The Wild Wild East

The last time I’d been around the remote East Cape of New Zealand was on a family holiday when I was about seven or eight.  Growing up on a berry farm we never took summer vacations as this conflicted with the busy harvest season, but I have great memories of a number of autumn holidays, staying at camping grounds and “exploring” as we followed the steps of Captain James Cook and his compatriots.  On one East Cape trip, I have a vivid memory of dad suggesting we go fishing off one of the wharfs, starting a holiday tradition of sorts of spending an afternoon with our feet dangling off the side of the wharf, willing the small fish onto our hooks.

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The coast is dotted with wharfs – a hangover from when the sea freighter network was stronger than the road network in this remote area.  The primary industries were cow and sheep farming and there were a series of “freezing works” (a NZ euphemism for animal slaughterhouses) along the coast – a major employer in the day when New Zealand was “Britain’s larder”.  As the road network improved from the 1950’s onward, instead of being slaughtered in the small towns, animals were transported by road to regional centres where they were processed with greater efficiency.  The remnants are that pretty much every town up and down the coast has a derelict wharf, suitable for feet-dangling fishing.

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The East Cape isn’t the most physically remote part of NZ, but it’s certainly the most “cut-off” part.  The further you get from the big centres, the smaller the roads get, the less traffic, and the phone drops from 4G to 3G… until you have no Gs at all!  The one thing that does increase is the friendliness of the locals!  It takes a little getting used to, giving a friendly wave to everyone you pass, whether on foot, car or horseback!  For years British tourists have told me how visiting NZ was like travelling back fifty years compared to England – I can only imagine that the East Cape would add another decade or two on to this impression.

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This part of NZ seems to hold its Maori history and heritage more strongly and proudly than any other part of NZ.  Marae (communal meeting houses) pepper the landscape, always adorned with beautiful carved and painted figures on their gateways and facades, and more intrinsic artwork inside.  One of our freedom camps was on a beachfront reserve in the shadow of the local marae.  It was a peaceful feeling waking up with the rugged coast out one window and the marae on the hill overlooking us out the other.

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With intermixing and intermarriage between Maori and Pakeha (Europeans) not uncommon, the last full blooded Maori didn’t even make it past 1900, so being Maori today is as much about your cultural identity as it is your gene pool or the colour of your skin.  In fact, the demographics are determined by “do you identify as Maori”, not “are you Maori”, so even I (with no Maori blood) could tick that box if I wished.  It’s fair to say that in the past the East Cape has had more than its fair share of under-education and unemployment and all the challenges that go along with this, and the marae often offer a countermeasure to this, providing a strong sense of community that the Maori do so much better than us Pakeha.

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I had to giggle at one success story though.  One town that used to be known for high unemployment, gang conflicts and drug problems, has turned itself completely around with a successful Maori language radio station, and a thriving medical marijuana industry from *ahem* skills that already existed in the community!

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The East Cape coastal route is about 340km, and it looks like some people are happy to whiz along its length in a day.  We thought that about two weeks was more our pace.  With many side roads winding down to beautiful and often deserted beaches, some driving days we’d cover only 15km, hopping from one bay to the next.  I really hope the photos convey the beauty.  It was one of those areas where you thought every photo is a postcard.

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We’d originally thought of staying in each place for a few nights but soon realised that, as beautiful as the scenery was, we both need “something to do”.  So far on this trip that’s often been hiking – in short supply on the second part of this route because farmland usually extends to meet the sea, with little room for nature reserves.  We did our fair share of beach walking and a couple of small bush walks, but found ourselves moving on along the coast every day or two.

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Despite so many overnight camps at beautiful beaches we have not spent much time actually in the sea.  After too many years living in the Middle East both Helen and I have got a bit “soft”, and bought wetsuits, so that we’ll be brave enough to go somewhere close to the water.  I’ve been for a few beach swims (still pretty bracing…) and so far Helen has not used hers, citing the lack of wetsuit drying facilities.

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There is some interesting history along this coast too.  This is where Captain James Cook on Endeavour first touched NZ in 1769.  Although he wasn’t the first European to “discover” New Zealand, that credit goes to Dutchman Abel Tasman in 1642 (“discover”, since Maori had already “discovered” it three hundred years earlier).  For sure, the arrival of Europeans changed the lives of Maori, sometimes good and sometimes bad, and it’s still hotly debated to this day.

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We completed our East Coast adventure at Gisborne – the city my mum’s from.  We freedom camped at the local bowling club and over a beer the small town networking joined the dots, and a meeting with one of my cousins was set up the following day.  I’d never met this cousin before, but she kindly showed us the town from a family history perspective and took us to lunch at the local fishing club.  My mother’s relatives arrived in NZ in the 1841 and 1843, not long after the signing of our founding document The Treaty Of Waitangi opened the way for mass migration.  Our Gisborne “tour” included the three sites of the family hairdresser shop that my great grandfather (my Granddad Cyril’s father – the namesake of Cyril our Camper) started back in 1912 and is still in existence, although no longer family owned.  It added another dimension to this part of the trip that I didn’t expect.

Did I ever locate the feet-dangling wharf?  I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t.  I think a combination of childhood memories made fuzzy by the things that seven years olds hold dear – a simple family kiwi holiday.

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