September 29, 2010

My Guardian Angel Must Be a Kiwi

Travelers the world over spread legends of Kiwi hospitality. I heard of this phenomenon when I was traveling through Australia. A few fellow travelers had recently been to New Zealand and told tales of dinners and beds offered from complete strangers. I listened attentively, but figured these stories rose from special circumstances, or perhaps were tall tales. After all, the nickname for New Zealanders originates from their native bird, the Kiwi, which is naturally shy. My two and a half months in Kiwiland, however, proved the legends to be true.
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While on a mission to the east coast of New Zealand’s north island around the New Year holiday, Tom and I arrived at a remote campground near the mouth of the Wairere River. We had been driving all day and it was quite late when we finally drove through the entrance gate. My spirits sank when we saw that the campsite was full, as there wasn’t another for miles.

There was a second small, closed gate to a privately-owned paddock just above the public site. Tom went to check it out while I waited in the car in frustration and impatience, wondering why he was even bothering. It was clearly private property and I was sure we would just have to sleep in our tiny Toyota Starlet on the side of the road. Tom returned, however, with a grin. He got in the car and proceeded to drive through the private gate. It had been opened by a short, white-haired woman who was waving us through.

As we unloaded the car and began to set up our tent for the night, the woman introduced herself as Irene. She offered us a lantern and showed me around her campsite. There were a few other tents, a couple camping trailers, a long picnic table, a full kitchen equipped with sinks, cookware, a grill, and a few burners, a shower, and two new, clean, long-drop toilets. There was even an old agitator behind the kitchen.

Irene has been camping on that particular paddock since she was a little girl. For the past 60-some years, Irene’s family has consistently returned, despite the farm to which the paddock belongs being passed from owner to owner. Irene, along with her daughter, Debbie, Debbie’s husband, “Buzz”, and their two sons, Jade and Brock, comes to the paddock for several weeks every summer, and a few odd holidays and long weekends throughout the year.

For the next 4 days, Tom and I became adopted family members to Irene’s clan and had full access to their camp’s luxurious facilities. They gave us fuel for our car when we didn’t have enough to get back to town. They showed us the nearby secluded beach and took us fishing. They lent us their kayaks to enjoy a New Year’s Eve paddle down the Wairere River. We joined them and their friends at the public campground for a rowdy New Year’s Eve party. And they even gave us an enthusiastic hoorah when both Tom and I tried out their traditional “apron dance.” They invited us to their annual New Year’s lamb roast and Buzz cooked us a fresh fish breakfast with free range eggs on our last morning there. 

Irene usually denies other campers access to her private paddock, even if the public site is full. On that particular night, however, she extended a warm welcome to Tom and me. Maybe for many reasons or maybe none at all - we’ll never know. But Irene was our guardian angel that night.