Nonna's Big Day Out at the Rotary REunion

I’m feeling somewhat out of place. It’s the 2019 Rotary REunion at the Bruce McLaren Raceway in Taupo and I’ve been invited along by my son, a rotary head from way back. Invited, not so much for mother/son bonding or that I have an interest in cars, but because he has a beautiful wife who is equally as passionate about this type of transport and wanted a chance to drive... someone had to help with the three wee children.

I’m older than nearly everyone there and I’m wearing a red dress. I should have worn a black tee shirt and some cut off denim shorts. My legs are too short, too fat and too dimply to have considered it. The women are all young and beautiful. Many are mothers with their own tribes of junior rotary enthusiasts in tow.

There is also a bit of a theme going with the men: super bushy beards, tattoos and black tee shirts. They all look a bit like clones of ZZ Tops but they probably wouldn’t even know who ZZ Tops are! Why would they?

This is a generation who have grown up with this high octane, adrenaline laced excitement. Many may once have been boy racers but rather than it being a fad, they have developed a love for the Wankel engine, revolutionary in its development. It's a love affair that has exceeded their teenage years. I have no doubt it will be these same participants who attend the event in twenty or even 40 year's time. By then, being in my age bracket will be the norm at these events.

I arrived separate from my family, and was surprised to be stopped at the entry and have my electric Nissan Leaf nonna mobile searched for alcohol. I must have a particular “look”. It’s the same when I go through customs. I’m always the one to be searched.

The noise is deafening and they haven’t even begun the drifting or donuts. The donuts actually caused some confusion. When my seven year old grandson asked if I liked them, I happily dragged him to the cart to buy some. “Nonna!” he said, rolling his eyes. I can see there is a vocabulary that I need to brush up on.

I’m so impressed by the atmosphere at the event. It is a family affair. Children from a few months old and up wear protective ear muffs, cars are everywhere but saying, “watch out for the cars” isn’t necessary, the drivers automatically watch out for the kids.  

With 402 cars at the event one would expect chaos, there was none.  Spectators and participants cruised between the drag strip, the burnout pitch, grandstands and workshops with ease and a camaraderie that was admirable.

As families piled into the cars for the Grand Parade; a  cruise around the 3.km track my three year old granddaughter fell asleep in the pushchair, oblivious to the thumping, popping, growling of exhausts.

My son and the rest of his family pile into the Mazda RX3 and joined the cavalcade. I hunt for shade but the only thing I can find is an alleyway that has a breeze coming through it, is shady, provides some noise protection, and leads to the toilets. Not ideal but it’s the best I can do. So, there I stand, she sleeps and 402 cars roll passed.  Gleaming paintwork, dazzling hubs and personalized plates like ToyRX3, Mentil, Bz8rk and others which my tiny brain couldn’t decipher. 

It wasn't the usual Nonna outing, but it was one of the best!

 Drag  Races, burn Outs and Grand Parade. A great day at Rotary REunion with lots of action even                                                   for grandmothers and grandchildren.

                                            Nearly every young child wore a set of ear muffs.

                                 Oblivious to all the noise she slept in the only shade we could find.

Biking in Bluff

We are In Bluff. The sun’s trying to come out. The sea sort of sparkles and the smelter definitely smelters by the look of the plume of black smoke shooting skyward across from our campsite.

 We unload our bikes ready to explore this most southerly part of New Zealand. First impressions are not exciting but after a great coffee at one of several interesting wee cafes things look a whole lot cheerier.

We decide to bike to the top of the Bluff lookout, Motupohue. It didn’t look that high and at 265 Metres and it’s probably not, but when you are biking, it’s the gradient that counts and I hadn’t even got to the end of the houses before the sign told cars to “Use Low Gears”. By that stage I had no gears left, just foot power.

So, there I was ...pushing my bike to the top of a very high hill for a very long time! I  kept myself motivated by the thought of the stunning views over Foveaux Strait which I’d read about and the exhilarating ride down. But, as the clouds came over and the view was obscured it became even  harder to keep going.  At one stage as I’m doubled over trying to resume a normal heart rate, my partner Dirk takes my bike and his, and keeps on pushing up hill.

