new surf dialogue

April  4, 2010

Easter weekend is a four day beer fest in New Zealand. Fishing derbies and drag races for Jesus are perfectly acceptable parallels to church house sermons and coffee/donut receptions. Campgrounds fill up as all the townies flock to the beach to sun their pasty flesh and cram their mouths with meat pies and fried sea fare, chased down with Jim Beam and cola in a can.

We had spent a few days on the coast a bit south of Raglan, where good surf and an army of flies kept us company before we headed further down the dusty metal (Kiwi for gravel) roads and away from the waves before the crowds descended, having made futile calls to WWOOF stays where the phone line just rang and rang. Christine and I found a quiet patch of grass off the beaten track of the Kawhia harbor early; a place where only the locals come to launch their tin boats with the high tide to fish for snapper and flounder with the family. Cows and turkeys chew their cud and peck at crickets in the front yards of the few residents whom call this corner of the north island home

Yesterday, we headed back towards Kawhia to get some diesel and water, and to dig around in the hot water beach. At the Oparau roadhouse, proprietor Bill convinced us to park it for the night, free of charge, and opened up his house and kitchen to us, for showers, laundry and endless plates Brenda’s home cookin’. Fried chicken, venison sausage, pork chops, mushrooms and green beans, fresh from the garden salad, steamed potatoes, fried kumara, beets outta the can… Serious roadhouse fare cooked from scratch. Christine lent a hand in the kitchen, and I helped get the rain water reserve tank flowing up to the guest house.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to get to a spot on the map that looks prime for surf, but lacking in accessibility. Asking Bill about it, he just shook his head and explained, “Nah, you can’t get out there. For one thing, your skins the wrong color. Outsiders aren’t too welcome in those parts. Secondly, the locals out there like to grow their marijuana plants out there, along the cliffs and in the bush. Not real keen on anyone running up on their stuff. Don’t really care whether your man, woman or child.” He told us a story of an older couple who had traveled out and pulled off the road for the night in their campervan, out near the point I’ve been interested in. Local boys woke them up with a good shaking of their van, a few rocks thrown into the doors and a proper chasing outta town. They rolled up to the roadhouse shaken and confused.

 Weird local folklore and realities of multicultural society entrenched in archaic drug laws and racially frustrating histories. The walls to climb in the search for those perfect waves, too often avoided with indifference and readily available short cuts advertised in the back pages of Surfer.  All major credit cards are accepted. Exclusive access to world class reefs. All inclusive.

The cultures, they keep coming into the roadhouse, buying up provisions for the day. The meat pies and sausage rolls and lunch meats are packed into chilly bins alongside the salt ice and pre-purchased lager (no alcohol sold on Easter). Lotto tickets are stuffed into purses and oversized wallets, and hangovers try to hide behind knock-off designer sunglasses, only to hang out in a faint cloudy halo above slow moving red-faced heads that pretend to read the Waikato times.

Tomorrow we head back to the Raglan area, as a new swell fills in. We are going to  call some WWOOF hosts, and harvest mussels when the tide dips down. In a few days Christine turns 31. It’s a celebration bitches’.