Kiwi Tracks (23 page)

The words of a popular love song permeate my subconscious. I am unsure of where I am, my eyes are still closed. I open my eyes. In a bunk next to me, Ingrid is burrowed into her sleeping-bag. A radio alarm clock in the kitchen has been set for six in the morning and tuned to the local radio station by a previous tramper. The plaintive song penetrates the silence of the bunkhouse. I listen to the end of the song before sliding out of the sleeping-bag, wrapping it around me. I boil water for tea and offer Ingrid a cup as she lies in bed, still bundled in her sleeping-bag. My breath is visible in the cold air.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says, reaching out for the mug. ‘It was freezing during the night.’

We converse over several cups of tea, and this time I do much of the talking, opening up to myself as much as to her. I do not hold back. It is almost nine when I start to pack, almost too late to catch the scheduled water taxi to the starting point of the Waikaremoana Track.

‘Why don’t you join me?’ I ask, knowing Ingrid has just completed the four-day walk. For the first time on this trip I have met someone I want to tramp with.

‘Do it again?’ Laughing, she rolls onto her stomach, sips the tea and contemplates the idea? ‘Yes, why not?’ she says finally. ‘I would like to, I like your company.’

‘I like your company too.’

She gets out of her sleeping-bag and packs in a rush. ‘I don’t have much food, just lentils and bean sprouts.’

‘I have lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, enough for two.’ And no split peas. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

The only passengers, we catch the water taxi across the lake to Onepoto, and begin the long climb up Panekiri Bluff. The track leads through the Armed Constabulary Redoubt, where Te Kooti, the Maori religious leader, retreated after escaping from Chatham Island and making a series of raids on East Cape. He hid in these forests, successfully evading British troops. They never caught him and eventually he was formally pardoned. Ingrid and I walk without talking, one behind the other, through the mysterious and dense rainforest. It is easy to see how Te Kooti hid here so effectively.

Occasionally the path skirts the edge of the bluff, providing a panoramic view of the shoreline of the lake around which we will walk. Near the top of the cliffs we stop to picnic, our feet hanging over a perpendicular drop. The clouds are dark and low but occasionally great shafts of sunlight break through the gaps, suddenly illuminating the sad battleship-grey waters with sparkling pools of quicksilver.

Ingrid says: ‘There are supposed to be wild cattle here.’

‘Which, like all introduced non-farm animals, are fair game for shooting,’ I remark. In my peripheral vision I see a man’s head pop up over the bushes. His face is flushed and dominated by a huge walrus moustache. Although slightly thinning on top, he has long, blond-grey hair which falls loosely over his bulky shoulders. He has sympathetic features and a dimpled smile so big his twinkling eyes almost disappear. When he sees I have noticed him, he nods affably. ‘Hello!’ I call out.

‘Hi!’ he replies diffidently. Despite his considerable height and size, he speaks softly. He resembles a large but timid mythical creature of the rainforest.

I have some fresh fruit and vegies in the pack: apples, oranges, apricots and carrots. I grab an apple and lob it to him; he catches it effortlessly and munches contently from the safety of the bushes.

I try to include him in our impromptu picnic. ‘Where are you from?’ I enquire.

‘New Hampshire.’

‘How long are you here for?’ Ingrid does not turn around.

‘Some months, just getting away from home for the winter.’ He remains partially hidden by the bushes, seemingly too shy to emerge from the woods.

I hesitate to approach; I do not want to scare him away. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask encouragingly.

‘Pat.’ He turns slightly and I notice his green US army backpack.

‘I’m Andrew, this is Ingrid.’ I throw him another apple, slightly to one side of him. Ingrid turns to look, smiles, but does not say anything.

Pat steps out from behind the bushes to catch the fruit, leaning on a stiff pole, his walking stick. Ingrid and I repack our bags and continue walking, encouraging Pat to join us by engaging him in conversation and handing him a constant supply of fresh fruit, which he accepts gratefully.

