Fiji continued

After 3 lovely days on Waya Leilei Island I take the local boat back to the mainland. The small open boat is loaded with various things - my bags, a petrol engine, boxes of produce for the market and various other bags and boxes. They are all stored beneath a tarpaulin sheet. 11 men, women and children villagers are the passengers with me and we make ourselves comfortable in the bottom of the boat for the 1 hour crossing to Lautoka.

Onboard the Boat to the Mainland 

As we near the harbour, several other small boats pass us on the way out and waves of greeting are exchanged.

Lautoka Harbour

Lautoka is a busy port city and I spend the afternoon wandering around and through the market and keeping to the shady side of the busy streets. I also make my plan for how to spend my last few days on Fiji and arrange to go and stay in a small village which has an ecotourism programme, inland from Lautoka in the Koroyanitu National Park. An Indian driver, Riaz, picks me up from my hotel and drives me the 30 minutes or so to the village in his 4-wheel drive truck. The track is rough and steep and we have to ford a couple of streams. Along the way he flirts shamelessly with me.

Transport with Riaz

There is a story about how the village got its name. The village was originally called Nagaga, but in 1931 the whole village was destroyed by a landslide and all but 3 people died. These 3 people went in search of a new site for the village and as they were looking they came across the letters ABC written on a rock. In the Fijian language the letters represented A = Beginning; B = Eternal Life; C = Miracle Work; and so the new village was named ABACA (which is actually pronounced Ambartha).   

There are 84 people in this simple village and I am welcomed and taken to the house of the Methodist lay preacher, Nico, where I will be staying. I realise I have made a gaff by not having a sula or sarong to wear around the village and Nico lends me one. His house is made with a wooden frame, a tin roof and walls of woven palm leaf panels. Inside there are mats on the floor and sheets of polythene line the walls for insulation. In one corner there is a bed with a mosquito net above. Next to the door is a small kitchen area with a primus stove and some kitchen equipment in a sideboard; but Nico is usually cooked for by the women from the village. In another corner is a bookcase and a bamboo pole above where his jacket and tie hang. The rest of the space is empty. I will sleep in the bed and Nico will make a bed on the floor. Riaz, Nico and I sit on the floor and a woman serves us black tea, home-made bread and cake and bananas. The tea tastes smokey from the water being boiled on an open fire.  

Nico and his House 

Inside Nico's House

Riaz takes me to wander around the village and while he flirts with the young women and they giggle with him, I meet some of the villagers – mainly women, as the men are working in the plantations. Everyone is very friendly and welcoming and their ready smiles show that anyone over the age of about 30 has teeth missing. They all call me, ‘Miss Helen.’ The only children here are under 5 years old. The older ones stay in Lautoka, so they can attend school there as it is too expensive for the transport each day up and down from the village and they come back to the village during school holidays. Some stay with relatives and some families get together to provide a house in the city and they share the responsibility to stay and look after the children for a week at a time. Other village houses, or bures, range from simple tin shacks to those built of concrete blocks and wooden planks and the biggest building is the meeting house, cum church, which is in the centre of the village, with an open grassy area around.

Abaca Village

A neighbour of Nico’s prepares lunch for me, brings it to his house and lays the meal lout on a cloth on the floor. I have cassava and taro leaves cooked in coconut milk, with tinned fish.

Lunch

Later in the afternoon, once it has cooled down slightly I take a walk up the hill to see a nearby waterfall.  It is too hazy to get the views from here back to the coast. The landscape consists of dramatic cliffs and rocky outcrops formed from the remains of a volcano. At a river crossing I meet a young German couple who are the other two visitors to the village.

Walk to a Waterfall

In the evening Nico takes a short service and small bible study group in another village house and I go along. As we enter the family hastily clear away the meal they have been eating and 10 of us sit around in a circle by the light of Nico’s paraffin lamp. The whole thing is conducted in Fijian, other than a short welcome to me and the wish that the Holy Spirit will visit me and enable me to understand the service. There are some hymns, which I try and join in with, a bible reading and a sermon. Although the Holy Spirit doesn’t do his thing and I can’t understand the words, I do appreciate being involved and being part of it all.

