Seeing home through a tourist’s eyes
Despite the lack of good Guinness or a sing-song, Jill Worrall’s Irish friend reckons NZ’S ‘the most beautiful country in the world’.
The highway south of Westport was littered with furry bodies. The night before had clearly been carnage for possums but a win for gratis pest control.
Frank, from Ireland, was not so sure.
‘‘I know you’re a ruthless nation on the rugby field but I didn’t expect this killer streak. First the poor little stoats and now the possums...’’
Frank was on his first visit to New Zealand and after he’d spent a week, mostly in Auckland and Wellington, I was now showing him the wilder side of the country.
He’d seen traps in the Abel Tasman National Park when we’d walked a section of the coastal track, at which point I’d delivered my ‘‘Introduction of pests to NZ, their impact and control’’ lecture.
‘‘The problem is your birds have got lazy,’’ said Frank with deadpan delivery. ‘‘A good kick up the a... on a regular basis and they’d be back flying and out of harm’s way.’’
I was about to launch into a brief dissertation on vestigial wings when we caught sight of the Tasman north of Punakaiki. Saved by the ocean before I once again fell for another accomplished legpull.
‘‘Stop when you can,’’ requested Frank, ‘‘I’m turning into one of those camera-obsessed tourists.’’
I pulled over where we could look south to where the Tasman Sea rollers were colliding with headlands and rock stacks in foaming waves and sea haze. Sunlight glinted off the flax that clung to the tumble of boulders on the shore.
Seeing your own country through the eyes of a first-time visitor means reassessing one’s own perspectives and views.
Frank had stepped off the Cook Strait ferry in Picton five days earlier, already captivated by the Sounds. As a Kerry man who had lived near the sea almost all his life he was eyeing up boats in the marina almost as soon as he’d hit dry land.
He stood on a secluded beach on Pelorus Sound, beer in one hand, large slab of bacon and egg pie in the other and contemplated the view. Frank had recently taken early retirement from teaching: ‘‘As the girls would say at school… OMG.’’
The next day we climbed through coastal forest to the Abel Tasman Memorial in Golden Bay. It was hot, the cicadas were in a frenzy. We discussed those early European landfalls. Frank was already reading Michael King’s History of New Zealand and was starting to outpace me on my accurate historical knowledge of my own country.
We swam at Tata Beach; high summer and only half a dozen of us in the water. Frank was not impressed with the water temperature, however. ‘‘Subtropical you said! F... it’s cold.’’
Over several years of running walking tours together in Ireland, Frank has taken me into many an Irish bar free from what he calls ‘‘tourist diddly-i-dai’’, where we’ve drunk Guinness, sung the national anthem in Irish and taught German tourists how to sing Fureys’ songs.
Now, I was expected to produce the New Zealand equivalent... in Takaka. The pub had one patron so we crossed the road to a bar where we instantly raised the average age by about 20 years. It might have been less sultry than Jamaica but the dreadlock count was probably about the same.
‘‘It’s a fantastic country, exceeded my expectations already,’’ Frank shouted in my ear, as the DJ in his crochet hat cranked up the reggae. ‘‘But the bars…..’’
I thought I could redeem myself by taking him to the legendary Mussel Inn north of Takaka but I managed to hit two music-free nights. Frank gamely tried the manuka beer having decided not to risk Guinness this far from its homeland.
On the way home we crossed the Takaka River bridge, slowing down to count the number of campervans parked on the riverbed itself. There were at least 15. The carpark behind was chocka.
Ireland too, has been having problems with freedom campers.
‘‘But our roads put a lot of them off as they are so narrow when you get off the motorways.’’
The next morning, he reckoned the manuka beer had given him hallucinations in the night.
In Hokitika we stood by the sea at the mouth of the river. I wanted to show Frank where my Great Uncle Fred’s body had been washed up more than 120 years ago after he drowned crossing a river near Whataroa. It’s not a common stop for tourists but illustrated the perils of the pioneering life.
We fell into conversation with a local who told Frank he was now in the most Irish part of New Zealand.
‘‘No-one wanted them anywhere else,’’ he teased him. ‘‘Are you a local?’’ Frank asked. ‘‘He’s the mayor,’’ a by-stander replied.
‘‘You’ve had the official welcome.’’
In Ross we visited the town’s 1915 jail. Frank read through several sheets of court reports.
‘‘Almost all the accused are Irish,’’ he said.
We spend two days at the glaciers, both geography geeks, and happily point out hanging valleys, cirques and kettle holes to each other.
At Fox Glacier, Frank stepped over the barrier, which was at least a kilometre back from the terminal face and began striding up the track.
‘‘Health and safety gone mad,’’ he said, just before he was reprimanded by a DOC officer. Aoraki/mt Cook and Tasman emerged from the clouds the next day as we sat at the Lake Matheson cafe.
In the carpark, a rare empty space was taken up with a freedom camper’s laundry.
Frank was already planning his next trip to New Zealand but I still had my coup de grace to deliver. An overnight cruise on Milford Sound. Coming from Ireland, I knew Frank would not hold the bad weather against me or the country but I wanted it to be perfect.
And it was. Gloriously so. The Milford Mariner cruised the length of the sound and out into the Tasman before anchoring just at the entrance so we could kayak. We set off through clouds of sandflies, which we managed to lose while circumnavigating a rocky islet.
We were on deck at dawn watching the silhouette of Mitre Peak wash with colour as the sun rose.
‘‘It’s the most beautiful country in the world,’’ said Frank There were seals in the water. ‘‘Fishermen at home hate them,’’ he said.
‘‘Get rid of them with the stoats.’’
I didn’t rise to the bait.