friends have entered, Anne begins by telling us how he died – on his bed reading a book about angels.  She then goes on to itemise Warwick’s demands for the post death process, which apparently pushed the limits of the Natural Funeral Company and some compromises had to be made on both sides.  Anne describes the fascination of watching the body decay, something that Warwick wanted her to experience.  She links this to the many dead, decaying in the heat, in war-torn parts of the Middle East. Family difficulties are acknowledged and his nephews speak about the life of their gay uncle, who they clearly adore.  They are proud of his achievements and particularly grateful to him for showing them how to be sensitive men – not always easy in this country.  Two of the nephews have been brought up speaking Te Reo Maori so there are speeches and waiata (song) in the language.  The wife of one of the nephews is Maori and sings beautifully as does one of the choristers from his choir.  There is a woman from the Waiheke Spinners and Weavers who speaks. They were very much a part of his life in later years.

Some weeks ago I happened to be on the same ferry and sat chatting with him as he spun his wool using a spindle – amazing. Three years ago I’d collected lichen and used it to dye wool for him to spin.

There are tributes from friends, many of whom performed in his astonishingly creative productions.  They speak of the inspiration and the frustration and of Warwick’s playfulness, bordering on wickedness at times.  His search for spirituality was a life-time journey to escape his Catholic background. This search took him around the world.  He studied the tea ceremony in Japan and brought it back to New Zealand, adapting it to his own design. One friend tells the story of waiting for a train in Turkey and Warwick engaging with a group of very handsome guards in uniform.  With no common language, friends were temporarily made, creating an impromptu play. Photographs were taken in every combination with the eventual discovery that the train had been cancelled.

And so the stories continue for two hours. My friend Richard speaks last – about his relationship with Warwick, describing them as ‘Play Mates’. Richard wants to explore the darker sides and, using the quote form Monty Python’s ‘The Live Of Brian’ explains that Warwick ‘was not the Messiah, he was a very naughty boy.’  He had a need to be the centre of attention and his crimes are listed, including ‘attempted murder’.  This reference goes back to the time Warwick was staying with me and Phillip in London during his ‘Hunting of the Snark’ tour – a one man show he performed in people’s living rooms, using little figurines and props.  Phillip and Warwick took to each other and became firm friends.  Phillip however was a wind up, teasing person and one evening at dinner the play became too much for Warwick who threw the cutlery down the other end of the table.  A deathly silence ensued and Warwick was mortified.  Friendship cooled and forever after, Phillip would always remind him of his attempted murder.  I guess Warwick had some vestiges of Catholic guilt but they eventually patched things up and three years ago on Waiheke, Warwick was a great support when Phillip died.

Richard also recounts his own Father’s funeral only a few weeks ago when Warwick, feeling a lack of attention, began hitting him on the head – hard.  It is all delivered to us so comically that we are roaring with laughter.  Throughout the service there is sadness, silence and great laughter.  One woman gets us all to stand and clap – it goes on for ages.  Warwick liked applause.  He is carried out by his nephews and nieces leaving us to tea, savouries and cakes.

Four of us eventually pile into Richard’s Rav4 and speed out to West Auckland and the grave-side.  We are the last to arrive and screech to a halt just in time for the last ceremony. Some of the children have questions, like ‘Do the eyes rot first’ and ‘how will he get down the hole?’  A girl offers a polished stone to be buried with him and one of the nephews had been wearing their father’s silver tie pin all day.  Should this go in as well?  No, some of the other nephews haven’t got to wear it yet.  Finally they are ready to lower the bier with the straps, when Anne cries out that there is plastic.  An artificial rose is recovered – he didn’t’ want to be buried with any plastic.  Someone points out that the clasp on the Ostrich feather fan is plastic.  She makes a gesture of resignation and defiance as if to say that if he wants his Ostrich feathers, he will have to put up with some plastic.  Shovels have been provided and everyone takes a turn to fill the grave while a Maori chap plays a guitar and we join in the singing.  A man with a digger waits quietly to one side, in case.  But the family are determined to complete the job and eventually the digger man, un-needed, trundles his machine up the hillside and away.