After the service Nico takes me to a large house at the entrance to the village where there is to be a kava ceremony in honour of the Chief’s great- grandson’s 4^th birthday. Inside the block-built house there are about 20 people gathered sitting cross-legged on the floor, including the German couple. In the centre there are some plastic buckets and bowls and utensils for making the kava. A few official-sounding words are said with due deference and there is some ceremonial clapping and then the kava is made. Spoons of grey powder are put into a material bag and then water is scooped over the bag and the bag is squeezed and manipulated in the water, like washing socks and the mixture is scooped up and poured back into the large bowl. When it is ready there is some more ceremonial clapping and then a bowl of the grey liquid is passed first to the Chief, then the next to Nico, then to another man in the circle and then to me and the Germans and then to everyone else in the room. When it is my turn a small bowl is passed to me and I have to clap once before taking it, drink it down in one go and then clap 3 times, and they clap me too. The drink tastes slightly muddy, but does not have a particular flavour. More and more bowls of kava are made and then ceremony goes on and on. After 3 bowls I ask Nico if it is alright for me to decline and he says it is OK. I can’t feel any particular effects from it, other than my tongue seems slightly fuzzy. Everyone else in the room looks relaxed and they are chatting quietly and the women who are sitting together at the back laugh and giggle with each other. 

  

Kava Ceremony

Nico and the Chief

Today two wild pigs were killed and have been cooked on an open fire and then stewed. The Germans and I are invited to go into the back room, where some women are busy ladling pig soup into large bowls. Laying on mats and blankets on the floor watching the proceedings is the birthday boy and his mother. A meal of cassava, yams, taro and the wild pig stew is laid out on the floor for the 3 of us. I have already had dinner with Nico before the service, so I am not hungry, but I am keen to try the pork, which is tender and delicious.

Preparing Pig Soup

Someone asks me when I arrived in the village and at first I can’t remember – was it only today? By 11 o’clock, although no-one else is leaving, I say my goodbyes and make my way by moonlight back to Nico’s house, where he has left a paraffin lamp burning low. I sleep well until I hear him come in at 3.30am. At 4am he beats the village drum for prayers and soon after that the cocks start crowing.

Nico has only been in the village for 5 months and he will be here as the preacher for 5 years. He has been allocated some land at the side of the village and he has already cleared some of it and planted some cassava. I go with him to help clear another section where he wants to plant yams. He has already cut down most of the undergrowth and we drag the dry branches into a pile and have a huge bonfire. By the time we have finished the area looks twice as big and much more like somewhere where a crop can grow.

Clearing the Land

In the evening Nico has arranged a small kava ceremony in his house for my last night. We are joined at 9 o’clock by 3 men, a woman and her baby. We sit around in a circle and the kava is mixed and passed around as last night. They chat, mostly in Fijian and sometimes sing hymns in beautiful harmony. I try and teach them ‘Bella Mama’ a round, with some success. By 11 o’clock we have drunk the first bowl and I think that might be the end of the evening, but they mix a second. By 1 o’clock I am feeling very tired and make my excuses and retire to the bed in the corner and pull the curtain around while they continue. Although I can't say I can feel any particular effects from the kava, other than a slightly numb tongue, as soon as I lie down I am fast asleep. I do not hear the others continuing until half past 3, nor the drum at 4am, nor the cockerels crowing until I wake at 7.30. That must have been a kava-induced sleep. 

Kava Ceremony

I am almost at the end of my time on Fiji. When I arrived I had almost no idea about the place I was coming to. I have found it to be beautiful and varied and the people are probably the most friendly of all the peoples I have encountered on my travels.

Fiji

The flight from New Zealand to Fiji is 4 ½ hours north and, after the cold of the south island, I am looking forward to moving into warmer climes. I check into a pleasant hotel by the beach at Wialoaloa, but unfortunately I am not very well for my first few days here and spend a lot of time dozing in a hammock and looking up at the palm trees. Fiji is a good place for resting and taking it easy – the temperature is about a very pleasant 25, the people are very friendly and English-speaking and the pace is relaxed. The smiling greeting from everyone, to everyone is, ‘Bula’ and the women giggle and laugh easily. I take a look at my new Fijian currency and am amused to see that even the Queen looks relaxed and smiling. Bula, Queenie.

