Autumn may have reluctantly handed over to winter, but the change in seasons to spring is vital and sudden. Almost overnight, dark clouds vanish and light pours in through my windows like I am being reborn. The sun shines with invigorated warmth, dissolving the frosted dew that drips from my roof, as the world quickly defrosts. Each evening the sun is in less of a hurry to depart, and the days become progressively longer. The taller forested peaks, once capped with snow, finally return to their natural colour. Even the birds return. The tui who we haven’t heard for many months came back with a joyful click, whirr and whistle.
Jon was preparing to leave. The long winter has left me with a thick deposit of twigs and dead grass over my floor, and I resemble some kind of massive nest. My windows and doors have been sealed shut to maintain a semblance of warmth, but now they are thrown open to blow away the damp, dusky air. My furniture lifted outside to sit on the grass, as Jon sweeps my floors and wipes down my shelves. Mildew scented clothes hang on a washing line. Not everything survived the onslaught of the seasons. His straw hat has developed a fatal case of mould, and is a gonner for sure.
There are no long farewells. The following morning, he locks my door one last time and leaves this wild place of birds and forest, silence and seasons and rejoins the modern world.
Thursday 28 August
I confess that it was with some relief that I was returning to the relative luxuries of central heating, hot running water and dry clothes to wear. But despite the appalling cold of the winter and the solitude of the place, I’d learnt to love my little caravan. Not least, the simple pleasure of looking out over the dying sunlight as it refracted over the forested hills. I’d miss the way my home shifted and creaked in the wind, and the sight of the endless star-filled night skies.
Life in the bush could be hard, even with a car and a supermarket close by. The utter absence of warmth, and having to crawl under the electric blanket to eat my dinner each night had made life almost unbearable at times. There are many stories of isolationists living in their huts in solitude, apart from society and quite happy with their lot. But they all had one advantage that I lacked: an open fire and a reliable source of heat. Wearing socks in bed just didn’t cut it.
Nevertheless this place, this lone caravan had burnt an indelible impression upon me. I couldn’t say for certain how, but the experience had definitely changed me. Living in the wop-wops, I had discovered that life became simpler, and the world seemed like a less complicated place. By abandoning so many things and learning to live with fewer distractions, I found that nervous, restless tension can be left behind, only to be replaced with a deep sense of peace and calm. I felt emboldened, yet humbled by living so close to the elements. I was aware of a clarity of mind and a sense of removal from myself, and a stillness that can be found from retreat.
To truly experience this wild, untamed place is a stark reminder that nature is vast and unforgiving. A soundtrack of strange bumps and creaks of the trees, howls and screams of the possums raging against the southerly gales, that can play with you and toss you about for amusement. Humans are not the centre of the world, though it’s not easy to see that when you’re in a city among thousands of people.
I’ve come to the conclusion that to travel the world means nothing, if you don’t allow the experience to change you. With the age of exploration long since dead and buried, every continent, every island, every corner of every forest tagged, mapped and catalogued, the only journey worth the trouble is to explore your own mind. If travelling doesn’t change the way you think, then you haven’t really travelled.
End of diary entry
I’ve noticed how the wop-wops have changed Jon, these last few months. He’s not the only one though. The remoteness of New Zealand has profoundly affected every living soul in the country. Our distinct land-dwelling birdlife would never have evolved the way they had, if New Zealand had been within floating distance of mammals. And when humankind finally made an appearance and introduced mammals to New Zealand, the relative safety of this country’s remote corners, its wop-wops and outlying islands ensured the survival of these unique creatures. There have been some casualties along the way, but many species continue to survive, although only the takahe has officially been brought back from the dead.
Despite doom-laden predictions of the end of the Maori, their way of life has also firmly endured, partly thanks to the great distance the Europeans had to travel to reach New Zealand. The remoteness slowed down colonisation, preventing a sudden and massive influx, and buying the Maori enough time to adapt and survive. This same distance also gave the Maori a separate sense of identity, quite distinct from that of the Polynesian islands they’d left behind. And despite the contemporary social problems, a promising future lies ahead for New Zealand’s Polynesian descendants. The success story of Kaikoura, a resurgence of interest in Maori culture and the belated retributions for the broken promises from the Treaty of Waitangi are just a few indicators of this positive change.
As for Kiwi identity, those hardy pioneers who left the Old World and found themselves living out in the bush are definitely not forgotten. The local shop may no longer be a week’s hike away, but those resourceful qualities prevail to this day. Many a Kiwi bloke can be found tinkering in his shed or garage, building something out of nothing, with invention now a recreational past-time. The modern Kiwi continues to explore new ways to part tourists from their money, by finding yet another original way of throwing people from mountains. Adapt and survive, that’s evolution for you.
And finally, turning to the place of a lone wild caravan in today’s New Zealand, to many I am simply a one man shanty town. I might represent an abandoned holiday home or a national embarrassment, a lingering reminder of the continuing poverty in this country. Contrary to what the tourist posters suggest, most New Zealanders have chosen an urban lifestyle and do not live in the wop-wops. But as the historian Michael King noted, New Zealanders still cling to the ‘man alone’ tradition, even when they’re many miles from the bush. You might find books, photos, even exhibitions dedicated to me, the New Zealand wild caravan. I have my fans and loyal followers, and the lucky few who stay with me can find out what it means to live on the outer edge of the modern world. In these quiet places amid the rustle of the forest, you might just hear the rhythm of your own heart.