Part three of Coastlines, a five-part serial by Graeme Lay. The story so far: Biographer Oliver Norton has returned to Logan Bay, an idyllic spot with a troubled past, to interview retired German mountaineer Werner Weiss. But nostalgic memories of a visit with his late wife are overtaken by a close encounter with a local tractor ...
KEY POINTS:
As Werner Weiss had warned Oliver in an email, the road up to his house was rough. Narrow and rutted, it wound its way up through stands of ragged wattles and pines. Biographer Oliver Norton had come to Logan Bay to conduct a series of interviews with Weiss, a legendary German mountaineer and former athlete who had bought a block of land near the little holiday settlement and retired there.
At the top of the hill the road opened out to a wide, grassed clearing, on the far side of which was a board-and-batten house with a deck across its frontage.
A gravel drive led across to the house, and Oliver drove slowly along it. When he was about 20m from the house the ranchslider opened and a man stepped on to the deck. He was tall, with untidy blond hair, and wore a singlet, shorts and sandals. But the man's most singular characteristic was the rifle he carried, and as Oliver drove closer he raised it to his shoulder and aimed it in his direction.
Oliver stopped the car. The man stepped off the deck and without lowering the firearm called out: "Who are you and what do you want?"
Oliver leaned out the window. "Oliver Norton. I'm here to interview you." Still watchful, the man lowered his rifle.
Inside, the house was untidy but comfortable. The two men sat at a kauri table, drinking coffee. Weiss' face was flabby and unshaven and there were rolls of flesh under his eyes. He was obviously a man who was indifferent to his personal appearance. But Oliver was well aware that he was also a man who had scaled the world's seven highest mountains. And he had conquered Everest six times.
Already Oliver sensed Weiss' toughness, resolve and authority. His English was excellent, although his accent was strong.
"Sorry about the gun, but I haff to keep it with me."
"Why?"
"The locals."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been burgled twice. My goats have been stolen, I've had two dogs shot. My farm bike's been set on fire."
"Christ. What did the police do?"
"Oh, they come, they ask questions, they take notes. And nothing happens." He grunted. "They don't like foreigners either, I think. So, I keep my gun handy. And next time my property's attacked, I'll use it."
Oliver was dismayed. "And you think it's because you're a foreigner?"
"I think so, yes."
"But that's crazy. There are so many immigrants in New Zealand now."
Weiss gave Oliver a long, troubled look. "But it's the land. It's me buying the land that they hate."
Oliver frowned. "Is there a tribal claim on it?"
Weiss brought his fist down hard on the table. "No. I bought it from a local farmer, Will Logan. His family had owned it for over a hundred years. But as soon as I moved in, the stealing started."
He got up and walked to the window. "I'm a wicked foreigner. And I've got money. So apparently that makes me fair game."
Oliver was silent for a few moments. He knew the issue of foreigners buying prime coastal land in this area was a sensitive one, and not just for Maori. He too, as a fifth-generation New Zealander, felt strongly that such land should not pass into foreign ownership. But he also resented Maori claiming that it was they alone who felt a deep attachment to the land. He loved it as much as anyone else, brown or white. Getting up from the table, Oliver said, "I have to say, Werner, that I'm not happy either about our coastal land being sold to foreigners."
Weiss' eyes bulged with indignation.
"You don't think I can love this land? You don't think I care what happens to it?"
He jerked his head in the direction of the door. "You come with me, I'll show you something." They stood at the top of the hill above the house. Out in the bay the islands seemed to float in the early summer haze, and along the coast symmetrical lines of swells rolled in towards the beach. However it was not the panoramic view that was Werner's subject but the valley which lay below them. Using both his big hands, he pointed out the valley's features.
"First, I got rid of all the exotics - the wattles, the pines. Took me nearly two years." He gave a barking laugh. "My wife left me before I finished, went back to Munich. She couldn't hack any more of it." He looked at Oliver. "Are you married?"
"I was. My wife died."
"Oh. I'm sorry." He nodded, sympathetically, then continued. "Then I replanted, by hand. All native trees kauri, totara, rimu, puriri, ferns, pongas." He flung out his hands. "And you see, now I have a real New Zealand forest."
Oliver stared down at the scene. Well spaced, the trees were obviously thriving. The entire valley and the hillside beyond were covered in young native forest, with ferns spreading their soft green fronds in the shade of the trees.
Werner waved his hands again. "And now, the birds come. Pigeons, tuis, fantails, bellbirds. Kiwis, too. I hear them call at night."
He thrust his face defiantly towards Oliver. "But do you know the only thing the locals grow? Cannabis. Grow it, smoke it, sell it to the kids."
Weiss drew back, waiting for Oliver's reaction. When he didn't speak, the German spoke again, less confidently. "Well, what do you think of my project?"
As he stared across the forested valley, Oliver's reply was heartfelt. "It's wonderful. I think what you've done here is wonderful."
Tomorrow: A change in the weather
* Graeme Lay is an Auckland novelist and writer.