Fiji’s Smiling Queenie

Sunset at Wialoaloa Beach

Also in my room is a young German woman, who is due to fly home in a couple of days. She says it will be a surprise for her parents, who are not expecting her until October. She wakes up in the night also feeling unwell. The next day she is worse, with a pain in her stomach and feeling sick and dizzy. She thinks it might be something she has eaten. As well as feeling ill, she is now also worried about her flight. She has very little money left, as she is right at the end of her trip. I lend her the small amount of cash I have and she goes to see a doctor. She has appendicitis and is admitted to hospital and has the operation. Her boyfriend arrives from Australia to be with her and help her with her flight and medical insurance etc. Thank goodness for friends to help; modern medicine and the money to access it when it is needed. 

I make friends with an Australian woman and her two young daughters and one evening we wander up the road together to a nearby hotel where there is a local dance performance. A troop of young men with well-defined oiled and tattooed torsos perform energetic dances and juggle with knives and fire. Two willowy young women with bare midriffs, jiggle and rotate their hips in an impressive fashion, while moving their long arms gently in wave-like movements.

Fijian Dancers

The next day I visit the main town of Nadi (pronounced Nandi) in search of high speed internet to catch up on uploading my blog. I have missed keeping in touch with everyone via my blog and receiving the comments that people send back to me.

My guide book tells me that the town is made up of roughly half and half Fijians and Indians. There are many shops selling Indian clothes and I have my lunch at Indian restaurant, where local Indians as well as a few tourists are eating.

Downtown Nadi

Curry Lunch

I visit the fruit and vegetable market and here it is mainly Fijians buying and selling their produce. The stall holders make small attractive piles of their wares, like mini games of jenga. There are stalks of a root vegetable tied together in bunches that I don’t recognise. This is taro, which is a potato-like crop.

Nadi Market

Taro

Behind the colourful fruit and vegetable section there is a whole area where piles of dried roots are heaped up on the counters and it is mainly men who stand clustered in small groups behind. Separate from most of the activity is one woman sitting on her own. She smiles at me and I go and talk to her. She tells me that this is kava. It is the dried root of the pepper plant, which is then ground to a powder and mixed with water to make a drink which is drunk socially, mainly by men and is important for ceremonies. I don't think it is alcoholic, but it must have some narcotic effect as I have heard that it causes drowsiness and makes your lips and tongue go numb.

Kava

The next day I leave the mainland for a trip out to stay on an island. The modern catamaran ferry leaves daily from the port and makes the trip out and back along a couple of groups of islands to the west of the mainland, dropping off and picking up passengers along the way. The passengers are almost exclusively very young Europeans. The first group of islands is the Mamanucas and they are tiny low-lying islands, with one resort a-piece. The smallest of these could be walked around in 10 minutes. They are popular for day trips from the mainland and some have a party backpacker reputation.

South Sea Island

After a couple of hours we arrive at the second group of islands; the15 volcanic islands of the Yasawas. These are bigger and rockier than the Mamanucas and being further from the mainland are less commercial. Myself and another girl get off the ferry at the second island, Waya Leilei, and we are helped to step down into the small tender that is bobbing alongside. A small welcoming party is on the beach to greet us and they sing us a welcome song as we step out of the boat into the sea and wade ashore and we are told by the boatman to shout back, ‘Bula!’ to show our appreciation.

First View of Waya Leilei Island

Leaving the Ferry

Tender to the Island

The resort is made up of a collection of small buildings on several grasses terraces, with plenty of hammocks strung between palm trees. The other girl is a German called Bibi, and although we have both booked dormitory beds we are each given a private room with our own bathrooms, as the dormitory is being refurbished. Meals are served when they are ready, according to Fiji time and we are summoned to lunch by the call of a Fijian drum. The resort is run by and for the benefit of the local community and everyone is very friendly. It is very quiet here, with the staff vastly outnumbering the guests. At lunch there are only 6 of us; me and Bibi and the other 4 are leaving on the afternoon boat. It is hotter here than on the mainland and I digest my lunch while dozing in a hammock in the shade at the back of the beach.  

Waya Leilei Resort

View from my Hammock

Later in the afternoon, when it has cooled slightly I take a walk up the hill behind the resort with Solomon, a local guide. The path is used by locals to get to their small plantations and I ask him about the plants that are cultivated here. In small patches of ground cleared amongst the boulders the villagers grow cassava, yams and taro. From a lookout there are great views back down to the resort and over the nearest other island and then we reach an interesting almost lump of rock that wobbles slightly, called Sunrise Rock.

