Coasting to the past

by PETER CALDER

The summers seemed to go on for ever. So did we, crawling along the endless dusty ribbon of unsealed road.

Even on tarmac in a modern car, it's a daunting trip - out along the road east, more than half-way to Te Araroa where at last it turns to the south. In the family's ponderous and loyal turquoise Vanguard, grumbling in low gears through the January dust, the journey seemed interminable.

The three squabbling boys, wedged in the back seat along with the luggage which didn't fit in the boot, marked off the passing settlements with hoots of triumph as mariners might count the widely spaced tropical meridians.

The bareback Maori youngsters, three- or even four-up on 16-hand horses, waving in improbably enthusiastic greeting, the old men chatting as they mended nets on the pebbled foreshores, the women bent among rows of corn or kumara in lush gardens so green they were almost blue were constant reminders that we had crossed an invisible frontier into a world of sparkling unfamiliarity.

Then, at last and all of a sudden, the chain of corners was broken. We exploded on to a shelf above the wide expanse of Waihau Bay. The Vanguard would wheeze to a stop on the roadside and Dad would say what we'd waited all day to hear: "We're there."

There was practically no there there. The hairpin bend turnoff took us the few dozen metres to the store, in whose cool darkness treasures were stored. Straw hats and sinkers hung from the rafters, plastic sandals and dry goods weighed into brown paper bags cluttered the shelves. The counter was lined with screwtop gallon jars of aniseed balls and licorice straps and in the icy depths of the freezer was crammed a summer's worth of Topsies and Eskimo Pies.

And beyond the store - separated only by the shed that held the oily growling generator - was the lodge. Here we took over two rooms with floors of red-painted concrete. On a small cabinet between the two single beds was a candlestick, a reminder that the generator would be turned off by 10 pm.

This was our small world for the next fortnight. We would be awakened at 7 by the sound of a wooden trolley which rattled along the corridor. A cup of tea was delivered to each bedside - no matter the age or appetite of its occupant - and the stairwells were rich with the smell of breakfast.

Still chewing our last mouthfuls, we would flinch barefoot across the stony road to the jetty where fish flashed silver in the green shallows as we dangled hopeful lines. The mornings stretched, the afternoons dozed.

If we had behaved ourselves, and asked nicely, we got to go when Uncle Bob took a boatload of guests out to pick up the crayfish pots. Even when we knew it was coming, we laughed to hide our terror as he turned an interloping octopus inside out with a flourish and lobbed it into the lap of the shriekingest young woman on board.

If the pots were full, it would be crayfish for dinner. But even when they weren't, the heavy china plates, served by Maori women with forearms like hams, would be laden with mussel or paua fritters, thick fillets of fish or slabs of wild pork, mountainous piles of homemade desserts, curiously called "sweets." There was no menu, but you went back for more until you couldn't.

If the past was another country, the East Coast still is. They have moved the annex now and aluminium joinery has replaced many of the old wooden windows. The tennis court has gone, buried under a camping ground, and a line of baches straggles along a foreshore once filled with scrub, fern and grazing horses. The lodge is licensed, so beer doesn't have to be fetched by the fathers, taking turns to drive to the Te Kaha pub. You don't get seconds in the dining room, though the proprietor knocks up a mean banana cake, served in fist-size slabs for morning tea.

The wharf, protruding above the pebble-strewn beach, is still only a few paces away, the fish flash silver in the green shallows for a new generation of hopeful young fishers.

And, for as long as I sit staring out to sea, childhood seems never to have ended.

EAST CAPE


Getting there: Waihau Bay is 500 km (about six hours) from Auckland and 360 km (about 4 1/2) from Hamilton.

Accommodation: The lodge (07 325 3804) has rooms for around $70 and beds in a dormitory-style annex for $20.

An adjacent basic camping ground charges $7 a person. The lodge is at the sheltered southern end of the bay on a pebble beach, but at the northern end, the golden sand beach known as Oruaiti provides safe swimming. On that beach are Oceanside Apartments (07 325 3699), a homestay (05 325 3674) and a holiday park (07 325 3844) with powered sites, cabins and cafe.

Boatless fisherfolk are catered for by three charter operators, horsetrekking is popular and whitewater rafting on the Motu River is half an hour away. ph Noel Rusden (07) 578 4093. Motu River jet boat tours ph (07) 315 8107.

Lottin Point, 23 km east on the Pacific Coast Highway, and 4km from the main road, has excellent deepwater fishing for both skindivers and line fishermen, and a motel with stunning views.

East Cape is a 22km, no exit side trip from Te Araroa (160km from Opotiki), is the most easterly point on mainland New Zealand. The historic lighthouse stands 154m, and about 700 steps, above sea level.

More info: Tourism Eastland, ph (06) 867 2000, fax (06) 868 1368, e-mail info@eastland.co.nz



Related sites:

Pacific coast