Near the top of the bluffs, we meet a middle-aged woman sitting alone on wooden steps which lead up a steep rock face. She
wears a green shirt and green fleece jacket, and looks like a retired teacher. ‘Are you the hut warden?’ I ask.

‘No, but I wish I was.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been walking this route around the lake for three days and every night there has been a group of students with two teachers. The kids are totally out of control. DOC has already expelled eleven of them from the park for smoking marijuana and stealing chicken eggs left as baits in possum traps. There’s still twenty-eight of them left and they’re staying at Panekiri Hut, just up there.’ She points above us. ‘It’s so noisy and chaotic that I came down here to get some peace and quiet. Screaming kids, sixteen-year-olds with hormones working overtime. At night, the testosterone levels are palpable.’

‘You could pretend you’re DOC with that green coordinated outfit you’re wearing,’ I suggest.

‘They know I’m not DOC. But you could pretend’ – her face brightens as she studies me – ‘with that huge green backpack.’ She looks at Ingrid and Pat. ‘The three of you look exactly like DOC workers. You could scare them and get them to behave.’ She smiles at the thought.

‘Should we?’ I ask Pat and Ingrid. A mischievous glint in Ingrid’s eyes indicates yes. Pat smiles in tacit agreement. I admonish, ‘No laughing, OK? We don’t want to give the game away.’

We walk to the hut, some fifteen minutes up the path. Outside, two elderly couples lie on the grass, apparently displaced by the rambunctious kids. Boots and scraps of clothing lie scattered about.

The hut is in a state of total chaos. Dirty pots and pans clutter the room. There is so much food everywhere, it looks as if they have had a food fight.

I bark: ‘Who’s in charge here?’

Pat blocks the door in his military-style boots, legs astride, his walking stick in the crook of his arm like an assault rifle nestled against his barrel chest. There is a stunned silence.

Finally, one of the students answers: ‘One teacher’s asleep and the other is outside somewhere.’

The teacher comes out of the bunkroom, apparently woken by our presence. ‘Are these your students?’ I snap at him authoritatively.

‘Yes.’

‘Looks like things are out of control here,’ I remark, trying to increase the bass in my voice and puffing out my chest like a pigeon.

He looks around guiltily. ‘I wouldn’t say they’re out of control exactly …’ The students listen, frozen in place. ‘If you are staying, we can find some empty bunks …’ he says apprehensively.

Pat looks around, and as he marches into the centre of the room, he booms, ‘We’re the special anti-drug SWAT Team. Been flown by helicopter from Washington to keep an eye on what’s going on here. We’ll be sleeping in the bush tonight’ – he indicates with a toss of his head. ‘Just to make sure things don’t get out of hand again.’ He has a natural authority and were I not in on the hoax, I would believe him myself. The two elderly couples, who have now been joined by the woman who put us up to this, stand in the doorway. He says to them sternly, so the kids can hear: ‘If you have any problems with things in here during the night, let us know. We’ll be right out there in case you need us.’ He points with his square jaw at the bush outside. ‘Any of you still got drugs?’

There is a unanimous shaking of heads.

The five adults smile and say: ‘Thanks.’ The teacher shifts uncomfortably, not quite sure what to make of all this, but probably happy to go along with the Forces of Good that have suddenly shown up on the doorstep. The students sit stunned, eyes wide. Just goes to show the extent of global integration and brainwashing when a SWAT Team is plausibly sent out from Washington to take care of some misbehaving Kiwi kids. You can see some of them thinking: ‘A SWAT team from Washington? Cool!’ Pat and Ingrid are pretty convincing in their roles. Maybe I look pretty kuh-ool in their company too.

I turn to Pat, trying not to smile, putting him on the spot: ‘Tell them what we do with students we catch messing around with possum bait.’ I wouldn’t know how to swat a fly, never mind take out a terrorist group or a class of grass-smoking kids on a school outing.

Pat does not hesitate to reply: ‘We stake ’em to the ground, smother them in peanut butter and let the possums at ’em.’ Two boys are nervously fumbling with something in their hands. He points his stick accusingly at them. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Tea bags.’