Solomon

Small Plantation

Sunrise Rock

Top of the Island

During the afternoon a couple of German friends have arrived; Nico and Lisanne and so there are 4 of us for dinner. One of the locals has a birthday today and after we have finished eating they gather to sit on mats on the dining room floor and share kava from a large bowl. We are invited to join them, but we leave them to it and all retire early to bed.

My second day on the island is a Sunday and guests at the resort are invited to attend the local church service. Bibi, Lisanne and I decide to go along and a guide from the resort takes the short walk on a sandy path at the back of the beach to the village. We are met by some friendly villagers. One man asks where we are from and when I reply, ‘England’, he nods and responds with the confirmation, ‘From the Motherland.’ 

Going to Church with Bibi and Lisanne

We leave our shoes in the church porch and our guide explains that the women sit on the left and the men and children on the right. We are offered seats in the front pew, next to two older women who cool themselves with palm fans. The choir of men and women file in and take up their positions in the pews perpendicular to us. The service is conducted in Fijian, but we visitors are welcomed in English. The hymns are rousing and the harmonies from the choir are moving. During the service a child carries a baby across the church and gives her to a young woman in the choir. The mother hitches up her choir robe and breast feeds the baby. A child of about 2 wanders across and sits in the end of one of the choir pews. She fiddles quietly with the ribbons on her dress and plays hide and seek behind the pew end with me and Lisanne.

 

The Choir

Children in Church

Congregation Leaving the Church

After the service our guide takes us further into the village to visit the Chief’s house. This is not where he lives, but is the village meeting house. There are four tribes in the village and the position of Chief is inherited by the males of the dominant tribe.

Inside the Chief’s House

I spend the afternoon snorkelling and swimming off the beach and reading in a hammock. The pace of life here is so slow and laid back that it is hard to summon the energy for anything very much. Any decision seems to require a little lie down in a hammock to think about it. Actually it is more like Pooh Bear says, ‘Sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I just sits.’

Me on the Beach at Waya Leilei

By the third day several more people have arrived and a group of 9 of us go off in a little boat out to a reef for some snorkelling. There are ‘friendly’ reef sharks here and the guide feeds them with bits of fish and they swim close enough to touch. The biggest ones are about a metre and a half long and their skin is rough to touch. Initially it is a bit disconcerting to be that close in the water to such a big creature that goes by the name of ‘shark’, but they obviously mean no harm.

Snorkelling Trip

Shark

The rhythm of the day is dictated by the drum that summons us to the next meal and at lunch today we are serenaded by three local men playing guitars and singing.

Lunch

After lunch we are invited to visit a small handicraft market and jewellery-making session run by the ladies of the village. I make a bangle woven from palm leaves and a necklace of small shells and my jewellery collection is tripled in the process.

Handicraft Market

Making a Bracelet

All that effort calls for a little lie down in a hammock and even reading seems too much like hard work. For my last evening on the island I share dinner with people from Poland, France, Germany and Sweden. We chat about the pace of life for the Fijian Islanders and compare it with life in Europe. We all wonder how we will adapt to ‘normal’ life back home. Then the Swedish boy tells us that Sweden has just won the Eurovision song contest and we have great fun discussing this greatest of institutions. The French boy and I agree that each of our countries will never win again, because no-one else in the competition likes us and won’t vote for us. Even our chances of collaborating and supporting each other are doomed, as there is  some historic animosity between our countries!

The Rape of Josephine

At the end of our walk, Peter and I drive in his van back up to the Mount Robert car park where I left Josephine. It is already dark and initially everything looks fine, but as go to unlock her, I realise the driver's door is already unlocked. I know I locked her when I left her, because I went back a second time to be sure, as is my habit. Peter shines the headlights of his van on Josephine and as we open the other unlocked doors we can see that the bed platform is pulled up and the mattress awry, exposing her private underparts, poor girl. Everything that I did not take on the walk was stowed away here out of sight and pretty much everything has been taken: my small rucksack with my laptop and modem, English phone, all my electrical leads and chargers, spare credit cards; plus two other bags containing toiletries, clothes, sandals, and other travel stuff such as my mosquito net. They have even taken the plastic box from the back containing food and what upsets me most, the paper bag from the visitor centre with the story book and finger puppets for Megan and Elliot. Most of this stuff won't be of any value to them and they will probably just throw it away. Fortunately I have my most important credit and cash card with me, plus my passport and a USB stick with a copy of my main computer file on it, although it is about a month out-of-daten and doesn't have my travel photos on it.