Off Island for Christmas

Waihekians refer to being away from Waiheke as ‘Off Island’ as if you are somehow ‘off-line’ or have become disconnected with the centre of the universe.  It’s not that the Islanders don’t take an interest in Auckland, New Zealand or the rest of the world – Island newspaper columns do talk about world and national events – it’s just that all things Waiheke are more important. This attitude has no arrogance or one-upmanship towards the rest of humanity.  We are perfectly happy to welcome visitors, allow the vistas, the wine and the food to speak for themselves then charge the people for their experience.  Many here rely on the tourist trade for their lively-hoods and it’s growing, or getting worse, depending on your point of view.  Driving through Oneroa at the weekend seems more crowded that Queen Street in downtown Auckland.  Corporations choose the Island as the venue for Pre-Christmas parties packing the evening ferries with loud drunken people so that sober Islanders opt to wait for 30 minutes for the new alternative service which is quiet and so far un-crowded.  Now that the holiday is in full swing extra vessels are being employed on some sailings and the new competing company has got a brand new boat, unimaginatively called D6, to replace the small slow one which was always late or cancelled due to bad weather.

So its five days before Christmas and I’m off to ‘Off Island’ aka home to Hawke’s Bay where I grew up.  I’m booked on the 7.30 car ferry to Half Moon Bay and, obeying the instructions to arrive thirty minutes early, I find I’m in time to catch the 7.00 am sailing, on a faster boat.  It’s the first time in a while that Fab Blue Car (now renamed Faulty Blue Car on account of it’s minor oil leak and worn transition) has reached 100 k/h as there are no opportunities to go over 60 k/h on the Island roads.  It takes a while to get used to the different sounds at this speed. I do a coffee break at Tirau then a stop at Taupo to train in the AC baths followed by lunch, then a snooze further on at a beautiful lookout spot which I think might be away from traffic noise.  There’s a steady stream of tourists driving into the part to look at the waterfall, but I manage to sleep through it.

I’m staying with a cousin in Havelock North, but can’t remember how to get there and Google Maps is not playing on my phone so I have to call for instructions.  My cousin trains her two dogs in agility and they win prizes.  Dot, the Jack Russell, was last year the star of a Russian theatre company’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Wellington festival.  She had to learn Russian for the role but we thinks she has forgotten it now. It’s Sunday and after a local walk to exercise the dogs, we go to the Farmer’s Market at the Hastings Show-grounds.  This is one of the best farmer’s markets I’ve seen for ages – all food, none of your decorative arts or house cluttering bric-a-brac which you might want, but don’t need.  I bought asparagus to take on for Christmas plus cheese and of course no visit to a farmer’s market is complete without a great cup of coffee.  We have time to drive up Te Mata Peak for fabulous views of Hawke Bay and the vast and fertile Heretaunga plain where so much fruit is grown.  Apples are the main deal here, many of them going to South East Asia where they have to be delicious, attractive and blemish free, maybe Sainsburys buy the seconds.  Jill and Phil have brought the ashes of their last dog to scatter in the redwood grove where he liked to run.  The living dogs, unaware of the purpose of the visit, are chasing pine cones, though Dot has to have an especially small one on account of her jaw size.

Being a master swimmer throws up the challenge of finding somewhere to train.  The website for the indoor 25m pool in Waipukurau reports it is closed for retiling, fantastic timing for the holiday season – not.  The outdoor pool at nearby Waipawa is open for business from 11 every morning.  I’m early so time for a great coffee at the now famous Misty River Café in the High Street. It’s on Trip Advisor and service is prompt for coffee and any food on the counter but can be slow getting things out of the kitchen.  I’m sitting by the windlw watching my old home town go bye.  Having coffee in the High Street would have been unheard of when I was a kid, now there are at least three places.  I scan faces for anyone I might recognise, but everyone seems new, even those who might be around my age are not familiar.  It’s pleasing to see that the old town is doing well.  There are no empty shops on the High Street and everyone seems to be in town.

