Kiwi Tracks (7 page)

I divert off the narrow lane skirting idyllic coves, to shuffle my feet on sandy beaches, sucking in salt air pungent with the odour of rotting seaweed. Waves wash over the beach. White daisies and garlic flowers, thick patches of gorse and broom sprout like weeds beside the road. I cross over a headland thick with bush, past the decaying remains of a sawmill. The tallest trees are rimu, a red pine, but there are also kamahi, thin-barked totara and southern rata, providing a canopy of foliage up to twenty metres high. Ground ferns, tree ferns, vines, perching orchids and moss completely blanket the enormous trunks; there is such a profusion of burgeoning parasitic vegetation that it is often impossible to identify the trees underneath. Grass trees and lancewood saturate the middle layers; clumps of gahnia tussock fill the spaces at ground level. Dense colonies of crown fern and taller wheki tree fern fronds pack the gaps. At the bottom level are bush lilies and a variety of orchids. A stinkwood tree proves, when I squeeze its leaves, fetid. I hear the raucous cries of what I think is a parrot, then see several bronze-coloured kakas swooping heavily through the bush. They resemble the alpine keas. One lands clumsily on a tree trunk and roughly rips off the bark with its beak as it searches for grubs.

Through a gap in the bush, I see the sun reflecting off water in a bay fronted by an expanse of dark sand. The sound of surging surf beckons as I descend to Magnetic Beach. The sea is placid,
its swells curling over in a long line to wash upon the shore. I dodge waves fanning over the exposed sand, which is littered with seashells. Stiff-legged wading birds strut along the beach; black swans, beaked bows facing into the breeze, resemble an anchored fleet of galleons.

A DOC hut is tucked in among a stand of tall eucalyptus trees. I rub my shoulders where my pack has hung like a lead weight and pull out a map. The Maori had a semi-permanent hunting settlement here, despite the inherent loneliness of this place. I stare out at the dense bush, the empty cold ocean. I imagine the sealers, the first whites to shelter in the bay in the early nineteenth century. The whalers, who came and made it a base in the mid-1850s, remained here for a year at a time, processing whale blubber before heading back to Europe. What was it like for these men isolated in this remote corner of the world, so far from home?

When gold was found in a creek in the middle of Magnetic Beach in 1867, the first resident police station had to be established to maintain law and order among the unruly miners. Later the New Zealand government subsidised the immigration of Shetland Islanders, but even the stalwart Shetlanders found it too desolate a place. This secluded bay might be designated Port William, but it is deserted; it is impossible to detect prior evidence of human settlement. Apart from a jetty and the DOC hut, there is nothing in this forlorn place but bush.

Walking along the beach, I discover empty shells of scallop, mussel and abalone (paua), bull kelp, kelp bubbles, sea urchins and a dead porcupine fish. I sift through all this natural flotsam and find not a scrap of discarded plastic, shred of netting or shard of broken glass. On the tide-exposed rocks and beach, I collect a pot full of cockles, mussels and oysters, then find a fist-sized octopus clinging to rocks just under the water line. I pluck him out and dump him unceremoniously in an aluminium pot with the rest of my dinner.

As I watch the sunset, a weka, a flightless brown bird resembling a hen, walks within easy reach. His mate follows, pursued by two chicks, all of them unconcerned by my presence. The
adults communicate by a curious drum-like sound. One of the wekas pecks at the eyes of my boots.

Rakiura translates as the ‘land of the glowing skies’, and the island lives up to the name with a burning sunset. I bask in the last rays, almost off the edge of the world, further south than I have ever been before. Stewart Island is further south than South Africa, closer to the South Pole than Tasmania, almost on a par with the Falkland Islands. It is about as far as you can go to hide without getting ridiculous. This is, after all, only New Zealand.

As dawn breaks in the forest, birdsong precludes sleep, as if someone has turned the stereo up; but with the sunrise the racket fades. Waking up alone here seems perfectly OK; in this setting, there is no stigma attached to being single. Being solitary enhances the experience, or so I persuade myself. With no incentive to stay in bed, I swing out of the top bunk and stuff my belongings into my backpack. Then I zigzag along the beach before slipping into forests haunted by the sounds of unseen birds.

I have this primeval urge at the end of each autumn, before winter sets in, to migrate to greener pastures, richer hunting grounds, as if to stay too long in one place would invite discovery from enemy tribes. There must be some genetic truth to this restlessness; a reason why my European ancestors thousands or even tens of thousands of years ago survived. My ancient instincts for survival compel me to move on – I cannot fight them. Resisting these impulses creates turmoil; giving in to these urges keeps me in balance with myself. I am often told how lucky I am to embark on these journeys. It is not so much a matter of luck as a matter of choice. But there are drawbacks to this incessant life of wandering; I have no tribe to bond with, no family of my own to provide a familiar sense of belonging.

There is something mystical about walking alone through forests. Although this one has been milled in the past, huge rimu and rata trees stand testimony to what the virgin podocarp forest must
once have looked like. The sun cuts through the foliage, casting light on the ground in shimmering splotches of browns and greens, like a turtle’s shell. The shadows stir with the canopy above, swaying in the blustery breeze. Massive tree trunks chafe together with the ominous heavy creak of a wooden sailing ship rolling in heavy seas. The snorted warning of an unseen deer startles me. I take some photographs, but they can hardly do this velvety rainforest justice. I forget trying to capture the scene with my camera and concentrate on experiencing this thriving nature. I commit to memory a stand of crown fern back-lit by the sun, an iridescent lime-green kaleidoscope thrust out of a sombre, indistinct underworld.

