Day 18: Barcardi and Licorice (15/02/2011)

Whanganui Look Out! We Tried to Warn Them.



Trouble Ahead.


















The Whanganui River



The Convent and Church at Jerusalem.

Heading for Wellington we drove down the Whanganui River to the sea.

Now familiar with the loose gravel switch backs that pass for roads, we overtook road gangs repairing the erosion as quickly as the weather could undo their work.

We passed through Ruake, an isolated hillside village with one of the oldest Maori meeting houses and Jerusalem which hosts little more than St Jospeh's convent and church built by French Jesuit missionaries in the latter part of the 19th century. The zeal for conversion has gone. They were closed.

As we descended to the river, North Island's own African Queen was hauled far up the river bank, decrepid and blackened with age; a reminder of a time, not so long ago, when the only way through these mountains was by foot, hoof or boat. Suddenly the achievment of the missionaries nearly a century and a half before, seemed much greater.

More lonely road cones warned of land slips and at some points we averaged 25km per hour through the turns and climbs.

Beehives dotted the hill sides; cattle trotted obediently to upland pasture, herded by half a dozen mongrel stock dogs who were as at home in the herd as on the plyboard platform wired to their Stockman's quad bike. Occasionally, cattle made a break for freedom, only for their escape to be frustrated by the chance to crop the lush grass at the road side. Wild goats proliferated in the absence of any natural predators.

Before the Whanganui picked up the last of its tributaries we made the final climb to the viewing point. Four identically dressed cyclists, each carrying an 80 litre pack and tent, ground up the 1 in 4 hill and despite the blazing heat, maintained a tight revolving peleton with military precision. A fifth lagged far behind, weaving and wobbling, his pack leaning at a jaunty angle toward the sheer road side drop.

We barely made it past them as the Hippy Camper spluttered and wheezed up the slope in lowest gear.

Sweating heavily, thoroughly exhausted by the climb, having stopped repeatedly for rests and rehydration, we made it to the viewing point, partly to enjoy the sight of the gathering river in the plain below, but mainly to marvel at the super heroes who were hauling themselves up, what by now, must have seemed a like a near vertical incline.

A few short moments after us, the four arrived and one by one, slipped off the packs and tents into a neat pile. Energy drinks appeared and were consumed in regulation sips. A short de-brief was followed by a regime of muscle stretches and a discussion of plans for the next stage of the assault, now that the bridgehead was secured.

Several minutes later the four Germans stood, arms crossed and heads shaking at the shambolic arrival of the Finnish back marker, who finally collapsed with his bike, in a tangle of limbs, in the parking area. He shed his pack like a dying donkey and crawled on his belly through the dust to the remains of a discarded water bottle that sat on the bench, perspiring in the heat.

We took a quick picture for them before the Germans continued their remorseless advance and the Finn, hands on hips and head bowed, sighed at his pack, bitterly regretting the decision to jettison drinking water in favour of a month's supply of Barcardi and licorice.

Crossing the Whanganui flood plain we entered the fertile Manawatu agricultural district where sheep abounded. In Whanganui town, we ate sandwiches in the empty athletics ground while reading headlines of the hottest summer on record.

Heading for the DOC campsite at Levin outside Waikewara, we were caught in our first traffic jam for 1,000km; but thankfully, the two cars moved on and the Kiwi gridlock was broken.

Teryaki Chicken from the saucepan.

A clear moon lit night.

A sky, impossibly full of stars.