The town swimming pool is looking fantastic in the sunshine and I’m one of the first in this morning. I recall the massive queen carnival the town held over 50 years ago to raise money for its construction and my family was heavily involved.  I joined a coaching session here when some parents employed a Japanese swimming instructor and we quickly formed a kids swimming club, hosting meets and travelling to Havelock North and Woodville to compete.  I used to come down to train in the early mornings with a girl from my class.  We had a key to the side gate and would do 30 minutes before school – enough to win the High School senior championship.

My brother farms beef and sheep in a district called Wakarara, underneath the Ruahine ranges.  Central Hawke’s Bay is now marketed as Lamb Country but you would be hard pushed to find many lambs on the flat Ruataniwha Planes.  The highly successful dairy industry here has inexorably spread over the land, irrigating fields of grass to intensify production, requiring high levels of fertilisers with consequential nitrogen pollution running into rivers.  You now have to go to higher ground; rolling and hill country to find the lambs which are now in short supply and consequently the most expensive meat you can buy.  For the moment the Wakarara valley is peaceful and beautiful.  Cousins set up their tents and camp on the terraces above the Makaroro River.  It’s a beautiful place with re-emerging forest, thanks to the virtual elimination of Opossums, who since their introduction from Australia, have systematically chomped their way through the native vegetation, targeting young seedlings especially.  Trapping and various methods of control have gone on for decades but only a concerted programme using a controversial poison has worked. It’s a no brainer – either we want fluffy Australian Opossums or our native bush.  You can’t blame the Opossums; they’ve just stumbled upon a benign environment and taken Darwinian advantage.

Every year we say this will be the last time camping here as this is the site of the proposed and controversial Ruataniwha Dam which plans to irrigate the planes. Delays have been caused by objections to the scheme and the latest ruling is that although control of nitrogen run-off into the waterways has been mentioned in the plans, there are no details of what the levels will be set at or how they will be monitored. Added to this, farmers are unlikely to sign up to buying water until they know what these levels are.  All this uncertainty makes it difficult to plan stock levels.  My brother needs to know how many ewe lambs to keep for breeding and how many heifer calves to raise for his flock as a significant area of his land will be flooded.  The on-off nature of the project is just frustrating and we’ll all be relieved once a decision is made one way or the other.  He doesn’t need to irrigate as high levels of intensification are not possible with his sort of farming and anyway the source of the irrigation scheme will be some kilometres downstream.

It’s a big family Christmas with nieces and nephew with their partners and children.  I get to glaze the ham, there’s roast lamb, new potatoes and loads of salads. We eat and drink too much and generally laze about looking at the beautiful green hills and my sister-in-law’s lovely garden.  Hooray for the Waipawa Swimming pool – I drive in every second day for my 2k swim and take the opportunity to visit old friends in the district.  I even remember to visit the graves of ancestors in the town cemetery; people who died before I was born, who for some reason my mother also visited at this time of year with flowers. I don’t have any equipment to scrub of the lichen from the almost unreadable headstones, but the yellow lilies look nice.  It’s a scorching hot day, so I don’t expect they will last long.  One of my visits is to local artist and horse-woman Sally Eade.  http://www.sallyeadeart.co.nz/gallery

She works with acrylics and creates textures with plaster and special effects with thinned paint and a blow dryer to name only a few of her techniques.  She says she draws her inspiration from nature, and her work is modern and abstract.  She got started after looking at a highly priced picture which seemed to be un-finished and thought ‘I could do better than that’.  While most of us say this kind of thing, Sally actually went on to do it.

So Waiheke is not the only place for art, but I’m anxious to get back and check on my pot plants, vegetables in containers and the rest of the garden.  After speeding up the North Island, there’s a sign as you drive off the ferry and begin to accelerate up the hill. ‘Slow Down – you’ve Arrived.’