When we reach the top the view is...pretty much non existent thanks to the weather, but I’m a “cup half full” sort of person and gave thanks that it wasn’t baking hot. We locked our bikes to a post and began to walk the Topunui Track, a zillion steps all going down hill. Now all I could think of was how the heck I was going to make it back up the track! A local out walking his dog told us the walk was worthwhile and we’d get a great view of Stirling Point from about halfway along, so we followed him.

Unfortunately, the bush hadn’t been trimmed for quite some time so the view was obscured. This was becoming another of those “good news, bad news” stories. I opted for an about- turn and headed back  up those same zillion stairs to the top of the hill, mounted my bike and careered down to the bottom to ...yes, another coffee shop. So, all in all this story has a happy ending unlike my bum after the ride.

When you can get a good cup of coffee all is forgiven and forgotten.

Steps. There were so many of them but the bush was beautiful.

The giant steel anchor chain sculpture chain created by Russell Beck is near the famous Bluff signpost.  The other end of the chain lies on Stewart Island.

Carry Cash if You're heading to the Caitlins

If you are heading to the Caitlins, that wilderness region in the South Island, New zealand, make sure you carry cash. The real stuff. Coins and notes. Not because you are going to want to go shopping because apart from a few kiwi calendars, printed tea towels and fridge magnets there isn’t much else to buy. No. You need your cash for getting access into various sights $2 for Moeraki Boulders if you enter passed the cafe, $5 for Cathedral Caves as you’re walking through privately owned land (and the most beautifully maintained walkway) and you’ll need that cash for paying for DOC overnight stays and coin operated showers.

So, what happens when you arrive and have no cash? We haven’t seen an ATM since we arrived in the area and hadn’t given a thought to getting cash when we paid for our last decent coffee.

How does a traveller deal in these situations? Well, this is how we’ve coped. (Hopefully we’ll remember to carry cash next time.)

1. Overnight camp in a POP campground. That is: Parked on Private Property usually owned by members of the NZCMA (New Zealand Motor Caravan Association) In most cases these sites have an honesty box and charge a small fee (about $3-$5) sometimes more. We had no cash and no one was around for miles. We turned the bus inside out looking for stray coins but without a couch to put our hands down we found nothing. A strong Catholic upbringing sent waves of guilt as we set up camp. A last look among the hoards of dockets in my jacket pocket and I found....two petrol voucher!  One would be enough. It was a little more than we wanted to pay but the fabulous views from the property made it worthwhile. Everyone needs petrol.

2. Overnight camp in a DOC campground near the Caitlin River. $8 per person. No cash. Fortunately another camper was happy to exchange my last petrol voucher for cash. Problem solved.

3. A second POP site on farmland in the middle of nowhere. A farmhouse nearby. What can I offer? I look in my barely operational pantry. There was plenty of Weetbix. I whip up a batch of Weetbix delight, slightly overcooked by the grill in the tiny camp cooker, lather it with icing and deliver it to the door. Happy farmer...happy camper.

4. No money for showers? Don’t have one. The rivers, lakes and sea are an invigorating alternative and leave lasting memories.
We’re just about out of the Caitlins now. The wildlife and wilderness has to be experienced. The days without internet made me realise just how  connected I DON’T need to be as well as just how hard is not to be connected. And, as for a cashless society? We're not quite there yet.

Nugget Point

Cathedral Caves Beach-where the bush runs onto the beach.

Moeraki Boulders-Not quite in the Caitlins

Cathedral Cave-much more impressive than this photo shows.

Christchurch Emotions

Evening. Christchurch, you took my breath away. Standing in the square, once alive and moving the earth with the Wizard's words and entertaining buskers, tonight you are in a deep mood, empty except for a few tourists shouting into their cellphones.

We watched your fall and rising recovery from the safety of the North Island but now, eight years later, I really understand and feel your pain. I want to take photos but feel that would be like some distant relation photographing a funeral, feeling guilty in my luck at not having to go through it. Just as tears begin, I see a bright neon sign in the darkening gloom “Everything will be alright". A statement that radiates hope and resilience on the side of the brand new Te Puna O Waiwhetu Art Gallery.

