Getting out into the regions

In my last column before departing Whanganui I travelled upriver to Pipiriki, following in my father’s footsteps.

It’s a long way to Pipiriki and a bridge to nowhere. The road was treacherous, full of slips and traffic cones, single lane in places. This side of the country fares little better.

I recently journeyed towards the east coast from Dannevirke through Weber (pronounced Weeber for some unknown reason) past the Wimbledon Tavern. My companion was nervous. The road was a rollercoaster, potholed, broken, beaten by logging and stock trucks, overdue for a facelift. My goal was to reach the longest place name in the world. My father Peter Cape wrote a song about it in the 1960s.

Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauatamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu, a hill in South Hawke’s Bay, is on the way to Porangahau. I hadn’t been there for 50 years. Nothing much has changed. The trees have grown. The hill is still there. The 1960s AA sign has been replaced with a large white descriptor board. Hearsay claims the Welsh held title to the longest place name with their Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, so Ma¯ ori lengthened theirs by adding a phrase or two creating Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauatamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu.

Wales then shorted theirs in the interests of civility and ease of pronunciation and New Zealand claimed the day. Hooray.