Off the grid and on the road to somewhere

Work (as in the bosses) have been a bit in my face recently, encouraging me to have a holiday.

They came up with dates. I said, argh, no, thanks, I’ll sort that.

So I just did. I have had the last week off the grid. Well, kind of. I still got emails and texts, I just haven’t returned many, if any. Noone died, I don’t think. Is Simon Bridges still National’s leader? For now? OK.

Thought so. They won’t knock him off until after the long Christmas/New Year break. I mean who wants the job before then? Plenty of them do.

Anyway, speaking of bridges only going one way, I went north to the Hokianga. I took eight-year-old son Buster out of school for this past week, and we went bush. I forgot to tell the school and they texted every day, for which I replied, absent, safe with Dad.

His mum also told them each day we’d be back tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. I threatened Buster with going to the local school for a day. He went white. At least they look like they can tackle, he said. I said, they look like they can drive, and some do. It’s the sticks – these young boys are workers at 11, young men growing fast.

I took a day and half to get there. We left late and I found myself falling asleep behind the wheel of the new turbo Stinger. Goes like a cut cat. Love it. It’s my midlife crisis exhibit A.

‘‘Sexy,’’ said this elderly lady in Wellsford. I looked and smiled; she said, ‘‘the car, love, not you’’, and ‘‘shouldn’t you be working?’’

I am. I’m driving; getting out of Auckland is hard work, I said. So damn hard, I stayed in Dargaville. First motel on the corner, $115 for the night. A room from the 1970s. It seemed 5 star to me after drifting into the gravel just 30 minutes earlier.

See, who needs school with reallife lessons like this. Nine hours’ sleep and, wow, what an investment. Just $115 to stay the night and stay alive. Lesson No 1.

Anyway we got to the Hokianga, where life seriously stands as still and as old fashioned as you wish. Just 4000 people live here now. A historic harbour, if the mountains could speak they’d never stop telling stories. Rogernomics and the National afterguard ripped through here. No bank, no post shop, plenty of art galleries and the odd pub remains and petrol is $2.68 a litre. Glen runs the Rawene pub and ask for Shane or Pip at the Copthorne Omapere.

If you haven’t been to the Copthorne you may die and have missed one of the world’s greatest views from Earth’s best deck to drink from, or to just sit and natter or stare – at anything really but the view demands all your attention. Pungaru and Kohukohu have pubs too. I can recommend both.

Anyway, so we got there. Think old bach, treasured sleep-ins (no 2.30am alarm), a couple of nights at my mate, Jesse’s farm, a historic almost 40-year-old family (not mine) rugby tournament, fishing the West Coast seas, backyard bullrush, home-kill meat, real cow’s milk, terrible dusty roads, potholes, old utes, real tough as teak authentic New Zealanders, Ma¯ ori and Pa¯ keha¯ living side by side, no iwi-Kiwi bull-ka¯ ka¯ here, they see people, not race. They see mates, not hate and politics and the language of division.

They see another prop, a farmhand, the neighbour, the pub owner, a truck driver, a forestry worker, the ferry skipper, a builder, the jobless, the teacher, a sharemilker, the coastguard volunteer– whatever makes the small community go round. Everyone has a job to do here – it just may not be paid.

In small communities like this everyone knows each other’s name and if you can’t remember there’s always bro, uncle, sis and auntie. And Muz. And missy. That covers it. Usually. It’s where every bloke and gal is crucial.

My mate Jesse farms near Kohukohu, four kilometres up the road to be exact. He’s like the local mayor, and he’d be embarrassed I’m even saying this. Jesse runs a farm with his wife and two boys. Good country boys, strong tacklers, hard runners, good helpers, humble and quiet from the outside. Much noisier when you breach their inner circle.

Jesse is a great Dad, a hugely caring mate, and the most generous of men. He makes every day with his boys count because he lost his Dad when he was 11. That’s the same age as his oldest is now.

Now, sure, we all go off the rails at times and Jesse’s wife Kelly will easily find the odd fault, but he’s a tribute to his dad, Rex. If New Zealand was made up of 2.5 million men like Jesse we wouldn’t have many issues, things would get done and, boy, we’d have an even stronger country.

He organises so much, is a mainstay, stays late, arrives early, coaches, plays taxi service, ropes me into two games of touch, cooks and milks each day. Then repeats it. He took me fishing. We got enough for a feed. He always sends food back to the city for the boys – our mates. Always. I caught the biggest one. I must remember not to relax until I land it on the boat. Eight pounds, Jesse reckons. Lesson No 2: land the bloody thing. Yes, it got away.

Then we wound things up. The alarm clock needs to go on again, and the Stinger is about to hit the road. I stop three times in four hours. I’m tired. A good tired. A relaxed tired. Lesson No 3 – stop and wake up. Smell the roses.

And lesson 4 is truancy. Truancy is OK, I reckon, every now and then. Grab your kids, go bush, tell the school maybe, and learn something about yourself and pass something on to them.

Buster was upset coming home. He didn’t want to leave his country mates. He loves the country. There’s no wi-fi and gaming shops here. No KiwiBuild, Kiwibank and I wonder if KiwiSaver gets much of a look-in too. It’s lean-to, Port-a-loo and don’t expect too much more than that. But do expect a warm welcome.

It’s wild boars and fish galore. Where men like Jesse Wallace are king, not that he’ll ever be knighted. Should be. But he won’t.

He’s too busy making memories. That’s all we have. Material things come and go. A week like this lasts a lifetime. And then some. See you Monday.