We sit in Peter's van and think what to do first. I am so glad not to have arrived here in this dark carpark on my own and have all this to deal with. First I phone the police in Nelson and a vey nice relaxed young man tells me that I can bring the van to the police station tomorrow and report the theft. He says that 3 or 4 other vehicles have also been targetted in this car park over this weekend.
We drive both vehicles back to the campsite and while Peter quietly gets on cooking dinner and miraculously finds a bottle of wine, I make phone calls to various card companies. The customer service I receive varies from a foreign call centre, whose operative is very difficult to understand, to a nice-sounding English man whose first question to me, when I explain what has happened is, 'Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?'
Then I leave a message for Rory - Josephine's rightful owner to let him know what has happened. There is nothing more I can do tonight.

In the commotion we missed the opportunity to visit Sandy last night for the offered showers, so feeling a little cheaky we give her a ring in the morning. She sounds delighted to hear from us and when we arrive she is pulling freshly-made date scones out of the oven. We sit around the table with her and Ray and drink coffee, eat scones and tell them the sorry tale. They are horrified and offer all the comfort they can. Then Sandy takes me to show her the bathroom and when I tell her I don't actually even have any shower gel or shampoo, she opens her cornucopia of bathing and beauty products and tells me to help myself. After a lovely hot shower, smelling rather better and even with rarely blow-dried hair, I feel loads better, in spite of having to put on the same old stinky clothes back on. Once Peter is similarly fragrant we say our goodbyes and Sandy packs us up with a pack of scones for later. We feel very blessed to have crossed paths with such a fantastic woman.

Peter and I drive in convoy to Nelson, which is about 1 and a half hours away and we go straight to the police station. A nice friendly police officer takes the details and he confirms that several vans were similarly broken into in the same car park. That evening I start to compile the list of everything that was stolen and I get a phone call to say that the police have recovered some stolen property and would I go back to the police station the following day, to see if any of it is mine. I try not to get my hopes up. A different young police officer takes us into a back office where there are about 6 black bin bags and other loose property strewn between the desks. We go through it all - boots, clothes, tools, food, backpacks, phone and headphones. The only thing that could possibly be mine is one very sad and lonely knitted grey mouse finger puppet; but I can't honestly say whether this is one of the 6 animals I eventually chose for Megan and Elliot.
I spend the next few days in and around Nelson sorting out the things I need to do. I now have no internet access, so visiting the public library to use their machines and wi-fi is a good option. I buy a new phone and a new lap top, with the advice from my friend Tony back home. I read the small print for my travel insurance and read that they will only pay out for the lost laptop if it was taken directly from my person, or from a safety deposit box and that items taken from a vehicle parked overnight are not covered. I'll claim anyway and hope that they pay for somethings.

I return Josephine to Rory, who is also saddened that my adventure with her ended this way. Peter and I part company and I am very grateful to him for his friendship and support.He has become a very dear friend and it has all be so much easier to deal with, with his help and I am sure we will meet again back home.

The upside of it all is that I treat myself to a new and very expensive swimsuit to take to Fiji and when I come to pack, everything fits very easily into my rucksack!

I am almost at the end of my 5 months in New Zealand. I came here to do lots of tramping and I feel pleased with what I have achieved. I feel fitter, stronger, healthier and slimmer than I was at the start. I have seen awe-inspiring sights; met amazing people and had great experiences and this last bad one is not going to change any of that.

Round Lake Rotoiti

Round Lake Rotoiti

Back to Kerr Bay camp site after tramping to Lake Angelus Hut I make friends with an English guy named Peter. We have similar plans to stay around Nelson Lakes for the next few days, as the weather is set fair. We agree to hang out together, taking a rest day tomorrow and then to do a gentle 3 day walk; making a circuit of Lake Rotoiti. The theme of the walk will be slow and relaxed, to enjoy the best of the lake in glorious weather. We will use both our vehicles to avoid an otherwise rather dull walking section along the road.