Waiheke has a higher than average percentage of artists and arty people, so in the New Zealand ‘have a go’ culture there’s lots of activity here with variable results.  I scour the events listings in the local papers and find that Sculpt Oneroa is opening on Friday at 6pm.  This is a new initiative since I was here last and is open only to Waiheke residents.

As usual I arrive early as I’ve still not got the exact timing for the drive from Rocky Bay so I’ve got time to have a quick look at the work.  The opening is an out-door affair on a space in front of a sculpture shop.  There’s a trestle table with drinks and nibbles around which a few people have gathered – mostly the artists.  At the last minutes people turn up from all directions and after a bit of milling around, there is a po?whiri (welcoming speeches) starting off with one of the artists, a Maori, then the organiser and then it’s all over.  I’ve collected a leaflet and go off to check out the few works I’d missed earlier.

It’s a week later and I’m spoilt for choice.  Miranda Hawthorn has opened her exhibition of sea birds at the The Red Shed (Art Collective) in Palm Beach. http://waihekeredshed.webs.com/the-red-shed-artists

I realise that as I’m away for Christmas, today is my only chance to catch it. Her colourful acrylic paintings include anomalous objects so there’s a Kingfisher in flight with a dangling chain and sink plug in its beak.  A group of birds are ignoring a Faberge egg in their midst while my favourite which makes me laugh out loud is a group of gulls squabbling over a $100 bill.  Miranda is delighted to hear me laugh and we chat about her work and the albatross she painted in response to the death of her father.  There’s an opening of a new exhibition at the Community Art Gallery this evening at 6pm but I shall have to catch this one later as I’m of to Mangare Arts Centre on the mainland for the final performance around Rosanna Raymond’s workshop and exhibition ‘Dead Pigs Don’t Grow on Trees’.

Rosanna has Samoan heritage, writes poetry and is a curator of Polynesian fabric – mainly ceremonial tapa cloth. The first challenge is to get there by public transport – no mean feat in this city of motorways and cars.  All the trains leave from the Britomart Centre just a few metres from the ferry terminus.  I find I can buy a hop on hop off ticket which works just like a London Oyster Card.  There’s a train about to leave which takes me, fairly slowly to Onehunga where I immediately catch a bus which, the driver promises, will take me to Managre.  It’s all been quite easy, but I’m disappointed that so few people are using this bus service.

Because Rosanna is rehearsing her show, it’s not possible to look at the exhibition so I go and wander around the indoor shopping centre hoping perhaps for a coffee.  It’s not that sort of shopping centre, being full of bargain shops, butchers, a fish-market that stinks and various takeaway joints serving the mainly Pacific Island people who live here.  There’s nothing to do except sit in the late afternoon sun and read my book.  It’s a novel which caught my eye in the new Waiheke Library – For Today I am a Boy by Canadian/Chinese writer Kim Fu. It was the title which caught my eye; it’s so clearly about gender and brand new writing, published this year.  The library has apparently sent all of its old books back and got new ones from the Auckland Library system. It’s always advisable to have a book to read as I wait for the ferry and indeed there’s 35-40 minutes of reading time on the journey to and from Auckland.

Dead Pigs strong female performances

It’s time to go into the Arts Centre, have a glass of wine and a nibble before being called into the performance/exhibition space.  What ensues is a powerful performance from strong and for the most part, bare breasted women clothed in traditional raffia skirts and cloaks.  Many early European photographers captured the bare breasted pacific women on film and the exhibition has found a number of these images which were then exploited in the West as soft porn.

The piece is about colonialisation and subjugation of women.  Raymond has penned some strong stuff here performed by her and other strong members of the cast.  Christianity also comes in for a beating when a Pacific woman is scrubbed of her traditional body tattoos by a Christ like figure, dressed in white with illuminated fairy lights halo like around his head.  Out in the open air for the last acts, the Samoan men have the last word, telling of the great navigational feats around the Pacific and treating us to a finale of a twirling flaming baton.

