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| Map of Travels |
| 2005 - Journal 6 |
| Cats, Horses, Sheep, Cows and Motorbikes . . . Continued. Our stay in the lap of luxury, at the Powderhorn Chateau, ended reluctantly the following morning as the group filed out of the car park and rode a fast nine kilometers to Route 4 North past Taumarunui, then swinging east on Route 41 to Route 32 North. All done, in double time. As a passive observer I relaxed, sinking into the Wing’s rear seat, not so much physically as mentally. Wasn’t long before the bikes smooth motion closed my eyes as I drifted through a stream of unconnected mental pictures. Nodding off, my last thought was that it was better to be unconscious if we were going to run off the road. The Wing carved the corners with grace, it was hard to believe that a big heavy machine designed for touring was doing such a credible job tearing up the pavement. Kevin’s skill should take the lion’s share of credit; his shifts were silky smooth and properly timed. Several times the bike was so close to horizontal I swear I could reach out and touch the pavement. Kevin will dispute this. Then how come my gloves are scraped and torn. I spent time with Lee Hoggard as well, on his pillion and found that he carved corners with the same verve and élan. Lee spent a good deal of his life riding farm bikes overseeing his cows, opening paddocks, herding cattle, or checking his “mobs” to make sure they’re well fed and happy. So riding is his second nature. We finally reached Route 1 at Tokoroa and headed north. Route 1, New Zealand’s only major north/south artery, led us to Cambridge and finally Hamilton by early afternoon. Thus ended three, wild, wooly, exciting days in the company of bloody fast, dedicated riders. Certainly one of the most exciting things a man can do with his clothes on. * * * * * The car ferry moved cautiously, as it navigated the narrow channel past sailboats and power cruisers moored along the shore. The thirty-five minute ride to Waiheke Island from Auckland, was the beginning of a wonderful two-day weekend. Lee and Marie were invited, along with friends, to witness the nuptials of Robyn Barclay and Wayne Sinclair, two local artists. I tagged along to explore and enjoy what turned out to be a very picturesque and livable island, and to meet some of the Hoggard’s friends. I was not on the guest list and that was a good thing; my wardrobe contained only T-shirts and jeans. The wedding, scheduled for late Saturday afternoon, gave the three of us and their friend’s Bevian and Myra Boddie, an opportunity to explore the lush green hills, vineyards, white sandy beaches and small villages that are in quiet contrast to the faster pace of Auckland. More importantly we were able to buy sandwiches and have a picnic. Waiheke Island sits deep inside Hauraki Gulf, the body of water that separates Auckland from the Coromandel Peninsula. The island, quite irregular in shape, is almost 20 kilometers in length from east to west and at its widest almost 10 kilometers. A small island by any measurement, its rocky foreshores, sandy beaches and lush sub-tropical forests are surrounded by vineyards and farmland. The climate is generally warmer than Auckland, has less rain and humidity and more importantly, for a vacation spot, more sunshine. With a year –round population of 7000 plus residents the island put me in mind of Block Island in Rhode Island Sound. Certainly different but at the same time offered a gentle place to relax and sooth our bodies and spirits. Sunday morning we drove to Stony Batter (named after rock formations deposited more than eight million years ago) on the eastern end of the island. During World War II the New Zealand army built three large gun emplacements and tunnels to insure safe anchorages for Allied shipping and protection of Auckland from German and Japanese sea-borne attacks from the east. We explored the tunnels (with flashlights which were barely adequate the tunnels are so dark) that connected each 9.2 inch gun and its magazine. The view from Stony Batter of the green hills marching in-step to the blue waters of the Pacific was so breath-taking my knees felt weak. After lunch we drove to the home of the newlyweds at the top of a high hill, to drop off a their gift. We took in the view (it just gets better and better), had two sips of a tasty New Zealand wine, said our goodbyes to the Boddie’s and other guests and literally raced along the winding roads (not quite sure we were on the right road to the landing) to catch the ferry. We just made the boat. The weekend was another remarkable experience that begs a longer stay. * * * * * Rotorua, “like no other place on earth,” is the heartland of New Zealand, spiritual home of the Maori, home to some of the world’s most interesting forces of nature and a vacation play land. Rotorua’s reputation for its natural therapeutic waters, has for more than 160 years been called “Nature’s Spa of the South