I have a quiet day catching up on e mails; my blog and going to the visitor centre, where I buy some New Zealand souvenirs for Megan and Elliot and make plans for the walk. In the afternoon when we meet up again Peter tells me that as a result of his visit to the village cafe this morning, where he got involved in some banter with a lively group of local ladies 'of a certain age', we are both invited to a local social evening. We don't really know what sort of an event it will be, but we think it might be a laugh and agree to give it a go - we can always come away early. We each make ourselves as clean and tidy as possible and clutching a bottle of red wine we find the address at the end of the village. As we walk up to the front door there is obviously a jolly gathering going on inside and it crosses my mind that this is the first time that I have ever been to a party wearing clothes that I have slept in the night before!

Inside the house we meet Sandy and Ray, the hosts. Sandy greets Peter like a long-lost friend and me as a new friend. Within 5 minutes we each have a glass of wine in our hands and are chatting away to the local characters. This is 'Friendly Friday' which takes place each week from 5-7pm and rotates around different homes. The whole village, which has a resident population of only about 100, is invited, plus weekenders and any random visitors like ourselves. Some weeks there might only be 1/2 a dozen people and tonight there are about 30. A couple of ladies tell me and Peter an hilarious story about the village's Royal Wedding celebration last year. They enacted the whole event during the afternoon, which due to the time difference was ahead of the actual event and then settled down in the evening to watch the real thing, to see how the two matched up. The rather dumpy woman of retirement age to my right was Kate, in a wedding dress made from several table cloths and the local minister conducted the service, beginning with, 'Drearly beloved...'

At around 7pm most people start to leave, but a hardcore of Sandy's friends stay on, plus a couple who are new to the village and Peter and I find ourselves staying too. The wine keeps being poured; a meal of pies, chips and salad is produced and then people start dancing (which I join in with enthusiastically, of course) and singing along to old rock and roll and country music. It is hilarious and before I know it, it is midnight and I am feeling rather drunk! We say our goodbyes and Sandy tells us to come back on Monday after our walk and we can use her shower.

Friendly Friday

 

 

This is not my usual preparation for a 3-day tramp and when I wake up in the morning I am feeling pretty ghastly. Over breakfast Peter and I recall the slowly emerging details of the previous evening and laugh about events. Fortunately we are not in any particular hurry to start walking, because it is only about 3 hours to the first hut and at the moment the clouds are hanging around on Mount Robert, where the first night's hut is located. Finally we are ready and the clouds are lifting optimistically. We leave Peter's rental van at the lakeside and drive up to the Mount Robert car park in Josephine. The first day's walk follows the Pinchgut Track up Mount Robert, which I have done before, but is worth repeating for the stunning views of the lake (and as a hang-over cure). The path zigzags steeply up the face of the mountain and we huff and puff rather more than usual and stop regularly to admire the view and to wipe the red wine sweat that is dripping off our faces.

The track levels off at the top of the first climb and we take a left turn away from the ridge that leads to Angelus Hut to follow the easy path that drops down gradually to the bush line.

Me and Lake Rotoiti

 

 

The hut is nestled neatly against the bush, with a sunny grassy space in front and views down to the lake. When we arrive there is already a Kiwi family here and they welcome us with friendly chat. This is Wayne, who is enthusiastically swinging an axe at a pile of firewood, his German wife Claudia and their 3 beautiful children aged between 5 and 10, who have Dartington-type names that I never did master. Wayne is a real Kiwi character, with a wild-man-of-the woods beard, a beanie hat, ankle gaiters and the rather-too-short shorts favoured by the Kiwi working man. Inside the hut their 5 sleeping bags are laid out side-by-side on the top sleeping platform and Wayne already has a roaring fire going in the little stove. Later in the afternoon we are joined by a lovely young French couple, Flo and Ludo. These two have just finished walking the 3000km Ta Aroroa path from the north of the north island to the south of the south island and they are here for a little relaxation before flying home. I could listen endlessly to Ludo talk in his lovely laconic french voice! As the sun starts to disappear behind the hill, Peter and I walk back towards the ridge to catch the last of the rays. We sit on some rocks and watch the light fade and the sunset as a layer of cloud blows into the valley below us, until it is too cold to sit there. As we walk back to the hut the full moon rises in front of us and lights the path back to the hut.

