TRAMPING AND OTHER THINGS (2007)
Trip report by Gemma Thomas
This was written by Gemma Thomas for the Rambler magazine in England, describing her time in New Zealand. Brendan asked whether I would write a piece about my tramping experiences in New Zealand. Many of my English friends have said; “tramping, oh yes, is that what you do in Nottingham on a Saturday night?” Jokes aside, it is actually the New Zealand term for rambling, that well known past time we often enjoy over the weekend and occasionally during the week. I recently attended one led by a lycra clad skeleton man last seen cavorting around Sherwood Forest.
When I first arrived in New Zealand, I thought I’d try and deal with feeling a bit lost by joining a rambling club and having some continuity in a life which had become more beach and rugby based. (go the All Blacks!) I located a club and after a couple of weeks, went along. It was the hour change, or as kiwis call it; ‘day light saving’ that weekend and of course I got to the meeting place at the wrong time. (Don’t be offended by the description “kiwis,” it is a term of affection, rather like them calling me a “pom.”) A bus pulled into view and I assumed it was mine, jumped on and asked if it was a walking club. The bus was full of friendly faces and it was only when we had left the city of Auckland far behind that a couple of doubts appeared in my mind. “Is this the Auckland Tramping Club?” I asked. “Oh no, this is the Auckland Catholic Tramping Club.” I immediately panicked, not being of that particular religious persuasion, but was reassured that it was also a tramping club.
That was my first tramp and although I had ended up on the wrong bus, I think it was the best mistake I have made to date, as the people I met with that day and over the following 18 months became friends. The first tramp was to an area called Port Waikato. It was famous for being used for the filming of Lord of the Rings, although, as time went on, I came to realise that the whole of New Zealand has claims on scenes from Lord of the Rings. It was a beautiful sunny day and having just recently left a rather damp England, it was a welcomed contrast. I would be lying if I said that New Zealand wasn’t beautiful, inspiring and magnificent, but there will always be a place in my heart for English pubs. There is that special feeling when you walk into a pub on a winter’s day after a lovely walk in the Peaks and the comforting pub smell, the warmth and the hum of conversation just hits you. That is priceless and can make you yearn for home when you least expect it.
Unfortunately, pictures don’t capture the long drop toilets we were subjected to with no doors. However, the advantage of no doors meant that the views were spectacular, although you were often worrying about someone walking past to totally relax! We stayed in these little huts and often saw no one for 2 or 3 days. The huts are based on the idea that whatever you use, you replace. So if firewood was used, more would be collected ready for the next batch of weary travellers. If you used candles, you left some for the next people. I found in New Zealand a huge sense of community and all pitching in.
On the Catholic trampers walks programme, the tramps were sometimes rated as wet or dry tramps. I did wonder about these options, until I was persuaded to go on a wet trip. It was fabulous fun; tramping up a river and in some areas, swimming upstream; up to my neck and fully clothed. I often commented that English people don’t like getting their feet wet and myself and an English friend noted that kiwis, conversely couldn’t wait to get wet. In fact I’d go as far to say that I don’t think a trip was successful without copious amounts of mud and water, whether it was sea or river, all over their boots. After the tramps, Father Bill was usually the instigator of stopping for ice creams. I will always remember sitting after the first tramp eating a Jelly Tip while looking at a beautiful estuary and listening to tales of places like Mission Bay and St Heliers where you can go for a swim after work. I think New Zealanders have so many reasons to be happy, although with a slight glitch after the World Cup, but it is better to gloss over that one!
One of my favourite weekends was organised by one of my friends, Angela. She managed to get us a bach on this volcanic island called Rangitoto, only about twenty minutes by boat from downtown Auckland. We headed out there on a Friday evening. I mused that as a teenager I would have found the idea of spending a weekend on a deserted island excruciatingly boring, but now, I was thoroughly excited about getting away from a Friday night of partying in Auckland’s viaduct. After a water taxi took us across a moon lit harbour, with the lights of Auckland in the background, we stumbled over to the bach and drank Janine’s wine from her pump bottle. It was lovely sitting there in torch light, wearing beanies and assorted fleeces. When we woke the next day, the sea was just outside our door and myself and Ngahuia took the opportunity to go kayaking. Later, we went for a beautiful walk and it is there that I captured the scene of the boat masts illuminated by the sun, rather like they were on fire. The next day we met up with some fellow trampers who had come over for the day and climbed Rangitoto, which is deceptively further and more arduous than it seems, although like all climbs; the view from the top was worth it. Rangitoto is sacred and I definitely felt lucky to be able to walk on it.
I think it is difficult to convey the subtle differences of New Zealand tramping and have probably not done it justice. There were many Sunday evenings when I returned home after a good six hours tramping (another difference-the kiwi’s measure tramping in time rather than in miles) and my housemates would ask where I had been. I would invariably do rather a lot of “umming” and “arring” and try to pronounce the Maori words; Mataitai Track, Mahaukura Track, Mount Pirongia, South Head, Kaipara .Confused? I was.
Some people will be surprised that I actually miss those nights wearing long johns and polyprop tops; the height of fashion. Shortly on arriving in New Zealand, I embarked on a four day tramp. We had been walking for three days, with big packs, crossing the same river about seven times a day. Bearing in mind I was used to a day pack and a nice evening meal in a pub, after showering in the hostel; this was rather a culture shock. I was sharing a tent with one of my fellow trampers and, to be honest was being rather a winging pom. He said something on the lines that, although it was difficult and maybe I’d rather be somewhere else, I would remember the experience forever and it was unique to that particular time. He was, of course correct. Bathing in a river is an underrated pastime, as is cooking over a real fire. The simplicity of a pack of cards coupled with good company made the experience memorable. There was also a sense of satisfaction when we immerged from the mists and saw civilisation in the form of a long drop toilet or the “dunny” as Janine amusingly referred to it. Although I had missed civilisation, on the first night at home in a warm house, my ears were straining to hear the sounds of the river and the famous blue ducks.