Morning. Christchurch, you take my breath away. The sun is shining illuminating steel sculptures, brightly coloured murals and wall art. Trams rattle along rails, tourists wander pointing at ruins. Today, I feel positive and alive. Christchurch, I feel your rising energy and promise to support you in any way. Coins in an earthquake recovery fund are simply not enough.

Caption: Hope. A moment of reflection from the Port Hills.

Don't Go on a Fasting Retreat with Chocolate in your Pocket

A Fasting Retreat? For a week? You’ve got to be kidding. The whole concept was as remote as refusing a giant piece of pavlova.  ‘Fast’ to me, was a way of moving, the speed of my bike, the passing of time. I never for a moment had considered going on a ‘fast’. This was something Jesus and Moses did in the desert, Muslims recognize as an essence of spiritual cleansing, and Hindi gurus propound.

However, in a moment of madness and of perceived fatness I allowed my good friend Julie to persuade me to join her on a Fasting Retreat. Indeed, her excitement when sending me the link to a Aio Wira Retreat was hard to ignore. “It’s so good for you” she said, “It’s been known to improve brain performance, lower risk of diabetes and so many other benefits.”

The pre-fast information sheet advised us to moderate eating in the days leading up to the retreat, stick to salads and vegetables, cut out the caffeine and alcohol (are you getting the picture?) By preparing our bodies it would be easier to slide into the regime of daily juices, herbal teas, body brushing and giving ourselves enemas. Yes. You heard me. Enemas, not enigmas, nor the pretty little anemone flowers! There is nothing pretty nor enigmatic about an enema.

Aio Wira Retreat Centre is just 40 minutes from Auckland and tucked away on four hectares of native bush in the Waitakere Ranges. Founded in 1970 by a group of yoga students, the centre which is not based on any fixed spiritual philosophy, has developed to become a centre for many types of, body, mind and spirit gatherings and holds workshops from yoga, pilates and meditation to Qi Gong, mindfulness and wordless weekends. So many wonderful options for seeking and finding physical health, spiritual wellness and self-fulfilment, which leaves me wondering how I ever ended up on the fasting retreat.

Before arriving on a Thursday night, we stopped and had our last, light meal at the closest café to the centre. The last solid food for five days, then drove the last ten kilometres before turning onto a short gravel road. It was late but never too late to be greeted enthusiastically by the woofer (seasonal worker) and a fasting regular who had returned for his fifth fast in that many years.

We were shown to a row of homely rooms set up with wool blankets, crochet covers, cushions and hot water bottles, (or were they the enema bladders?) While unpacking, I happened to find a lost, lonely row of dark chocolate. Honest. I’m not kidding. They were not hidden there deliberately. 

Those four squares of chocolate were to test my willpower like nothing else. Well, nothing except the fact there was no cell phone coverage. I contemplated the best course of action. I could quietly eat the chocolate straight away, but, strictly speaking the fast had already started. To eat them would be to cheat. Wouldn’t it? I could tell the others and they would keep me on the straight and narrow or, they might make me share it! The final choice was to just forget I had it, which is what I tried to do.

We soon settled into the routine at Aio Wira beginning with a lesson on how to use the enema kits, accompanied by nervous giggles from those of the 17 participants who were first timers.  A daily timetable was hung up detailing sessions for yoga, meditation, Tai Chi and sharing sessions with empty spaces for signing up for other optional health regimes including seaweed wraps, posture alignment and counselling offered by independent consultants.

By day two the growling and squeaking of empty stomachs dominated the sharing sessions along with more personal reflections of how people were coping. Strangely enough after the first 24 hours I felt no real desire to eat. The fruit juices and evening broth were doing their job. However, by Day Three, I was getting hangry and restless for contact with the outside world.  All the talk of people’s bowel habits and enema encounters was becoming too much. It was time for a drive to Bethells Beach in search of wide open spaces, cell phone coverage, a coffee cart perhaps and, maybe, just a nibble on the chocolate. Gosh. I was beginning to behave like a teenager sneaking out after dark. Fortunately, I was not alone in my cravings and clandestine escapades.