Full Moon Rising

 

 

A new character has arrived in the hut. This is Norbert, a rather unusual German guy, who keeps himself to himself and sits looking into space, while the rest of us chat amicably around the table in the firelight. I can’t make him out. It doesn’t seem to be a lack of English that isolates him and although we try to include and engage him in our conversation, his answers are monosyllabic. As we are settle down for bed, Norbert picks up his mattress and without a word takes himself out to sleep on the verandah. We hope he has a good sleeping bag because the temperature is already below freezing.
Norbert does survive the night and when he comes back into the hut in the morning to pack up, we enquire about how his sleep experience was and he replies, ‘Nice.’ After he has left Flo suggests that maybe he is only allocated 100 words to use each day and he is very careful how he uses them.
The warm sunny morning casts a lazy spell over us and we lounge around on the verandah, chatting with Wayne and his family and saying goodbye to Flo and Ludo.

Morning Chat at Bushline Hut

 

 

Eventually we summon enough energy to stroll down the hill and along the path beside the lake towards the head of the lake, stopping for the occasional rest and for a visit to nearby Whiskey Falls.

Me at Whiskey Falls

 

 

As evening begins to fall we arrive at Cold Water Hut, which is our destination for tonight. As we approach we can see a small boat moored up at the jetty and a man pottering around nearby. Standing inside the hut, looking out through the window is a dark-complexioned woman, who looks daggers at us as we take off our packs and give her a cheery wave. She opens the door, looks at us and says coldly,
‘Are you intending to stay here tonight?’
‘Yes,’ we reply, ‘is that a problem?’
‘Not if you don’t mind watching me make love to my husband tonight.’ She is not joking.

She turns and goes back inside and leaves us on the doorstep, with our mouths open like a couple of cod fish. But this is not a private love-hideaway, it is a Department of Conservation hut and anyone who pays the fee is able to stay here. I go in and try to reset the atmosphere with my natural charm, while staking my claim to be here by bringing in my rucksack and unpacking my sleeping bag. The couple have already unloaded a lot of gear from the boat. They have plastic boxes and dry bags; a stove and gas bottle and bedding. They have a roaring fire going in the open fireplace. I introduce myself and she replies, ‘Kia ora,’ the Maori greeting and proclaims her pride in being half Maori and then continues to sweep the floor fiercely with a broom. She starts a tirade against foreigners coming to her land and bringing in diseases and spoiling the waters and leaving a mess and not being respectful. Peter and I sit on the bench and when we can get a word in edgeways Peter assures her that we are very respectful of New Zealand and have spent a lot of time here for that very reason, tramping and enjoying the environment and culture. She goes in and out like a whirlwind and then says that she and her husband are going to leave; that it’s nothing personal, but she needs her own space and doesn’t feel like being sociable tonight. It sure feels personal. They pack up quickly and load their stuff into the boat. Just before they leave she comes back to us and presses some chocolate into my hand. She says she thinks I don’t understand her and I tell her I am upset to have received such a reception; that in my whole time and all the huts I have stayed in I have never been made to feel unwelcome. She says that it is just down to the cultural difference between us and that we should let it go and not let it spoil our evening and then they are gone back across the lake in their boat. Peter and I sit for a while, trying to make sense of what happened. We replay the little scene a few times and think of all the clever responses we could have given, which always arrive on the tongue just too late. Having played around with it for a while we decide to take her advice and let it go. Their leaving is probably a better outcome then them staying and the 4 of us spending a very awkward evening together. The experience is also in stark contrast to the otherwise overwhelming friendliness of almost everyone else we have met here. So I file it away, and won’t let it cloud my experience of New Zealand.

In the morning we have breakfast outside and enjoy watching the ducks and swans swim back and forth in front of the jetty.   

Cold Water Hut 

 

 

Morning View from Cold Water Hut

 

 

Having made sure the hut is left particularly spick and span, we set off for the last leg of our walk which takes us across the river at the lakehead and round the sunny side of the lake in a circuit back to the camp site. The river is low and can be forded here, rather than walking an additional 3 hours upstream to a bridge and back. We have both reached the point in our tramping where we are OK with wet boots, so we wade bravely in and across the several shallow streams, then squelch our way across open grass land to the hut on the opposite bank, where we can drain out our boots and wring our socks.

Crossing the River

 

 

The afternoon’s path looks out through beech trees to the turquoise lake beyond, looking like something from a  Japanese painting.

View through Beech Trees

 

We take a break at a small beach from where we can look up to Mount Robert opposite and almost see back to Bushline Hut. The sun beginning to sink behind the mountain changes the air temperature instantly and prompts us to complete the walk and we arrive back at Kerr Bay in the evening light where Peter’s van is waiting safely.

Back at Kerr Bay