Who was it that said “Life was like a Box of
Chocolates”? Tom Hanks or his alter ego, Forrest Gump? And knowing that, it
should have come as no surprise that our best laid plans would come to grief.
We did set off to West Auckland and spent a
solid week pottering about our son and his partner’s new house, in readiness
for their moving in. We cleaned, painted, gardened, rebuilt clothes lines,
rehung existing curtains and hung new, took a well-loaded trailer of vegetation
waste to the local transfer station, shopped at hardware stores, and then
shopped again, then went on a wild goose chase to the south of the city to buy
a door that turned out to be misrepresented on their web-page so returned with
none, and tried to convince the customer (our children) that there was nothing
wrong with the old one. But this multitude of tasks is old hat to those who
have moved house, except this story had the advantage of the takeover being
more than a week before the move out of the old, giving time to the hardworking
electricians to rewire the entire house, meeting the demands of this thoroughly
modern young generation. For us, we had the peace of the place to park our
motorhome and access to a tap for water and a land-plumbed toilet.
We left the morning after the Big Move,
facilitated by professional movers whose job was made easier and quicker by the
fact that Olly had spent the prior week transferring boxes of sundry items.
That final morning I was treated to the joys of horse riding lessons, or at
least those taken by my six year old grandson, and saw first-hand the patience
of parents and instructors alike. Needless to say, my own sons were never
treated to such lessons.
It was late in the morning that we drove off,
with waves and best wishes and promises to return next year to help with
planned renovations. A few kilometres up the road, we decided it would be
prudent to lunch early before pursuing our itinerary for the day and so spent
three quarters of an hour between the busy road and a small park. Alas when it
came time to go, the truck was reluctant, in fact simply would not start at
all. After several attempts, and spaces in between, we rang our insurance
company with whom we have a roadside policy add-on. They sent a mechanic who
suggested there was a problem with the fuel pump and that we needed to seek a
diesel mechanic. This was early Saturday afternoon, and although we used up
nearly all our free cellphone minutes ringing around Auckland, not one
responded. So we sat and sat through the days and nights until Monday and help
finally arrived.
West Auckland is not considered a particularly
salubrious part of Auckland to those who do not live there, however having had
family there for some years, and having stayed in the area from time to time,
we have no such prejudices. In fact we are delighted about Olly and Jess’s new
home; this part of the city, as well as the south, are locations where young
people can get a foot in the property door, particularly with a little help.
Our stranded location was about two hundred metres from a fairly recent very
public murder, of one with bikie connections, so I do admit to being a little
apprehensive every time I woke and heard a throaty motorbike approach. Needless
to say the park where we were holed up is not an official spot for gypsies and
their ilk to hang out, and we did get some sidelong looks from the locals that
passed by. But even if the council authorities had come by with the intention
of moving us on or prosecuting us, we were in no position to move.
On Monday morning we rang an outfit northwest
of the city, in the rural service centre of Kumeu, who sent a man to us at once
and immediately diagnosed the problem. A small spring in the internal workings
of the fuel pump had perished and would not perform the opening and closing
operation required to let the fuel pass. Superman managed to start us and had
us follow him across back roads, uphill and down dale across to Kumeu, to their
workshop where an external spring was fitted instead. We happily paid up the
$125 or so that was required, conveyed our joyful thanks and set off.
Over the next hour or so, those emergency
mechanical services throughout Auckland returned the calls in response to the
messages left on their answer phones; all too late for us or their own
business. Our joy at forking out a mere $125 should be qualified here; our
initial frustration and concern over the weekend had turned to resignation, acceptance
of change and of the fact that we were probably going to be stuck in Auckland
for Christmas and until New Zealand returned to commercial life in early or
mid-January, that we would have to postpone our ferry crossing, that we would
be well advised to be towed to South Auckland and sit the intervening weeks at
the NZMCA Park stayed at previously and that the problem seemed to be similar
to that we had with our landcruiser in Sydney two years ago. Costs of this
exercise totted up, in our heads, to a figure in excess of $3,000, hence our
relief at the actual charge by NPD
Maintenance.
It was to that same NZMCA Park we now headed,
deciding to overnight before heading to our daughter’s in Waihi Beach. We
decided to make the most of city entertainment and catch the final of the
Hobbit trilogy, which we did. It was in the Manukau shopping centre car park we
experienced the first of the clutch niggles. The following morning I insisted
we have it checked before setting off further south. After being directed to a
small garage by a Mitsubishi outfit who turned out to be only a parts
wholesaler, we were advised that there was a leak under the truck from the
“slave cylinder”, maybe just a ring that needed changing but if we kept the
brake fluid levels topped up, we would be fine. Off to Repco we went, at their
bidding, and purchased a large container of that lifesaving liquid, comforted
that we would run into no major problems if we remained vigilant. Chris and I
agreed that we would seek repair in Nelson, and duly located, on-line, an
appropriate garage in Richmond for future reference.
