TIME OUT
Beyond Down Under
NEELA D’SOUZA
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From the mountains of the South Island to the Abel Tasman National Park, New Zealand unfolds one surprising story after another…
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This is where you go bungy-jumping, para-gliding, kayaking and for the less adventurous there are lakes and walks.
Photo: AP
The splendour of the southern Alps: Whether you are an adventure sports buff or just enjoy a quiet walk, New Zealand is an ideal destination.
On my knees, bending low beside the room-sized globe, I checked it out — short of Antarctica it was about the farthest you could get to. So the opportunity to travel to New Zealand was irresistible.
On a bright brisk December afternoon, I got to Queenstown in the South Island. A small town in a bowl-shaped valley ringed by mountains, the further ranges snow-capped. The bluest of skies, sunshine that was positively dazzling and Remarkables seemed just right for the white peaks all around.
This is where you go bungy-jumping, para-gliding, kayaking and for the less adventurous (me) there are lakes and walks. Also a bird park imaginatively laid out on the hill slopes, to meander through woods, checking out the local trees. And catch a glimpse of the kiwi. Being a nocturnal bird and given that it is an endangered species, it would be difficult to spot one in the wild. Groping one’s way in the darkness of the kiwi house, conversation in barely-heard whispers, seated expectantly against the wall until the eyes got accustomed to the infra-red light of the glass enclosure, it was exciting to see a funny ball tumble out and snuffle around busily till it came upon the feeding plate. The kiwi has feathers that are like fine hair and nostrils at the end of a long bill and looks like nothing you have seen. New Zealand has been raising these birds carefully in protected environments, to save them from extinction.
Queenstown is in the middle of Fiordland, the wonderful, deeply indented, mountainous southwest coast of the South Island. One of the wettest regions in the world, with an unbelievable 21 ft of rain through the year. We were lucky to have a clear day for our trip, past lakes, through waterfalls laying misty clouds over densely forested mountains, over an alpine pass and trees heavy with moss down to Deep Cove where we boarded the SS Patea that took us through Doubtful Sound. Forty kilometres of quiet secluded waters between towering cliffs. We skirted past islands forested down to the water’s edge, and watched fur seals sporting in the sunshine with playful dolphins escorting us and occasionally racing ahead, on to the open sea where the distinct rocking of the boat sent some queasy passengers stumbling to the safety of their seats. As we turned back from the Tasman Sea, the Patea turned into a cove and stopped; the captain switched off the engines, urged us to be quiet, mobiles turned off, and to listen — the silence was calming, complete, only the occasional twitter of a bird, the gentle splash of waves. A magical moment.
Norway has its fjords, South Island has its sounds. And the sounds of silence.
Farming sheep
Farming in New Zealand, we find, refers strictly to sheep or cattle rearing (also deer now), not to ploughing and tilling and raising of crops. Alistair Inman offers the hospitality of a farm stay in his beautifully appointed home with an English garden complete with sundial and pond and pretty walks, free-ranging hens that supply the breakfast eggs, a vegetable garden with rhubarb and herbs and cauliflower, a stream where eels swim up to be fed bits of bread. Behind the house the sheep — 300 of them — graze on the hill slopes and are ready to eat from your hand. Alistair showed off the skills of his three sheep dogs, fetching and herding the sheep together down the slopes at a whistled command. We added a new word to our vocabulary — “hogget”, a young lamb not quite ready for the table.
The icons you see on T-shirts and key chains and other souvenirs speak of the country’s concerns. The kiwi, a precious reminder of all that has been nearly lost; the silver fern so plentiful in the temperate rain forests and identified with New Zealand sports teams; “tiki” the primeval Maori ancestor, a powerful good luck symbol; the sheep, which number over 60 million against country’s population of just over four million!
The northern coastline of the island is rugged and the Abel Tasman National Park approachable only by water taxis up the coast. An hour in a water taxi, all of us in compulsory life jackets and drenched occasionally as the boat rocked and bounced along through waves, brought us into the blue and turquoise waters of Awaroa. There are no motor vehicles here except for a little contraption that is driven down to the beach to ferry back luggage. Shoes in hand, trousers rolled up, we walk through the sandy beach and up a path that goes deep into the woods that surround the lodge. Our room opens out to a deck that looks on to a stretch of wetland. There are ducks in the water and a pied shag at the ready on a nearby tree. Swallows skim and dip into the water. Two glorious days of walking on the beach with the occasional gull or oyster catcher eyeing us with grave curiosity, exploring the wetlands and wandering down the long paths along the sides of the mountains, stopping to look out at the unbelievable colours of the sea — lovelier far than in the postcards…The remoteness of where we are, evident in the tranquillity, the solitude. The trauma of bombs and terror a distant reality…
Christmas eve in Nelson when the city seemed to have shut down; after considerable walking, we happened on an Indian restaurant which provided a pleasant evening. The way back to the hotel brought us to a gathering in the square at the foot of Cathedral Hill, candles being passed around, a little orchestra readying itself for a community carol singing. The choir sang carols in Chin (a language from Burma), Korean and Japanese and then everyone joined in to sing the familiar favourites. We lent our voices too, candles lit up faces and looking up I saw a rainbow arching over the late evening sky.
Bit of a surprise
New Year’s eve in Christchurch — a day-long celebration in Cathedral Square with varied fare. Irish dancing by two young girls, a bagpipe player, magicians and jugglers, and many different singers. Kebabs, German weiner rolls, ice cream helped to focus attention. And — surprise — a camera crew from Andhra filming a bit of a Telugu film! Nine in the evening saw the city gathered in the square to listen to performances by different bands and singing groups, the festivities culminating in a brilliant display of fireworks at midnight.
A wonderful sheaf of memories. On my last day, the affable Don Blair arrived punctually to drive me to the airport. His gentle reprimand at my tears set me laughing after which conversation was easy. I remarked that I was taking back a few $5 notes that featured his country’s best known son — and was pleasantly surprised to hear that he had been Sir Edmund’s driver and had a note signed by Hilary in a frame at home! The fresh-faced girl who waited at our table in the lodge in the Abel Tasman Park, cheery in her conversation as she bustled about and ready to take the children kayaking (alas, the wind put paid to that); she refused to take a tip from us — I’m doing this for the fun of it, she said turning it away firmly.
A special story
And a little story that I came across and treasure as a special reminder of our holiday in New Zealand. In the 1970s, concerned that the Chatham Island black robin, down to just about half a dozen birds with just one female, would soon be extinct , a wildlife officer thought up a rescue plan. The eggs of Old Blue, the lone female who carried a blue identification band, were removed to be incubated (in the nests of tomtits) prompting her to renest and lay more. Eventually Old Blue produced 11 chicks — and saved the species. She died at a remarkable age of 13 (the black robin seldom lives longer than six) and her death was announced in the New Zealand parliament.
Some bird. Some country!
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