 By Day Four I had little energy for anything, even contemplating unwrapping those four squares of delicious, dark chocolate was exhausting. I began counting down and dreaming of the date-filled baked apple they had promised us for breakfast as a gentle breaking of our fast.

Tuesday morning began with much excitement. The thought of food made it difficult for me to meditate. The morning walk was just a mere stroll as we drawled over what we would eat when we left. And then it was over.

 In small groups we took ourselves off to our cars and headed home. How many of the women would jump on the scales and how many of the men would down a quick pint was anyone’s guess. The only thing for certain was that most of us would be on cell phones as soon as we were in signal and that the four squares of chocolate wouldn’t last much longer.

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Soaring on skiis- Innsbruck Austria

High Flier

I’m sitting in the café at the top of the Bergisel ski jump in Austria, site of the 1964 and 1976 Winter Olympics. It’s a nauseating height. The kind that even spectacular panoramic views can’t help you ignore. I feel as if the collective nerves and adrenalin of the hundreds of competitors who have launched themselves into record books have gathered in my stomach.
I order a strong espresso but it only seems to heighten the nausea, so, I order an applestrudel in an attempt to take my mind off the scenery and onto my stomach.
Then I saw it. The reason I was so nervous. A young Austrian jumper, on the slope, preparing to jump. Perhaps I had been channeling his nerves?
Heart racing, perspiration pouring down, a quick prayer as the seconds ticked by….and that was just me! In contrast, this athlete appeared as cool as an Austrian snowflake. His lithe body bends, clips onto the two ski rails , adjusted his vest and soars. Skis crossed, sky high and then gracefully gliding down the artificial grass slope. A terrain watered and tendered like a prize cricket pitch. Visons of Eddie the Eagle flashed through my mind. I was in awe.

Thinking how lucky I was to witness this in the height of summer I make my way slowly step by step, slope by slope….down the path. Suddenly the jumper runs passed me, back to the cable car, back to the top. Unlike me, he didn’t need to stop for coffee and cake at the café. Realising he was heading for a re-run, I rushed to the bottom for a different view. A group of Indian tourists were gathered on the teared seating getting an informative brief from an English speaking, Austrian coach. I stop, and listen in. Discretely of course.

 Huge sprinklers spray water droplets into the sky creating rainbows and sparkling like thousands of Swarovski crystals. After a few minutes the sprinklers stop, a tiny speck appears at the top of the jump, then, without hesitation, soars through the sky. The crowd applauds and break into a clacker of disbelief. The smiling ski-jumper  takes time to approach the group, pausing for a few quick photos, then its “auf wiedersehen” and back to the top. Me, well, I head down to the next coffee shop. All that exercise and energy has made me exhausted.

Blokzijl, Netherlands

The campervan squeezes along the narrow streets. We suck in our breath and pray that nothing comes the other way. I'm grateful that our friends discovered Blokzijl in the northern Netherlands by canal boat and told us about it, otherwise we would never have found it.

Now we sit in an old café. The owner seems as old as the building. He creeps in the darkness amidst tables set with candles and surrounded by art work in the style of the Dutch Masters. The rain and gloom is fitting with the atmosphere but somehow adds to the experience of visiting this medieval fortress built in the 1600’s. We are the only patrons.

Outside the rain quietly fills the gaps in the cobblestones spraying afar as red cape-clad cyclists pedal passed. They stop momentarily and peer in the window. No doubt we do not make a suitable display and they pedal on in the rain. Barry Manilow sings on the radio in contrast to what I see and feel.

As I finish my coffee and yet another slice of Dutch appeltaart the music changes, the radio now plays “You can be a Champion”  transporting me back to Vanuatu where Facebook reminds me that I was two years ago. The song was sung loudly and enthusiastically by my Grade Six class as they graduated from primary school, many of them departing to boarding schools in more developed countries. How life changes, so quickly, and yet Blokzijl reminds me that in reality, some things never change, they just wear the markings of time.

Many dorrways have small displays

A gloomy day but full of discoveries.