Otorohanga to Taranaki.

I said Au Revoir to the Swiss couple and headed off round the corner to the bird sanctuary to see Kiwis. These birds are now very rare, so much so that many New Zealanders have never seen one in the flesh. Wild Kiwis are mostly found on outlying islands where they are protected from predators.
Kiwi skeleton.

The Kiwi people name themselves after the Kiwi bird (not the Kiwi fruit by the way). Typically nocturnal and secretive, they are difficult to study and hard to find. (The birds not the people). They have long nasal protrusions which they are always sticking into things (again the birds, not the people). Flightless with no tail and no wings, the animal is basically a long beak on legs, well developed rotund legs at that. Very sexy in the bird world, I expect.


After, I pressed on towards the coast, I only had 80 kms left in the tank but there was bound to be a filling station before too long. The road was flanked on either side by some amazing scenery, volcanic hills either side of an (alluvial?) plane. There were numerous natural attractions along the route. I stopped to walk a 10 minute route to a naural bridge, a cave which had eroded into a deep cavern. Rainwater mixes with CO2 creating a mild acid which eats away the rock. The route got more and more rural and was more striking than the east coast. Really enjoyable. But the concern for fuel turned from a dripping tap into a nagging spouse in my head. "Told you you should have filled up at the hostel." Then a sign. Makoropa village. There's bound to be a little family-run pump in the village. I got there and had run low. 300 kms on the clock, the light had been on for the last 30km. I asked at the shop. "There's no petrol for miles" the woman crowed in a Kiwi crone's voice. Too far to go either way. I'd have to go find a farmer. This little miscalculation actually gave me a unique cultural experience.

I pulled up at the nearest farm building, which turned out to be a shearing shed. Whilst the farmer, Sandy, went to find a can of petrol, I got to watch the shearing. The set up was like an old-time barber shop, four stylists, in front of a wooden four-place salon, each with their own not-so-delicate shears and a row of dazed and confused punters lining up to be given a no-choice military hairdo. All that was missing were the mirrors and the combs in antiseptic.

Music blared from the CD player. Thankfully, pictures don't capture the stench of it all. The guys were quick and ruthless. The sheep seemed like stuffed toys as they capitualted to the strength of their coiffure. Suddenly the shearing stopped in balletic unison, a fifteen minute break decreed from somewhere amongst the cacophany of Dire Straits and bleating livestock. They had been working since 7am, shearing for an hour and three quarters at a time, then breaking for 15 minutes. Literally back breaking work. A strange thing I noticed, unlike their feathered namesake, these Kiwis each exhibited a striking lack of buttocks. Standard issue shearing pants with green belt sagged over non existent behinds. Odd that I should notice ( I hope you'd agree) but maybe it's the shearing. Maybe there's a niche market- forget bums and tums workouts ladies, sheep shearing shed pounds off the backside! You can imagine the work out videos.

On the road again, I headed south down the Whareorino (Farey-orino) Forest, and three scenic reserves to the Manganui gorge, Awakino and on to New Plymouth which didn't hold much of interest, and as the rain began to lash down, I continued on to Stratford on the east side of Mt Taranaki where I would find a hostel for the night. It said backpackers on the sign but all I could see was motorhomes and caravans. 'Holiday hell' as Jeremy Clarkson would put it. Have you seen last season's episode about caravaning? Outrageous, hilarious and bang on.

I went in to the office and asked about backpackers. The lady behind the desk greeted me in a Yorkshire accent. At least she wouldn't think I was German. In the short conversation that followed I discovered a lot. She had just come back from Bristol, having been on the road with a touring Country singer, somebody Hamilton the 4th from America. Originally from Barnet Castle (home of the Boothby's) she used to run the Old Oak Inn 4 miles outside the village. It was known for its chamberpots on display around the bar. That was 19 years ago. She hadn't heard of the Boothbys, but I bet they know of her. She produced a UK phone book and unearthed only one Boothby, probably the uncle... After further discussing the Fry's factory and the Cadbury Club in Bristol (I didn't have much to add, except the Cadbury Club is on the A38...) I found the cabin she put me in, and after a Subway sandwich for dinner and a few chapters of FireFox Down, I turned in for the night. Another room to myself.