Up on the ROOF
Sarah Daniell heads north and takes camping to a higher and easier plane
We call it the ruru nest. It’s the first bird we hear the first time we pitch our rooftop tent at Ruakaka boat ramp. The first time we assemble the tent-nest, some time after 10pm, it takes us five minutes. The night had fallen suddenly, like a calamity, a couple of hours earlier, and we have only the small circle of light from our headlamps and the vague memory of the how-to-assemble video we'd watched a day before.
Here we are in the semi-wilderness, unfettered, carefree, about to sleep in our tentnest. We stand at the water's edge, taking sips from the hip-flask. The ruru cries again and fish flap in the estuary, leaving fleeting phosphorescent traces.
Anyone who has pitched a conventional tent will be familiar with the fortitude often required for setting up a campsite in either intense, oppressive sunshine or this inky, hostile darkness. On an empty stomach. After cutting through the darkness along the highway, in a queue of other optimists, looking for an escape. This picture and these circumstances are a prelude to war. But the tent-nest is an agile sort of innovation for the time poor.
There are no poles, no vast swathes of canvas to negotiate, no arguments over missing pegs, no cursed inflatable beds that spring a slow leak, so you find yourselves in the coldest hour of the early, early morning, lying miserable on the hard floor. It seems like a ridiculous oxymoron, but it's Zen camping. The tent-nest basically unfolds, and requires the most minimal movements and effort and you have your house. Inside there is a comfy mattress and best of all, when it comes time to move on and fold the tent-nest back up, the bedding stays there.
This is not an ordinary tent and this is not a designated campsite. We tried to get into the campground further down the road, just off State Highway 1, but the gates are locked. We had missed the entry time by half an hour. We are tired and we decide we will go no further. The takeaway that sells curries and chips and burgers is just closing as we pull in. So we find ourselves at the boat ramp, eating cashew nuts, sipping whiskey and looking forward to sleep before continuing our mission north in the morning.
We wake the next morning and it’s still dark. Outside is the sound of many cars, reverse beeping and the clanging of trailers. We stay inside, coming to terms with the dawn, wondering what these people launching boats make of our tent-nest, and listening to the commands barked, the sleepy grunted responses, the crunch of tyres on gravel.
We, too, get up, have another handful of cashews, gulp back some water and brush our teeth before folding ourselves up and pointing north, towards our destination, Maitai Bay on the Karikari peninsula.
Beth Eastell and Joel Hedges, the impossibly hip designers of the tent-nest, have managed to assemble the tent-nest in just over a minute. They are like Zen masters in the art of camping. They have thought of everything, including good music, which you can download for your listening pleasure. It features Jesus, etc by Wilco, To Be Without You, by Ryan Adams and Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s So Good at Being in Trouble.
We drive through the foggy, misty frequencies, passing small towns like Moerewa and Kawakawa, where we stop at a cafe called 39 Gillies Street, because they have Atomic beans. Breakfast is a pie and vanilla slice.
As we head into Coopers Beach, we are thrown by its glassy aspirational apartment blocks, and rapid development. Where is My Mind comes on.
My mind is at Maitai Bay. I was there about 14 years ago. It was peaceful and spacious. I'd met friends who had hauled themselves up there from Wellington to explore Doubtless Bay, too.
This time, when we arrive at the DoC site just after 10am, it’s like a festival. There are several pimping motorhomes, tents, 4-wheel bikes, pushbikes, and some groups have set large tents over multiple sites, creating small-but-impenetrable camping republics. One family even have a small crane on the back of a trailer to lift their small boat. There is a woman, sitting in the lotus position with her back to the campsite, overlooking the sea.
In paradise, everyone knows your numberplate and your name.
We introduce ourselves to our neighbours. Mainly because we are basically now living with them and it seems totally weird to not at least know their names.
He is from Westport, she from Chile — they have two small girls who watch avidly, with dark serious eyes, as we set up our tent-nest. They have been on a roadtrip for months and are heading back to the West Coast. They don't seem to either know for sure, or even care. They appear admirably unstressed about any notion of a plan. He tells us about the rahui in the bay, which is in effect till 2020. We go for a snorkel, and the water is exquisitely clear but it’s been stripped. The only species thriving is kina. Campers officially outnumber fish stocks in Maitai Bay.
We hike an hour along the beach, past Waikato Bay, to an area where we can cast a line from the rocks. Later we snorkel and see moki and small snapper. We walk back along the sand, rinse off the salt and sweat in cold showers, make dinner and head to the cliff edge to look at the frothy waves. There are people surfing and paddle boarding and swimming well after dark. It’s a crowded and glorious place.
When it's time to leave, we pack our bags into the car. It feels as though it’s a struggle to make everything fit inside again. It’s as though our belongings have soaked up the sun, expanded, taken root and are now as reluctant to leave as we are.