Pacific.” The Wai-O-Tapu (Sacred Waters) thermal area has been associated with volcanic activity for some 160,000 years. Beneath the ground are streams heated by magma from earlier eruptions. The 300 degree water absorbs minerals out of the rocks and carries them to the surface as steam. The sulphur smell (rotten eggs) is carried into every corner of the city.Voted three times as the most beautiful city in New Zealand with its clean cobblestoned streets, beautifully flowered parks and gardens. Its large mix of attractions and activities makes it a premier vacation playground with fishing, camping, boating, skydiving, bungee jumping, tram rides and more. Rotorua is also the center of Maori culture embodying the promise of “Manaakitanga . . .Which means to “feel the spirit.” A cultural concept that directs the Maori to give us, the visitor, the best of themselves, their time and their history. As my month in New Zealand was drawing to a close, Kevin, Faye, Bryon Norton, a friend and your reporter, drove to Rotorua for a bit of sightseeing and to experience the Maroi culture. I’d heard about the Maori experience; entertainment centered around dancing, songs and food but had no idea what to expect. It turned out to be a bit more personal than I could possibly imagine. I must first explain that my Kiwi friends (Kevin and Lee) christened me Studley when we first met. A stud they thought. What ever gave them that idea? Nothing could be further that the truth. I’m a shy, retiring sort of bloke with who really doesn’t deserve or want the Casanova label. Frankly there was little I could do about it. The more I protested the stronger was their resolve to shout it from the roof tops, in this case the interior of the bus that carried Kevin, Faye and myself, and 45 other souls for an evening’s entertainment and food at the Tamaki Maori Village. We were the last people to join the bus. Actually the bus had already left the ticket office and had to return to pick us up. There was one seat in the front of the bus and two at the rear. Kevin made sure that I sat in the front. I should have known he was up to something. The driver, a Maori gal with a gift of gab ordained me as “honorary chief “ Seems that in every bus (there were five in our group that evening) baptized somebody to be an honorary chief, called a Rangatira. Our bus driver asked my name and Kevin, the sly devil told the driver I was called Studley. A California couple sitting next to him asked why I had such a strange name. “He thinks a lot of himself,” Kevin replied with a big grin. The driver handed me the mike with instructions to greet my fellow passengers with the traditional Maori greeting. . . .Kia Ora (Kee Ora) she whispered. I repeated it. (really I’m not good with foreign languages) She wasn’t satisfied. “Louder,” she said. Four times I tried until finally she gave up (oh these Pakeha she muttered) I found out later that Pakeha (Paahk-ee-ha) is the Maori name for white man that translates as “long pork.” Now tell me . . . Is there a double meaning here? Five bus loads of visitors including the five newly appointed honorary chiefs waited patiently for the great warrior to appear to give the traditional welcome that in earlier times must have been scary as hell. Then the walk through the small village amongst tall trees where villagers practiced stick and ball tossing games designed to help the young people quicken reflexes and peripheral vision, needed when they grow to be warriors. We were soon directed to the meeting house to watch traditional dances and songs. I was struck by the intensity of those on the stage who were expressing their roots and cultural history, in such a prideful way, with us . . . The Pakeha. Dinner was cooked in the traditional way, underground with hot stones, called hangi and served as a buffet. Well prepared and well served it capped a wonderful evening. Oh yes . . . On the return bus ride your reporter was once again summoned to the front of the bus and commanded, yes commanded to sing a song. I would have rather faced four naked warriors with AK-47’s, on full automatic, than attempt to sing. The only song I could or would attempt was Row, row, row your boat. So I had one side of the bus start the song and the other side come in on the third row. . . I got through it and you know what, it was a terrific evening. Of course Kevin is living in fear of what I’m cooking up 12,000 miles away. Maybe just the thought of returning next year will be enough to put a kink in his knickers. Oh yes, almost forgot to mention Bryon. He spent the two days visiting with friends while we toured Rotorua, but shared a room with me that evening. He also shared his cold (flu) germs as well. Bryon is a very funny fellow and I think a bit eccentric. In the morning he took a bubble bath and, as it turned out, used more than half the bottle. The bath floor was flooded, almost knee deep in a white, soft froth. |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |