Kiwi Tracks (30 page)

We wash the pots, scouring them with sand, repack and ascend the rocky peninsula. It is half-submerged in drifting dunes and we follow a trail through manuka bush. Lisa soon outpaces me. At the top of the rise, I have a view back over the long pale stretch of Ninety Mile Beach, which is almost disguised by the mist, light drizzle and wind-blown spray off the ocean. Despite the grey day, the ocean is turquoise-coloured, dotted near the shore with wetsuited anglers standing as far out in the surf as they dare. I continue north, arbitrarily choosing a footpath, and eventually reach a dead end overlooking a cliff, with the ocean surging below. Not about to cast myself off the cliff like a lemming, I retrace my steps.

In the distance, I recognise Lisa, returning to retrieve me. When she sees me, she stops and waits before turning around to continue her trek. This time I concentrate, making sure I can see her in front of me each time there is a fork in the route.

From the rocks the track descends to Twilight Beach. Far ahead, I see Lisa’s solitary figure. Her soggy footprints disappear as the incoming fan of waves wash over the beach. Her reflection is absorbed in the sandy wetness like ink in blotting paper. A
breeze blows, mimicking the whispering of Maori spirits urging us onward towards the end of our journey. Black oystercatchers strut on the beach with the authority of diminutive funeral directors. Line upon line of waves cascade endlessly as ocean crests rise and then tumble in a froth of foaming bubbles. The setting and subdued light lend a moody, almost melancholic feel to this beautiful land.

Lisa waits silently for me at the far end of the beach, where we climb a sandy hill into another desert of dunes. As we reach the top, we can see the Cape Maria van Diemen peninsula protruding into the Tasman Sea to the west. To the north-east, at Cape Reinga, the Pacific Ocean meets the Tasman Sea in a maelstrom of turbulence. The waters are wildly chaotic, mountainous spumes rising from the depths, dynamically imitating in liquid form the folds of sand dunes we had crossed getting to Ninety Mile Beach. Supernatural forces seem to mysteriously heave these turgid waters, and it is easy to understand why the Maori imagined that the spirits of the dead departed Aotearoa from Cape Reinga, descending into the ocean through the roots of the spirit tree. I want to point out the surging waves to Lisa, who is already some distance ahead of me. I yell out aloud, ‘Lisa, Lisa!’ but the wind flings my futile cries back at me.

She waits and together we cross a narrow spit tenuously linking Cape Maria van Diemen to the mainland, then set up the tent in the lee of a grassy hill on the peninsula. The short tent pegs are useless in the loose sand and I scavenge dry sticks to pin the corners of the tent down. The light from the stippled sunset sky is absorbed into the dunes, so that they seem to radiate pastel colours.

We descend to the beach. The tide is high and the waves tilt dangerously; steep liquid walls collapsing in ugly curls. The blue water of the incoming crests turns a messy beige as the waves crash and the rip-tide tugs violently at the sandy shore. I strip and walk into the receding surf only to hear Lisa yell out loud: ‘Please don’t go swimming!’

Although I am only up to my knees in the water, the water pulls at me fiercely, like fists clasped tightly around my ankles.
The sand vanishes from under my feet as it is swept out with the retreating surge. Another wave threatens to inundate me, and like a kid, I run out of harm’s way. It becomes a game, following the receding wave, squatting in the ebbing water to sluice myself, then retreating rapidly back up the beach before the next monstrous wave catches up to me. Lisa joins in, and we play hide-and-seek with the tentacles of the ocean.

Exhausted and getting cold, we climb back up the beach to the tent, on the way finding a wooden crate and a heavy worn plank of driftwood. We haul the scavenged firewood back up with us. While Lisa prepares dinner, I find stones to support the plank, to make a bench seat; then I break apart the small crate, cut wood shavings off the plank and light a fire. It is so windy we must sit huddled together on the bench, which is on the windward side of the fire, to prevent it from blowing out. The warm breeze keeps the mosquitoes and sand flies at bay. Although there is a breeze, the night is not cold; the temperature is perfect.

We fill our empty stomachs with hot pasta mixed with tinned tuna. Satiated, we sit transfixed by the flames and coals, not talking. I neatly fold slats of unburned crate onto itself so that the unburned ends catch alight. The fire crackles. We sit staring thoughtfully at the glowing, pulsating embers. Above, a black sky is permeated with innumerable stars. Neither of us says anything. It is our last night camping out, before heading towards Auckland to catch our respective planes home.

‘Are you sad to be leaving New Zealand?’ I ask eventually, breaking the comfortable silence.

‘Yes. I could think of making my home here, easily,’ Lisa replies.

I use a stick to assemble the last bits of burning embers in a heap, to keep them alight, and will them to continue burning.

‘And you?’ she asks.

I take my time before replying. It isn’t easy to neatly encapsulate the thoughts that have distilled whilst walking in the rainforests of New Zealand these months. I focus on one of the small remnants of burning wood as it glows brightly with a waft of the
ocean breeze. ‘I like this country and its people. I have ties to another world, not a lot, but they would be difficult to sever by moving so far away. It’s possible. More than anything, this journey has given me time to reflect, a luxury few Westerners have.’ Lisa nods, once, just enough to encourage me to keep talking. ‘We are so busy making money to make our lives comfortable that we do not have time to just
be
.’

A piece of wood flares briefly before it turns into a chunk of black carbon. I study the core of the charcoal where the last purple flames still flicker. We do not move for a long time, still sitting huddled together protecting our hearth from the breeze, until the last vestige of orange warmth has gone from the fire. When the flames and burning embers finally subside, there is an overwhelming sense of isolation. The black ocean is almost 360 degrees around us; we are tenuously connected to the North Island by a narrow strip of sand. It seems we are far, far removed from the rest of the world.

Reluctantly, we bury the leftover blackened wood in the sand, then manoeuvre into the tiny tent. We lie on top of our sleeping-bags, heads by the entrance, staring out at the dunes and the moonless, inky-black sky salted with stars. I recognise the Southern Cross and Orion’s belt. Even with only the stars for illumination, there is sufficient silvery light to cast shadows. The tent flap is open; there is no need to zipper the mosquito netting closed.

This is our last night on the tracks of New Zealand. Tomorrow we will walk up to Cape Reinga.

During the night, I wake up. The two of us are sleeping on our sides, facing each other. There is so little space in the tent that our foreheads are touching and Lisa’s hand rests on my arm. It feels good. I fall back asleep again without stirring.

The hissing of the pressurised gas canister wakes me. Lisa is up already, boiling water for tea. I have slept so soundly I did not notice her crawl out of the tent. The sun is not yet over the horizon and the pre-dawn colours are muted.

We break camp. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask her, as we load up.

‘I’m just sad,’ she replies.

I look around to make sure we have left nothing behind. ‘About leaving this place?’

‘About everything,’ she says, looking out at the turbulence where the two oceans meet. She talks quietly, almost as if she were in a trance. ‘During the night, I woke up. We were lying so close to each other. It didn’t feel bad.’

I cannot see her eyes, cannot read what she is saying between the lines. I look up the deserted beach, feel the breeze blowing in from the ocean.

Walking side by side, we cross the narrow spit of sand from Cape Maria van Diemen, along a path which leads up over a dune separating this beach from the last open stretch before the cape. We are following the same route the Maori spirits take on their way up to Cape Reinga. From the top of the sand hill we can see a long line of curving dunes in the foreground, and then a bright green, flourishing paddock beyond, with dark forested hills behind. It is a strange landscape, this juxtaposition of life and death, the verdant and the barren.

We descend to another beach, the last stretch of sandy coastline before rocky Cape Reinga. The day is bright in contrast to the moodiness of yesterday. The frothing crest of waves catches the sunlight gaily.

‘Lisa?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we continue together back down to Auckland?’

She puts her hand on my shoulder as we walk.

The morning sun comes out from behind a puffball cloud, its light catching another line of waves cascading on the beach. The surf is long and gentle, rhythmically curling and collapsing. The day is bursting full with colour. As we approach the
end of the beach, we see an odd-looking character in gumboots walking up and down the edge of the waves, occasionally bending to pick something up. He is so intent that he does not notice us. When we get closer, I can see that he carries a traditional carved Maori walking stick and a leather hat with a wide brim. On his back is what looks like a homemade knapsack made out of flax.

‘What are you looking for?’ I ask in greeting, startling him.

‘Offerings,’ the Maori replies. His long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

‘Offerings?’ Lisa queries.

‘Yeah. Gifts.’ He smiles.

‘What kind of gifts?’ she asks, curious.

‘Ah yeah, paua shells, feathers, cat’s-eyes, that kind of thing.’

He holds out a worn calcified button. Lisa examines the tiny white object. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a cat’s-eye. From a shell. It’s like a lid; when the flesh goes in the shell this hatch protects it. See?’ he holds it up for us to inspect, pointing out the spiralling lines with a worn and dirty thumbnail. ‘It’s the seed of life. In the middle it starts from nothing and goes in circles until it comes out here. Just like life. Worth heaps if you can find them, eh.’

‘To whom?’ Lisa questions.

‘To the spirits,’ he replies, putting it back in his pocket.

‘The spirits?’

‘Yeah, the spirits. The spirits of our dead ancestors.’ He glances out at the ocean where the mountains of waves jostle dramatically.

‘What are you going to do with your gifts?’

‘Take them up to the spirit tree.’ He points with his eyes at the Cape. ‘Put the offering in its roots.’

‘The one at the end of Cape Reinga?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Why?’ Lisa enquires.

‘Spirit tree’s sick.’ The smile disappears.

‘How do you know?’ I ask.

‘Heaps of spirits can’t escape,’ he replies, pulling more cat’s-eyes from his bulging pockets. Lisa leans forward to study the handful.

‘Where are they?’

‘Stuck in caves along the coast.’

She looks at me and I know she is thinking about the lunch we nearly had in the spooky cave. ‘They escape through the roots of the spirit tree?’ Lisa cross-examines.

‘Yeah.’ He nods his head.

‘And they can’t now because it’s sick?’ she asks, looking at him.

‘Yeah.’

‘Makes sense to me.’

I agree, thinking back over these last months. The rainforests and this desolate coastline had seemed spiritual places full of the ghosts of the Maori and other denizens of the underworld. I didn’t realise they were trying to escape; I thought they lived there.

‘My name is Wayne, Wayne Running Boots.’ He holds out a hand; his grip is tight and firm. He smiles broadly. Several of his teeth are missing.

‘Running Boots sounds like a North American Indian name,’ I observe.

‘Yeah, I got heaps of North American Indian friends. Met them at a conference of aboriginal peoples. Where you from?’ he asks me.

‘Canada.’

‘Ah yeah.’

‘Where are you from?’ I ask, curious.

He laughs, takes off the tatty hat and scratches his scalp, then shrugs, replacing the hat. ‘Nowhere. Just sleep out. Wherever I sleep, that’s home.’ Sounds familiar. ‘Just walked from Bluff to Cape Reinga now. Done it three, four times. Walked everywhere.’ Another one.