We travelled on south east to the Bay of
Plenty, calling on our Waihi Beach family to exchange Christmas gifts and catch
up with the latest gossip and news. Despite their pleas for us to stay
overnight, in fact to stay on for Christmas, we departed and drove on through
to Tauranga, setting ourselves up at the excellent little NZMCA park over
property at Tauriko.
The next morning we drove to the shopping
centre at Fraser Cove to buy all the goodies one simply must indulge in over
Christmas; wine, beer, ham, ice-cream and a multitude of other little treats
that some may include on a regular basis, but we reserve for such special
celebrations. Pulling out of the car park, the clutch threw a wobbly and Chris
had to stall the engine to change into gear. We limped out onto the main street
and into a garage, one of the few with their doors still open. It was nearly
midday on Christmas Eve, and most humane employers were sending their employees
home early, to start their week or two week holidays. Here we found a most
obliging chap, who rang a truck maintenance company in the next suburb, checked
that were open and able to offer us assistance. Again we limped off, soon
pulling into yet another yard. Here too the staff were winding up the morning’s
work, ready to head off for family time. But all was put on hold for us as they
tracked down the one part compatible with our truck, drove across to Mount
Maunganui to pick it up, then installed it while we waited. They were appalled
that we had been told there was no concern. It was immediately evident that
this was a serious problem and that we would have been foolish to even proceed
on the next leg of our trip. The plastic card was extracted from the wallet
once more, however the pain was minor; Transport
Maintenance charged most fairly.
And so once more we set off, this time ever
hopeful that no more mechanical woes would befall us, driving south through
what used to be known as the Old Coach
Road, a name now more associated with a wine label, emerging from the hills
on the northern shore of Lake Rotorua. Turning west, we soon arrived at yet
another of the NZMCA’s park over properties, this one at Ngongataha. This park
over property has been open to financial members for less than a month, and is
set on what was once the local livestock sale yards. There is a dump point,
water and an excellent little shed that served us well in the late afternoon
when we gathered with the five others camped up for the night in their own
self-contained motorhomes. We talked and talked until our refreshments were all
consumed and wended our way back to our respective “homes’ for our Christmas
Eve dinners.
Christmas Day was spent quietly, very little
different to other days, although the regular breakfast cereal gave way to
boiled eggs and toast, and dinner was littered with little treats although not
to the same extent that other years of Christmas on our own. The pain of losing
the extra kilos after reckless indulgence has finally registered, although my
sister did comment that eating sandwiches for Christmas Day lunch was a bit
sad! We managed to catch up with most of the family by phone or to send
messages; oh, the wonder of modern technology!
We went for a wander about Ngongataha after
lunch and found it to be a pleasant enough place. Access to the lake is limited
but there is a lovely walkway along the river. We stood on a bridge and watched
small flocks of sparrows and finches bathing in the shallows, a large brown
trout swim across the bend at a startling speed, then found other birdlife busy
in the surrounding scrub including a grey warbler, much to our delight.
Ngongotaha was once a thriving milling town, but
is now simply a satellite village of Rotorua, home to several marae, one service station, a chemist, a
good sized Four Square store, two or three liquor shops, and a Railway Park
which seems to be more a work in progress than anything else. The rail line
running through from Rotorua is a remnant of the timber industry, but
inspiration to the local enthusiasts who provide rides on scale model steam
trains and a mini diesel locomotive, although not on Christmas Day. The town is
apparently also home to several strong sports teams. There are some beautiful
homes along the lakeside, most with riparian rights, or discouraging of walkers
such as ourselves, and most of the more modest homes we saw are tidy and well
cared for if not particularly impressive.
This morning we took advantage of the
facilities at the property, filling with water and emptying of waste, before
driving the ten kilometres or so into the centre of Rotorua. We pulled into the
car park of the city’s main shopping centre and joined the retail therapy
starved masses, escaping with just a diary for next year. Hopefully the Boxing
Day sales will cheer the retailers up, but then their cries of poor sales seem
to be repeated year after year, despite the milling of the spending shoppers.
I had hoped to touch base with my youngest
sister and her family on our way south again, but the lack of response to my
messages suggests she and her growing family are already busy with their own
affairs. So here we are in Taupo, well on our way despite all the delays and
hiccups we have had. The sun is shining, my husband is listening to commentary
of the cricket match being played in Christchurch between Sri Lanka and New
Zealand, the washing is drying in the breeze and all is well in our world, at
least for now anyway.