There’s a feast to follow, but I have to get back to my Island and there’s a bus about to leave.  It wanders around the suburbs with only two passengers taking me right into central Auckland and the ferry.

Making Connections

People here are asking me if I miss London, imagining, I suppose that the quietude of Waiheke must be incomparably dull compared with the bustle of a great world city.  I’m always at a bit of a loss how to answer this question and the clue to my dilemma is that they are indeed incomparable.  As much as I adore London and could never give it up entirely, I find I’m curiously at peace here in the semi solitude of Rocky Bay which has a community and an identity distinct from the general relaxed Waihekian modus operandi, i.e. laid back and relaxed – except for the dash to catch the ferry.

My new view across the valley

There are memories of Phillip, who died here.  They are good ones and I realise that they need to be revisited.  Let me give you an example.  Three years ago I stubbornly refused his request to trim a tree blocking the view from our balcony across the valley. My reason then was that the birds came up close in those branches, which also provided food for them.  Now I can see his point. There are plenty of trees around for the birds and I can now see houses nestled in the bush on the other side of our valley, providing at least a visual connection. The Island is now wearing its Christmas decorations.  The Kanuka Trees (a relative of the Manuka which flowered earlier and famed for Honey) are coming into bloom.

The effect on the hillsides around is of a light dusting of sugar or snow on the tops of the trees.  Pohutukawa trees, known as the New Zealand Christmas tree, are early this year and their large bright red blooms contrast with the small white Kanuka flowers.

Pohutokawa in flower

I’ve always had a passion for the New Zealand native bush and animals; the later being almost entirely birds. Here in Rocky Bay, I am surrounded by bush and it’s great to re-connect.  Throughout the year each species of native plant has its moment to get maximum attention from pollinating insects and birds. Later in the season there are seeds and fruit for them to eat. Just at the moment the Tui, a black bird with emerald green markings on their wings and a white ball of feathers at their throat, are enjoying the nectar from the flax flowers (Phormium Tenax).  They are aggressive and territorial birds making a noisy whirring sound with their wings in flight.  They are unconcerned by my presence, whizzing past my ear en route to a more important target.  This is often a Blackbird or Mynah bird (immigrants) perching on one of their trees.

The huge and cumbersome native Pigeon (Kereru) also comes in for flack as do individual Tuis trying to muscle in.  Tui make the most extraordinary and varied sounds; melodious bell like calls punctuated by clicks and glottal calls.  They are great imitators, so you can never be sure what you are listening to. Mum was a great fan of the Tui and often when on the phone from the UK, I would hear the Tui in the background.

I’ve made friends with the local blackbirds, who in years of separation from their European cousins, look significantly different, particularly the young adults who have rusty red heads.  In my daily quest to rid the forest floor of Jasmine and Tradescantia, the Blackbirds gather expectantly to take advantage of any insects, worms and other invertebrates disturbed by my grubbing of the soil.  They too have their hierarchies with the males (black with yellow beak) chase of the youngsters.   As Tuis don’t feed on the ground the blackbirds here have found a niche on the forest floor, once exploited by the now rare Kiwi.

There are human connections to be made and with a permanent population of around eight thousand (burgeoning to 30 thousand in the summer) most people here know each other, or at least recognise fellow islanders. I note in The Gulf News (the local weekly paper) that there’s a book launch on at the new library.  Six women writers on the Island have got together and published an anthology of their work. Sentries of the Heart has been printed on the island and contains poems, short stories and excerpts from longer works.  I’m impressed by the library, a stunning example of contemporary New Zealand architecture.  It’s the first amazing thing you see coming up the hill from the ferry at Matiatia.

