Benemma

NZ Part III (12-13 Dec)

We drove into the coastal town of Whakatane (pronounced, to our great amusement, “Fuck-ah-tah-neh”), in the rain. We then drove up a steep incline to the apex of a large hill, leaving the rain behind us and climbing into clear skies. Standing in two rows on the grass, forming a human aisle, were the wedding guests. Cousin Mark, the groom, was standing at the head of the aisle with his groomsmen, in a fine set of tails, hands crossed in-front of him, looking a little nervous. Beside him stood the Celebrant with her lectern, ready to make a man of him. Behind them the grass sloped away, then dropped vertiginously hundreds of metres down to a verdant plain on one side and the sea on the other. White Island was smoking away in the distance. In short, it was a breathtaking venue at which to be married. From where we stood we could clearly see grey clouds lurking in a line parallel to the beach, but the coastal weather system which pervaded at that exact spot was sweeping the rain past us and banishing it to the fields inland. The rain couldn’t have been more than a kilometre away but the sun shone on us for the duration of the wedding service.

THE BRIDAL PARTY AND THE BACKDROP OF THE SEA

Emma had done an amazing job repairing a dress she had bought in India, after loads of the sequins had fallen off in a washing machine. My only half-decent shirt had been ruined by Indian washerwomen, who are a brutal bunch. I bought a replacement for £1 in Chennai but it was pretty casual so I tarted it up by donning my multi-coloured turban. It made sense to dress that way, as the local Kiwi farming community members amongst Mark’s guests were a cultured bunch who are rally into fancy dress as you can imagine. It went down well.

A black vintage Buick rolled onto the grass above us and from it emerged a silver-haired man, looking short beside his soon-to-be-wed daughter. Cathy wore a white dress which was gathered in pleats at the centre of her back, running down a train which reached a short way behind her. The front of the dress was also gathered, at a jewelled broach by her hip. Her tanned shoulders were bare and her head dressed with a white veil at the back. Cathy says she was terrified but she deceived us, looking graceful and ready for the limelight. It was quite a short service. Mark’s dad, Rod, gave the reading and, after the couple had been proclaimed “Man and Wife” Mark turned to his guests and fisted the air. The whole event was replete with sweetness.

MARK AND CATHY EXIT, MARRIED

Coaches took the guests off the hill and over to the nearby golf club, which was enjoying the same great weather. The clubhouse was poised on a rise above a peninsula with water on both sides, a gorgeous spot for the sunset. All the speeches were honest and funny, as they should be but so rarely are. Two of Mark and Cathy’s old workmates from their days as coach tour drivers were the compères for the night, something they were well suited to. Mark and Cathy put on a monster buffet and hired a band to do rock covers until late. Even Rod’s parents, well on the wrong side of eighty, got down on the dance-floor and stayed to the end. We were conscious of the fact that we hadn’t arranged a place to sleep for the night but put faith in the old Kiwi hospitality and got drunk instead of worrying about it. Then, as the last people filtered away, Mark’s brother Bryan put us in a taxi and took us down to a huge modern beach-house nearby. The house was full of evidence of recent partying but it was spacious and clean so it looked like we’d at least get some floor space to crash on. But a double room had been kept for us. Yet again throwing ourselves into the merciful arms of fate had worked out beautifully.

The family put on a barbeque in the sunshine the following day. The last of the guests left and that was it, no more wedding, no more plans for the remaining four and a half weeks of our stay. But then the youngest of the three brothers, Peter, approached us saying, “Looks like we’re giving you a lift to our place.”

“Errr, ooooh-kay. I’ll get our stuff together, just a sec.”

“It’s all good. There’s no rush. We can stay here all day if you like. All good”. And that pretty much sums up Peter’s attitude to the world. I’ve encountered few people even in the same league as him when it comes to being carefree. Every time we passed something on the drive home which caught my attention he’d say, “You wanna stop mate? We got all day. It’s all good.”

Hold-up a second, it’s time for Cousin-Check. Otherwise things will get confusing. So we’re now in the hands of the Nicholas family, which consists of: Wendy, my Dad’s half sister, my aunt; her husband Rod; the three sons named, starting with the eldest, Mark, Bryan and Peter. The boys were each born two years apart, such that my brother fits in the year between Mark and Bryan, and I go in the year between Bryan and Peter. Although we were born in consecutive years our upbringings were utterly contrasting. We also have very different characters. Yet somehow we connect in some deep way. They may live 12,000 miles away but they are our great friends.

Let’s leave this post somewhere on the road from Whakatane to Tokoroa, glimpsing for the first time the dense prehistoric forests I’ve come to calling Kiwi Jungle. Momentarily, the forest falls back to present an alpine lake, lapped by the wind and backed by low mountains. The last town was half-an-hour ago and we’ve not seen a car since. It seems incredibly unadulterated but we’re going to find that such wilderness not rare, it is in the majority on these isles.