The luxuriant forest is primordial, a perception enhanced by the haunting chimes of the invisible bellbirds and tui, the raucous cries of the kakas and red-crowned parakeets. It is easy to imagine spirits in the forest watching my every move. A plump New Zealand pigeon balances heavily above on a tree branch. The bird is disproportionately fat; like a bumblebee, it hardly seems capable of flying.

At the tops of ridges, where the higher ground collects more rainfall, everything is smothered in a fuzzy thick carpet of ground ferns: drooping spleenworts, filmy, chain and hound’s tongue ferns. It is impossible to see the forest floor, or the branches or trunks of trees. From the perspective of the aircraft, the forest below had looked impenetrably thick, uniform and intimidating. But from within the forest it is surprisingly open, yet with a sense of intimacy and femininity. My heart heaves, with a passion far more profound than I could have imagined. Alone in the midst of this vibrant rainforest, I feel a sensuality of being that borders on erotic.

I lower my pack to the ground and sit beside a stream stained rusty by tannin. Removing my boots and socks, I dangle my feet in the cool current. There is nothing to fear. Lying in the prolific vegetation, my face to the side, nose close to the ground, I breathe deeply. If I could, I would bottle the moist fragrance of the New Zealand rainforest so that I might open it later and recall the
essence of these feelings. Eerie sounds of unseen bellbirds ring magically from somewhere deep in the forest, echoing my enchantment.

I wait by the wharf for the catamaran ferry service back to the South Island. A hefty woman in a lumberjack’s jacket stomps around the office.

She barks at me in a strong Kiwi accent: ‘Throwyourpeckinthetuboutthebeckthire.’

I cannot comprehend what she is saying. I ask her to repeat it, but still cannot understand. ‘Sorry, could you say that just one more time?’

The woman looks skyward and swaggers out in a huff. She crashes the forklift truck around the dock for a bit, as if dispelling her frustrations with the foreign punter.

A woman in the waiting room says, in a more understandable accent: ‘Don’t worry about Kathy, she gets like that sometimes.’

As we cross the straits between Stewart Island and Bluff, the port serving Invercargill, huge swells thrust the boat forward like a surfboard on the crest of an infinite series of waves. The catamaran skitters about as the force of the surge lifts us from behind. At the open back of the boat, diesel fumes eddy around us, making me nauseous. Kathy the lumberjack-turned-sailor busily stomps around the deck throwing coils into ropes.

I timidly ask: ‘Do you have any anti-seasick pills on board?’

‘In the cabin on the right-hand side, there’s a first-aid box with a plastic bottle. Take a couple of those. They work fast.’

Funny how I can understand her now. ‘I hope so,’ I reply, with the deliberate threat of puking over her clean boat. She actually smiles for the first time. I stumble into the cabin, which immediately makes me feel sicker, locate the first-aid box and grab the plastic bottle. Instead of two pills, I take three for good measure, replace the bottle, and emerge onto the deck. Maybe if I keep my
eyes focused on the horizon … I wait for the pills to take effect, but I feel worse rather than better.

‘How’re you going?’ Kathy asks, still smiling. Her thick legs balance against the pitch and roll of the boat like a tree trunk, while I am thrown about the deck like a loose cannon.

‘I feel like I’m going to puke,’ I reply. This is not an idle threat.

That changes her demeanour. ‘Take another pill. That should definitely do it. Works for everyone else,’ she adds.

If she really cared, she would get me the pills herself. I lurch below deck again, swallow another two pills, and quickly resurface. I wait for the medicine to take effect but there don’t seem to be any curative effects from these particular seasick pills. Maybe it’s too late. The boat is pitching about crazily as we enter shallower water and I’m not sure if I’m going to make it. I am surprised Kathy hasn’t handed me a seasick bag, in which case she could have the best of both worlds: watch me puke and not have to clean up.

‘How you going, mate?’ she asks, with fake concern.

‘Worse,’ I tell her. This is definitely going to be touch and go.

‘You’re sure you took the right pills?’

What does she take me for, an idiot? ‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Works a charm for everyone else. Which pills did you take?’

‘The ones you told me to take. In the plastic bottle in the first-aid box,’ I reply, getting peeved. She should just leave me alone to die in peace.

‘Show me the bottle,’ she says disbelievingly.

She’s asking for it.

I stumble below and fetch the unmarked plastic bottle, tempted to swallow another pill or two. I emerge and thrust the container at her. ‘Here, take a look for yourself.’ I can taste the vomit in my breath. It’s there, just ready to go.

She takes the bottle out of my hand and studies it incredulously. ‘That’s not the bottle of anti-seasick pills. That’s just aspirin. No wonder you’re feeling awful. Look, there’s no label on this bottle,’ she says slowly, as if speaking to a dimwit. ‘The bottle of seasick pills is clearly marked …’

I lean against the rails and puke, aiming for the surf, but the strong swirling tail wind blows my breakfast back into my face. I smear the remnants of half-digested porridge into my beard like a decidedly unseaworthy version of Roald Dahl’s Mr Twit. Kathy puts a heavy hand on my back to make sure I remain facing the frothy whitecaps.

At least I don’t have a headache.