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A car, blue skies, and a free weekend—Shardul, Omri and I can't wait to take to the open road!
En route to the Wanganui River, emerald green farm lands stretch
away on all sides, dotted with clumps of forest and tracts of pines. We head south beneath a
wide sky filled with impressive cloud formations—wind brushed skeins of
cirrus, far-off columns of cumulus and to the south advancing rain
clouds that will intersect our path.
You have this feeling you could drive forever, wander across these
peaceful landscapes taking any random road on your slow unhurried
odyssey and your quest for happiness.
We overnight at Tokaanu, a small Maori village ringed by forested
volcanoes, and wake before daylight to the sounds of late owls and a
dawn chorus of bellbirds. Then south across gorgeous landscapes of
white-capped mountains and yellow plains of tussock and flax and quiet
lakes serene and silent. I pluck some purple-flowered heather—once
Subarata's favourite wild flower with its honey fragrance of freedom and
happiness—to place a few sprigs on her bedroom shrine. How the
redolence of a single flower can unlock so many memories!
At the village of National Park, a small and ramshackle cluster of
ski shops and chalets, the forest and mountains are all around you—up
the main street of National Park Mt Ngaurohoe looms on the horizon. Under a wide blue
sky the mountains are calling—they beckon your restless spirit.
Here nature is dominant—look at the lichen growing on this weathered
gate. Inside a paddock skittish horses run free—they thunder across
mossy fields, tails flying, swerve at bushes and plastic bags then
brake suddenly on stiff legs to stare at you.
We top up with petrol then drive for 1½ hrs down the winding gravel
road that follows the Wanganui River to the sea—past old Maori
settlements, rich in history, with charming names: Koroniti, Pipiriki,
Jeruselam, Matahiwi, Ratana, sites long used in 900 years of Maori
settlement on this waterway into the interior.
At
our destination, the “flying fox”, we are hauled over the river in a
small boxcar suspended from a wire cable and carry our gear into the
small charming house handbuilt by our host. Now you are entering into a
different world—your cell phone doesn't work here and you toss your
watch into a bag. All you can hear are cicadas and the quiet flow of
the river.
On the wall of our cottage someone has written down a poem by James K. Baxter, one of the finest poets of the 20th Century, who lived among the Maori people just over the river for many years at Jerusalem.
We three clamber up a slide out of a creek bed in the forest that comes down to our back
door—up 2,000 feet to the ridge top where huge winds have smashed down
the old black beech trees and littered the forest floor with debris.
A huge amphitheatre lies beneath us, a cliff face curved around in a
partial circle and plunging down vertiginously to the river. Looking
out you can see rugged farm lands and forested mountains right to the
horizon—all around the silence of the ancient forest.
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Kereru
plump and trusting friend
gorging on purple berries
on the river bank
we stare in wonder
at each other
you in the Karaka tree
I, my red toes also bare
Smiling my greetings
from the ground. |
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For around 900 years, Maori people lived along the banks of the
Wanganui River, from its upper headwaters in the volcanic mountains of
the central North Island down to the sea.
Their ceremonial cloaks are covered in Kiwi feathers—their head feathers is from the now extinct Huia bird.
The river is sacred to the Maori people and embedded in their
spiritual lore—there is considerable protocol involved in all
relationships with it. These Maori elders are the guardians of these
protocols and traditions.
Warfare was a way of life for many Maori—warriors were trained in
the art of combat both for defence and sometimes on expeditions of
conquest. Life expectancy was not long by today's standards.
The river is the veins of the earth and carries her life sustaining
waters and her spirit through the jumbled hills.
High above the
river you stand on a ridge inside the national park forest, trackless
and dry, and look out over cleared hill country that nature is slowly
reclaiming. The seeds of the once great forest are waiting in the
ground.
In these landscapes
you always wonder what's over the next ridge and even an evening stroll
ends up being an adventurous expedition into the unknown—and then a
race back to the cabin before darkness traps you.
Behind me a sheer drop of 800 feet—huge rock slabs have
tumbled off this cliff face and we tread carefully, knowing what a
small mistake here would mean.
End of the line—a Land Rover sits atop a funeral pyre of old logs in someone's paddock—hmmmm!
Steam and boiling water issue from the volcanic flanks of Mt
Tongariro. Thousands of years ago phreatic explosions generated by
water percolating down onto subterranean hot magna caused explosive,
massive eruptions that incinerated the giant forests and turned them
into a two foot band of charcoal. Driving through roadside cuttings,
you can see these remnant strata buried under hundreds of feet of
ignimbrite and once red hot ash.
Last night while we slept under a sky bright with stars, a solitary
wild boar came down this ridge and turned over clumps of ferns in
search of delicacies. We walk carefully, watchful lest our paths cross.
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Landscapes leave
Their imprints in our souls
And shape us in the paths
We tread, our roles
Like your calm soul
Where quiet mountains sleep
Our wanderings leave
Such footprints
In our eyes,
Our lives are intertwined
With seas and skies
Like your blue eyes
Where quiet waters sleep |
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The photo's for this essay were provided by Shardul - concept and text by Jogyata. Full size versions of the photos above (plus a few extras) can be seen at: Flying Fox Trip - September 2005. |