There’s a good turnout but the only person I know is my friend Warwick who in a few short years on the Island has managed celebrity status.  There is a huge spread of food to be eaten and a complimentary glass of wine or two, all of which, in this airy building, makes the readings go down well.  There’s a musician, who with a collection of instruments comments on and introduces each new reading.  I get talking to a blond woman who then seems to cross my path coincidentally for the rest of the weekend.  Richard is coming over and after a chilly and short swim at the school pool; I collect him from the ferry and  we meet up with Warwick for lunch.  I’ve had an invitation to the Waiheke Island Rainbow Coalition to join in a dinner party at The Shed – a restaurant at Te Motu vineyard.  It’s described as a ‘soft pink’ event and Richard & I meet more of the gay and lesbian community over good wine and fantastic food.  Worth a return visit I think.

I’ve never been to any of those ‘Live performances’ from the National Theatre in London or the Met Opera in New York.  The Waiheke Cinema has Skylight by David Hare showing for only $25 so I go.  It’s a great evening of lovely acting from all three of the cast and cleverly filmed to give the impression of being there, even though we are sitting on comfortable sofas and one woman on the side has moved to the floor.

It’s Friday night and I’ve got a dinner engagement with old friends in Herne Bay, Auckland.  This means I shall have to forgo the Happy Hour this month at the Rocky Bay Hall.  I guess there will be many more happy hours to come and besides, this is a job for the Brompton which I fold up and carry onto the ferry.  I vaguely hear people making comments, but not close enough to acknowledge.  The ride is easy except for the hill up to Herne Bay and the ride back after a lovely dinner and conversation is even quicker.  This system of putting the bike in the back of the car is going to work.

There’s no need to take it over to the launch of the launch of the Pan Asia Pacific Out Games 2016 which is held at the Viaduct Event Centre as this is just a short walk along the docks on over a bridge, which happens to be raising up as I arrive, to let a yacht through to the inner moorings.  My new team mates from TAMS are already there and Coach Cynthia has brought me a club tee shirt to wear at competitions.  I’ve actually worn my 2013 ‘Keep GLLAM and Swim’ tee shirt which is much admired.  The local Iwi (tribe) begin with a welcome and speeches (all in Maori) supporting the Gay Games.  There is no translation and I realise that most people here know what is being said.  There are lots more speeches, including one from an MP who is a lesbian and Maori.  Apparently the local Iwi has been supporting gay rights for many years – well ahead of other tribes.  Although there is a pay bar, the food is free and we get some tasty canapés. I’m already looking forward to getting involved in the games organisation, particularly as TAMS will be responsible for the swimming.

It’s the Swimming Club Christmas party on Sunday afternoon and another task for the Brompton, cycling to Westmere, some Km west of Herne Bay.  By contrast with the Out to Swim Christmas parties, held in West End clubs, this affair is at the home of the coach and partner.  The theme is frocks, fascinators and frills, forcing the lesbians to forego trousers and allowing one of the chaps to wear a gold lame frock.  Head wear is everywhere but I’ve gone for my 2014 GLLAM tee shirt (blue & pink) with blue Samoan lava lava; a boa of silver tinsel hung with tree decorations – silver and pink triangles around drums, completes the outfit.  I have to change into it all when I get there as it’s not possible to cycle wearing all this.

People have made an amazing range of salads to go with a gigantic ham which has to be glazed.  We bring our own drinks except for an initial glass of bubbles and quite a few vodka jelly shots which are delicious but difficult to get out of the glasses with your tongue. Pudding is of course that ubiquitous Kiwi dish the Pavlova and there’s also a home made cheesecake. It’s a chance to get to know people a bit more and helped by a tail wind, the cycle ride back to the ferry takes no time at all in spite of the quantity of food and vodka jelly consumed.

This is the weekend of the Rocky Bay art exhibition and the only change to catch it is on Sunday morning.  There’s also a new initiative from some local women, who are opening a weekend café in the hall for the summer, giving walkers and visitors to Rocky Bay somewhere to get coffee and cake.  The scones with cream and jam are excellent and the coffee recommended – worth a trip to Rocky Bay.

