FROM THE EDITOR
I turn off State Highway 1, just past the jammed Waikato Expressway, hanging a right on to Horohoro Rd. The back roads, I say out loud, because there’s no one else in the car. I turn the volume up on the stereo and play the song sent via Instagram (“a tune for you”): Lonely Feeling (Rocking Night) by the Bas Lexter Ensample.
Music for a roadie. I love driving alone. “Beware: Logging trucks turning” says the sign, but there are none. It’s late in the afternoon and I turn on to the winding Old Taupo Rd.
The back roads. Farms. Native forest and forestry. Too many pines. Too many cows. No one is listening.
Old Taupo Rd, Whakamaru Rd, SH32. It follows the Waikato River and that big body of water over there, Lake Maraetai. The sun is falling into the edges of the horizon, into another hemisphere, bleeding violently red into the sky. In a field at the edge of the lake, campervans and small boats make a small, temporary village.
Then Whakamaru Dam. Vast and brutalist. Finished in 1956. I look out the window to the left, where the water looks benign, the calm before the dam storm. Whakamaru is a beautiful word. It means “to give shelter”. I pull up at the store, the only shelter apart from a gas station where no one’s filling up. The store sells everything from pies to paddling pools and garden tools. It’s empty of customers, but not stuff.
I buy a bag of Oddfellows (a sidenote to my sister Kate: they are not the same as they were way back when you had them in the glove box of your car) and a bottle opener.
“Where are you going?” asks the guy behind the counter. He has a massive smile. I tell him and then the questions come thick and fast: “Family?” “A reunion?” “Good bottle opener you’ve chosen there. Drinking red wine, are we?” I answer yes to everything. In small towns like this, there is no filter. I don’t mind at all, but I’m not giving details. I’m just stretching and yawning before moving on and Whakamaru is a vignette in a bigger picture that is yet to be revealed.
A young dude strolls in. Looks like he’s just knocked off from work: “Hey, my man, how’s it?” I leave them to it and continue on.
All along the way are election hoardings at the edge of paddocks, ruining the scenery. On the back roads, no one can hear you scream your slogans.
I want to drive and drive. Away from the shouting, the heckling on social media, the low-grade political debate and sledging. It’s a mind-f***. But on the back roads, you just turn up the stereo, drown out the noise and have faith you are heading in the right direction. Making the right turns.
Noho ora mai