Escape from New Zealand
Deep in the rugged North Island is a self-declared republic, where you may just need to buy a passport to get in. Brook Sabin and Radha Engling head there.
Naked. What I’m looking at is bare. And nobody has been near it for awhile. I’m talking about my empty passport as it lies open on the ‘‘customs’’ desk. For the first time since March, it’s about to get a stamp.
Have I escaped overseas? No. But, I’m at the scene of a quiet rebellion that has long been under way in a remote part of New Zealand.
Welcome to Whangamo¯mona, a self-declared republic, complete with its own passport stamp.
Just to be clear, this republic doesn’t take itself too seriously. A goat once won the presidency in a landslide, and 18 months later he sadly died in office.
The goat was replaced by a poodle. But this top dog was the subject of an assassination attempt by an envious labrador. The local pup-arazzi had a field day.
The first thing to know about ‘‘Whanga’’, as the locals call it, is that getting there is an adventure.
The only way in is via the appropriately named Forgotten World Highway, deep into an untamed wilderness between Taumarunui and Stratford.
The wonderfully scenic road includes a long, one-way tunnel that was made in the 1930s with jackhammers. It sits as it did 85 years ago, and is affectionately known as the Hobbit’s Hole. And it really feels like we’ve entered Middle Earth.
When we arrive in Whangamo¯mona, almost two hours after leaving Taumarunui, I find a goat intently staring at me, chewing unblinkingly. I sincerely hope he’ll one day run for office under the name Billy Clinton.
I quickly discover Whanga operates on a different frequency. In the outside world, the planet rotates around the sun. But here, the centre of the universe is the pub. Locals orbit in a predictable pattern, while foreigners (from New Zealand) are like aliens shuffling through as if we’re visiting an open-air museum.
I walk inside the pub, and find almost everyone from within a 50-kilometre radius inside. It’s the afternoon of an All Blacks test, and the pub is like the Starship Enterprise. With satellite television, this place is a link to the outside world. There is no
cellphone reception or wi-fi at the hotel. It’s like
I’m in 1992.
The buildings are beautifully quaint, such as the little old church with its fading red roof, across the road from the pub, complete with a Londonstyle phone box. Inside is amannequin with a white dress pretending to make a phone call. I’m not sure if it’s enchanting or haunting.
I continue my safari around town, something that can be done in 100 metres or so. Aside from the goat, two sheep, a pig, a rusting tractor, and a group of kids playing on the Presidential Playground, the place is quiet.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not rushing or constantly checking my phone, and that is a magical feeling. This is the republic of solitude.
But once every two years, the tiny town swells to thousands for Republic Day; which is also when the presidential election is held. Last year, John Herlihy won, defeating healthy competition from a cockatoo and a stuffed teddy.
Republic Day visitors are also greeted by customs agents on the road, who ask that you buy a passport to be allowed entry.
Inside the ‘‘legal document’’ is a history of Whanga. In 1989, residents were not impressed by a proposal to shunt the village into the Manawatu¯Whanganui boundary. In response, ‘‘a plan was furtively hatched for the district to break away from New Zealand. Unanimously the pub was chosen as the republic headquarters and passports were sold from long-drop border controls.’’
Passport holders are also required to ‘‘smile a lot and be friendly and courteous at all times’’, with proceeds from sales going to the local school and community projects.
Despite arriving well outside election season, hotel owner Richard Pratt tells me he’s had one of his busiest winters, with Kiwis out visiting somewhere new.
We’re shown to our room, which is basic, with a communal toilet. But you don’t come here for a
luxury escape – it’s all about the warm hospitality. A drink downstairs with locals in front of the open fire will soon see you in the throes of deep conversation with more unexpected twists than a Donald Trump tweet. The food is also hearty, with the country-style lamb shank amust-try.
The village is also a place that goes to sleep early, as I painfully found out. Last food orders at the pub came at 6.50pm, and I made the mistake of driving down the road in the evening to find reception and send some emails.
When I returned at 10.30pm, the lights were off, and the doors of the hotel bolted shut. I walked around town, hoping somebody would be awake and able to call the pub owner. But nothing, even the pig across the road had gone to sleep.
I decided to try to wake people up, shouting to the second storey of the hotel, hopingmy partner would wake. Nothing.
After more than 30 minutes, I had the genius idea to head up to the second-storey fire escape. That too was locked.
Resigned to the fact I’d be spending a night in our car, I reclined the seat and decided to meditate like a bad burglar.
I decided to give it one more go, this time jumping over a fence at the back of the pub, and getting increasingly worried I might be mistaken for a burglar. For some reason, I thought I’d wander around loudly declaring ‘‘it’s just me’’ as if that would stop someone thinking I was up to no good.
I tripped and fell on something, and lay on the ground in shock, then burst into laughter. I hauled myself up and realised I was near the back entrance to the kitchen and tried the nearby door. I experienced the most beautiful sound: the door handle clicked open.
By morning, the hotel guests from ‘‘New Zealand’’ gathered around for a communal breakfast, andwe all discussed how lucky we were to be out exploring, discovering new places like Whangamo¯mona.
As we drove out of the town, on the way to Stratford, we passed a sign simply saying: ‘‘You are now leaving the Republic. Welcome back to New Zealand.’’ It wasn’t quite an overseas trip, but in a Covid-19 world, it’s the next best thing.
Brook Sabin and Radha Engling are travelling the length of New Zealand on a Stuff Travel nationwide road trip, in a new Hyundai Kona Electric. The vehicle has 449km of real-world range on a single charge. Visit hyundai.co.nz/kona-electric.
The writer’s trip was supported by Venture Taranaki.