This all sounds busy and action packed, but I’ve been reading about the Greek Philosopher Epicurus and his quest to live life well, particularly in old age.  The Author Daniel Klein, has, like me travelled to an Island, and although he’s ten years older than me, I am making the connection between age and enjoyment.  Slowing down is definitely part of my life now, doing an hour of weed clearance a day is sufficient and great progress has been made.  London winds me up, discouraging the frequent reflective periods I enjoy on Waiheke.  I pause in my work to watch the birds and to enjoy the trees.  Whilst I don’t go as far as Epicurus in savouring a dish of lentils, I eat well.  Lettuces and radishes are now ready for picking and there is plenty of parsley.  The vegetables grow daily and I’ve planted for a winter supply.  The Epicureans who indulge in orgiastic fine dining have missed the point entirely and somewhere in between these two extremes is a good place to be at this time.

Getting into a Waiheke routine

When people asked me ‘What are you going to do there?’ My answer would be, ‘Write, garden and see friends and relatives.’  So far I’ve settled down to writing in the mornings, producing two and now three substantial posts on my blog site and almost completed chapter 19 of Gay Dads.   I realise that I can write every morning, not just the previously allocated Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The garden, however is pressing as spring is rapidly turning into summer and things need to be planted.  I’ve always been worried about screening between me and the neighbours and in the past I’ve brought up native pittosporums from my brother’s farm in Hawke’s Bay, but only two of those have survived and aren’t doing that well.  So I leap into the car, drive off to the hardware store and buy four established specimens.  I now have to clear a whole tangle of creeper, some of it a left over bignonia from a different age.  It has escaped and along with something else I can’t identify has rampaged though a few straggly coprosmas and a small palm tree.  The creepers have to be extricated from their hosts and dug out.  The following day the remains require disposal by carting bundles down-hill to a pile of decomposing branches and foliage near the bottom of the section.  While I’m doing this the neighbours are clearing out all the junk left under their house by the previous tenants and carrying it in the opposite direction, up the hill for the ‘inorganic’ rubbish collection in a few weeks time.  Their ex tenants, an extended family of Tongans have moved two houses up the road and have set themselves up in the scrap metal business.  They have a small truck with high sides and can be seen cruising up and down the island picking up metal, old cookers and appliances left out on the road side for the collection.  Everyone is at it because one person’s rubbish is another’s treasure.  There’s still plenty left for the Council to collect.  The laugh is that the Tongans collect metal from my neighbour’s pile, stuff they must have left behind eighteen months ago.

I get everything planted plus lettuce seedlings (the seeds I’d stored 3 years ago refused to germinate) and an Aubergine (Egg plant here) purchased from Dave at the Thursday sale in the Community Hall.  At the end of the day I’m still looking at the two Kauri trees patiently waiting for attention.

Over the weekend, I clear a huge swathe of spring flowering jasmine which has escaped from a garden and woven a great mat of runners and roots over the bush floor, clambering up the trees and smothering them. This part of the bush garden is mosquito country and I’m kitted up in jeans a long sleeved top and a sun hat. My tools are gloves for pulling long runners up; a sharp hoe to grub up the roots and a pair of old hedge clippers to hack through the stems.

Nestled amongst this entanglement is another hated weed here, the asparagus fern, which has a tenacious root system enabling the top to clamber over everything inhibiting native seedlings.  I’ve also got my eye on a plant by the name of Tradescantia otherwise known variously by its racist name, Wandering Jew Plant or Wandering Willy- possibly a reference to its promiscuity.  In the UK it is deemed a house plant, being not frost hardy, and there are websites advising on the care of this plant, which in New Zealand has become a garden thug.  It’s OK in semi shade and manages to rampage over everything else commandeering the sunlight.  For a change, on Sunday, I switch my attention to this pest.

It’s survival mechanisms are cunning; being fragile and easily broken, pieces of the succulent stems can break off and quickly re-root.  Gentle handling is required to lift as much of it as possible into a bucket and pieces can fall out as if having an escape instinct.