‘That better not be dope.’

‘The ones with the dope have been taken away.’

‘You better be right, otherwise you’re in deep shit, and not the good shit you might want to be in either.’

‘Yes.’

With that, the three of us stride off towards the next hut, giggling. When we arrive at Waiopaoa Hut, we hoist our packs onto three-tiered bunks. Ingrid and I go down to the lake to swim. When we return, it seems Pat has gone missing. I ask Ingrid. ‘Where’s Pat?’

‘Here,’ Pat replies. He has taken a bunk in the top corner with barely enough headroom to tuck his body under the roof, despite the fact that we have the hut to ourselves and there are plenty of bunks with easier access. He has concealed himself, his army pack and his walking stick, as if he were hiding in a bunker from the Viet Cong.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ I ask.

‘Already ate.’

While cleaning my teeth after breakfast, I read a sign warning of the dangers of living in New Zealand:

Safety

In the case of earthquakes, move to higher ground and keep away from large trees, which may shed branches. You need to be at least five metres above lake level and to stay there at least fifteen minutes after the last shock.

The worst part of the day is in the morning, peeling off clothes still warm from sleeping in them and putting on cold clothes, still damp and sweaty from the previous day. Our clothes smell musty, like a wet haystack, a strong earthy odour that is not unpleasant.

The morning looms overcast and cold. We tramp clockwise around the lake, crossing a small stream with a suspended bridge made from chain-link fence and wooden flooring. Beside it is a massive bridge under construction, big enough for trucks. On the path we meet an elderly Kiwi couple who have come across the lake in their motor boat.

‘Did you see the bridge?’ the wife asks. We could not have missed it. ‘It’ll compete with the Auckland Harbour Bridge by the time they’ve finished it. Ever since the Cave Creek disaster, where fourteen people died on a collapsed viewing platform, DOC has been paranoid about construction, but this is ridiculous. Every plank of wood crossing a trickle of water has an orange tag on it, with a serial number.’

Ingrid moves ahead and Pat brings up the rear. While crossing a small stream almost overgrown with toitoi grass and ferns, I stop to admire the view. Pat waits patiently on the other side, leaning on his walking stick, half disguised in the tall grass. We conduct a verbal volleyball game across the gap, discussing women, marriage, children, the meaning of life. Then Ingrid reappears, interrupting us.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks, beads of sweat dripping off her face.

‘Sure, why?’

‘I waited for you for so long I thought maybe one of you was injured.’

I laugh.

‘Why are you laughing?’ she asks, looking aggrieved.

‘I’ve been walking alone for months. In that time anything could have happened to me and I wouldn’t have been missed for ages. Now I stop to talk for a few minutes, on this easy track and you come searching for me.’

‘A few minutes? I was waiting an hour.’ She is not so much annoyed as genuinely concerned.

I hug her, and say, ‘Ingrid, it’s a nice feeling having someone keep a look out for me.’

We continue walking and half an hour later are standing on the lip of a cup-like depression, overlooking waterfalls. At the bottom is a tumble of smooth rocks and a deep clear pool, surrounded by ferns and shadowed by tall beech and rimu trees festooned with bearded moss. The sun pokes out from behind thick, puffy clouds and illuminates the delicate lace-work of falling water. When the clouds cover the sun again, it is as if the lights have been dimmed on a stage. We gaze intently, mesmerised by the light and water show.

‘It doesn’t get more beautiful than this anywhere,’ Pat comments. ‘Anywhere I’ve been anyway.’

Ingrid climbs down to the pool to cool off.

I ask him: ‘Backpacked around Asia much?’

He laughs ironically. ‘Sure, but it was more terrorism than tourism.’

‘You mean in Vietnam?’

He replies, diffidently: ‘I was in a special long-range reconnaissance team up the border areas.’ He stares ahead and I try to imagine him walking around the jungle, waiting to be ambushed. Despite the thinning grey hair, it is not hard to imagine him twenty-five years younger, lean and hard, confident with the ignorance of youth.