|
February 27: Discovery Lodge to Operiki Farm. Reggie and I started the day a bit late, and the morning was cold; but by about 8:30 we were on our way after a meager breakfast of toast and jelly, instant coffee, and yogurt. A few bumps in the road, the sun is intense, Mt. Ngarahoe surrounded by a layer of clouds with its peak protruding, while Mt. Ruapehu, some remaining snow along its flanks, is not weighed down by any cloud cover. It is a great spectacle riding on the plateau with these towering volcanoes on your left. We are making good headway to National Park Village and later on along Highway 4 to Raetihi. Somewhere comes a long and steep climb that is not mentioned in my guide book, while the 1.5 km “hard” climb highlighted in that book some 11 km after National Park, is hardly worth the mention. At Raetihi, the unexplained-wide main street makes you wonder and so does the town administrative buildings that seem to have been designed for a small metropolis. The Clown Café that I admired so much on my last trip here four years ago, has closed; and in fact, the oversized main street gives now even more the impression of slow death and decay. Hardly any movement anywhere; one inhabitant comes up to us and moans that everything is going downhill, the intellectuals don’t understand; others – mainly outsiders – don’t care; and people like him who live here, are not being asked. Just so that we know, and he continues on his way. Before reaching Raetihi, the road descends rapidly to a bridge across a small river that has carved out a narrow, spectacular gorge with its steep walls covered by an abundance of plants. They create the unreal impression of a green carpet hanging from the top. A railway bridge on high spindly metal legs crosses the stream a bit further up the gorge; Mt. Ruapehu has come back into sight towering over all of it. It is one of those spots on the road where you have to stop and take a long breath.
I drink two Cokes and listen to the owner’s account of how Maori culture is not sufficiently being considered when decisions are being taken on major development projects in the area, not to mention the lack of assistance or compensation to make up for past actions by white settlers. One project, to build a dam on the Whanganui River, has however been abandoned to the satisfaction of many of the locals. The dam couldn’t be anchored into solid bedrock, since the silver-gray pristine-looking “mud-rock” that springs out starkly along the road and the river’s edge apparently goes so deep that bedrock cannot be reached. Another project, to dredge and deepen part of the river to open it up to cruise boats, has been given the go-ahead by the Maori population downstream, but not by the people further up the river, who feel that it would degrade the environment. My Maori host worries that with their limited financial means they may not stand much of a chance against rather powerful commercial interests. As I leave, he alarms me when he casually comments that the gravel road I had come down on was a zilch compared to what was still awaiting me on my way to Operiki. Given that he is a well-humored kind of a man, I take this with a grain of salt, but hurry nevertheless as an additional 30 km remain. It turns out that more of the road has been asphalted since my 2006 visit, so that the total distance on dirt road is closer to 30 km rather than the 40 km my guidebook indicates. The 20 or so km of unsealed road yet to be dealt with require a lot of effort as there are a number of steep climbs; gravel is heaped up in some areas and washboard grooves in every second curve make navigation precarious. However, the road offers some great views of the Whanganui River and valley and I am not unhappy not to have taken the easier Highway 4. Close to the end of today’s ride, I skirt the edge of Jerusalem, established as a Catholic mission in 1883 by the French nun Marie Aubert. Too tired I do not stop at the historic church, which is reported to contain an interesting mixture of Maori and Catholic symbols and artifacts. Rather, I continue until I reach Operiki Farm, where I arrive shortly after five in the afternoon; behind me are 100 km, six and one quarter hours of riding, and total climbing of 1,010 meters with the steepest slope at 13%. Operiki Farm Stay run by Mrs. &
Mr. McIntyre is a delight under any circumstance,
I meet her husband briefly before they leave for the evening. The windows and doors stay open while they are gone. The night settles down; the almost-full moon drops soon behind the hills west of the river valley. My only worry is that some possum or other animal running from time to time above the ceiling of my bedroom may wake me up during the night. I didn’t
see much of Reggie during the day as he was riding ahead of me.
|
After
Raetihi, the first 14 km are smooth but uninteresting riding: the
road tilts mainly down; bald hills line it on both sides. Then
the torture starts. The dirt road that now begins and which I
remembered as compacted and fairly even, is now being “improved”
with tons of gravel that make riding not only unpleasant but
dangerous. The bicycle becomes unstable, the curves become
treacherous, and the road’s descend into the Whanganui River valley
requires constant breaking and concentration. As a result, the
beauty of the area is largely lost on me; and I am much relieved
when a few km before Pipiriki the road becomes asphalted again. At
Pipiriki, I stop at a Maori teashop, where the owner gives me a big
cheery welcome. Seated in front of the shop under an awning he is
joined by two young passers-by from Hawkey’s Bay. One, with missing
upper front-teeth is a plumber; the other a beekeeper. The plumber
is all for emigrating when he hears about the plumber charges in the
Washington
area. The beekeeper provides me with interesting information about
how to maintain a bee-stock, about differences in the taste and
texture of honey, and about the life of the queen bee. He is selling
exclusively to the local market. When I tell him that in France
bees are protected by law, he seems astounded. They are a jolly
pair, on their first visit to the Whanganui valley, and curious why
someone coming from the US would want to bike in such a remote area
of the country. 
but
especially after a long bicycle ride in dirt and heat. Mrs.
McIntyre puts you immediately at ease and she is extraordinarily
generous. Her spacious home and well-kept flower garden overlook a
pretty stretch of the Whanganui River at some 100 meters above the
riverbed. A few sheep and a couple of pigs roam around in their
outside enclosures, a petrol pump sits in front of the machinery
shed. Mrs. McIntyre does my laundry and also hangs it up to dry;
she prepares an outstanding dinner, which i
ncludes
three succulent lamb chops for each Reggie and me, and fresh salad
from her garden. She gets it all ready for us before she and her
husband go out for the evening. We have the house all to ourselves
and can help ourselves freely with wine and beer from the
well-stocked refrigerator. She doesn’t ask to be paid for any
beverages we consume and I need to insist the next morning for her
to accept payment for the five bottles of beer, which I needed for
no other reason than to overcome dehydration. She is cheerful
throughout and seems unruffled by the all the matters she is dealing
with. She does quilting and pottery, and she attends to the farm’s
150 or so Macadamia-nut trees. (I benefit from a free lecture on
how Macadamia nuts are produced, harvested and hulled.) Of course,
there is also much to be done about the farm’s main activities: the
rearing of about 5,000 sheep, 450 cattle and a small deer
population. 
He arrived at the farm about two hours before me, and complained
bitterly about the road. When I finally get to the farm, he tells
me that he has been swearing about several people today including
the one who got him on this ride. He is also adamant that he will
not again cycle on any dirt road during this trip. But he has
calmed down by now and appears to be in good spirits after all,
especially after an excellent dinner. He continues watching TV in
the McIntyres’ living room, a film that, according to him, is awful.