The other problem is that it’ doesn’t wilt easily so can’t be put straight into a compost heap where it would re-group and thrive.  I reflect that Tradescantia is named after gardeners to Charles I called Tradescant.  They collected plants from all over the world and were influential in the development of taxonomy.  Perhaps not the legacy they dreamed of. Each afternoon or early evening, I work away eradicating these foreign weeds from my bush garden.  Sometimes I feel like an early settler clearing the land by hand.  In reality, I’m restoring the forest floor so that native seedlings can germinate.

Swimming this week at the school baths is a more respectable 22 degrees and I manage forty-five minutes.  It gets a bit frustrating at times with some in the lane swimming breastroke with their heads above the water.  I’ve been concentrating on backstroke, but my attention wanders with the result that I keep banging my head on the end of the pool.  There are no flags warning of the approaching wall.  I swap to breaststroke with resignation.  It needs some work and I can at least see where I’m going and there’s no danger of going too fast.  A Saturday routine has quickly become established, with a call into the market.  There’s a different person on the vegetable stall this week and he’s got celery seedlings and an acid free tomato plant. Next up is the Latte in the Hall café then off to the supermarket just down the hill.

Part of the plan is the purchase and transportation of a Brompton fold-up bicycle.  It arrived before me and waited patiently for customs clearance. Although mainly transported by UPS, in the end the Post Office on the Island attempts to deliver it.  Slightly intrigued by the post office card in the letterbox saying they had a parcel waiting for me, I go in, only to find that indeed it is the bicycle.  Unfortunately the carrier has been squashed against the back wheel and it takes me some time to work that out.  In the end I use brute force and straightened a strut.  I go out on the road for a test drive and there’s an elderly woman walking past.  We say hello and she stops to look at the bike.  I demonstrate the folding up procedure and offer to let her feel the weight, but she has recently had abdominal surgery and declines.  Down the hill I go and back up without incident and the gears are all working.  It sits in the store room for a week until I decide how I’m really going to make this bike work here.  It’s a Friday and I’m running short of milk.  Shopping is designated for Saturday so it would be a profligate use of petrol to drive to the supermarket.  This is a perfect test mission for the blue Brompton.  Off I set with my pink cycle helmet (mandatory in this country – the helmet not the pink) and my old high visibility yellow jacket.  Going down the hills is pretty scary and fast and then there’s always an up-hill to follow but I get to Ostend without getting off to push.  At the supermarket I fold up the bike and put it in a shopping trolley and to make it worthwhile using a credit card I buy some decent chocolate (Lindt) and a battery for my smoke alarm. All manner of eccentric behaviour is tolerated on this island, so no one raises an eyebrow except one man at the check-out who casually remarks looking into my trolley, ‘Oh look a Brompton bike.’ The return journey is more difficult as my house is half way up a hill and the supermarket is near sea-level.  There’s a long incline past the racing track which goes on forever.  Still no getting off to walk and the whole operation takes forty-five minutes.

The next outing for the Brompton is to Palm Beach late on Sunday afternoon.  This might be a tough one as there is a steep hill to cross.  The journey takes forty minutes and I still don’t have to get off and push.  There’s a group of Pacific Island women sitting on the grass playing guitars and ukuleles.  They are singing an old New Zealand cheesy favourite ‘Ten Guitars’

‘Beneath the stars my ten guitars will play a song for you

And if you’re with the one you love this is what you’ll do.’

(Replacing ‘dance’, they sing)

‘Hula, Hula, Hula to my ten guitars …’

This and the ukuleles are clues that they are Islanders.

The Brompton is quite heavy to carry along the beach and around the rocks to the naturist section and I nestle it by a bush disguising it by and hanging my clothes and towel over the frame.  The sea is still too cold to stay in for any length of time but it’s good to sit and dry out in the warm late afternoon sunshine without getting sunburnt.  I go for another swim but a crowd of little pink jellyfish have come into the shallows and it’s still cold so after drying off again, it’s time to cycle home.  It’s another forty minutes, but quite a tough one – good aerobic exercise.