Episode 8: It’s a Lot Harder Than It Looks
Tena koutou katoa. Means “hello everyone” in Māori.
I don’t know how Kevin Costner did it in Dances With Wolves. Withdrawing from society into the volatile embrace of the wilderness to live with isolated natives is a lot harder than it looks, and unlike Kev I’m not being paid a cent. Instead, to earn a living I am ceaselessly weeding, but also washing up, cleaning windows, and… wait for it… home educating. The plot thickens.
I speculate whether my tenure here - a week and a half - has been too long to be comfortable, but not quite long enough to force me to fully submerge myself in a new lifestyle. A man can hold his breath, endure, grin and bear it under most any circumstances for a week and half. But if I were to force an attitude of reconciliation as opposed to resignation by staying longer…? Nah. There’s bugger all to do up here once you’ve ticked the obvious boxes (although canoeing on the Lake is bliss, in fairness). I’m pleased to return to the hustle and bustle of city life.
I got hold of Emily, my initial contact, weeks ago via a bloke I met at the cricket in Tauranga. She is the cook for the tourism enterprise built on Mount White’s USPs of scenery and seclusion. It’s quite a bougie destination really, catering to an eclectic but wealthy clientele. I am roped in to the role of Emily’s kitchen porter whilst she serves meals, and because holding conversation with her is about as easy as removing dried Weetabix from a bowl, I resolve to chat up our rather jaded customers who are on corporate field trip.
This does not go well. Nor does my attempt to ingratiate myself the next day when they trudge off to the Lake for some outdoor watersport pursuits. Surrounded as I am by pallid middle-aged accountants, project managers and disciples of the spreadsheet, I feel a smug sense of superiority, and decide that my opening gambit will be to impress them with athletic ability.
Despite never having done it before, I launch one of those tiny single-man kayaks and, with twenty judgemental eyes on my back and that fatal adage “how hard can it be?” in mind, paddle off frantically. I achieve maybe three strokes before realising it’s a lot harder than it looks. I wobble comically, let out an embarrassing feminine scream, and promptly capsize. When I bob back up, the silence from my large audience is deafening as they wordlessly watch me haul my sinking kayak back to shore, eight seconds after setting sail.
I mentioned home educating. Truly, the wheel has come full circle, although this is an example of how NOT to do it. Emily’s tragically supine son Charlie is being “home educated” due to the nearest school being barely in the same timezone as his house. There are other home-ed kids on the estate - sprogs of the assorted workers and managers - but the only shared experience they have is that they use the same online resources.
Under my supervision (and illegal guidance) poor Charlie is obliged to suffer through 45 minute long “classes” which set him banal, mind-numbingly obvious bullshit to trawl through. Worse yet, he doesn’t know the answers. Nor does he care either way. The salient thing to him is that he is not on his Nintendo, and is therefore unhappy. He’s a sweet kid, but his dad is in AWOL in Australia, his mum is a deaf hypochondriac, and his home is a mountain range with wifi connection. It’s a pretty hopeless upbringing. For all the lip I have given my folks for their practice of Home-Ed, in context they’ve made a decent fist of it, ay. It’s a lot harder than it looks.
To pass some time, I decide to climb the eponymous Mount White. Rinse and repeat. “How hard can this be?” from a distance. After few bouts in the ring against the afternoon heat, a dense forest, the even denser, brutally sharp shrub, and my inadvisable decision to eschew any provisions of food or water, I concede defeat and slouch back down the bloody thing. It’s a lot harder than it looks.
By this point I’m fed to the back teeth with Mount White Station and its unrelenting emptiness. When Emily begrudgingly drives me back to Christchurch, I can’t help but allow a broad smile to slip over my face. I have booked a flight back to Auckland, on my way to Waiheke Island, where I have succeeded in wheedling a sofa to crash on with Amy’s (remember her?) mate, Kathryn. Kathryn has kindly offered me accommodation in exchange for some help with the… weeding. I have taken an extortionate gap year to wage a lonesome campaign against the NZ weed population. And you don’t need to be a military strategist to identify which combatant has the upper hand in this titanic struggle.
My flight is at 9pm from Christchurch, so I spot an excellent opportunity for a drink, of which I have been deprived for a week and a half. On a rooftop bar - I’m developing a penchant for these - I spot a couple of approachable-looking middle aged women drinking white wine together. I make a beeline.
They are chatty, generous, and quickly very invested in my travels. I tell them my recent backstory, and it transpires that one of them was offered the exact job position at Mount White that Emily ended up filling. Small world. Really small New Zealand. I tell her I’m heading to Waiheke and she plies me with potential contacts, before pressing another pint into my vehemently protesting hand. This particular stage really is as easy as it looks.
Long story short, I very nearly miss my plane, careering into the airport with “last call” flashing above my head. In AuckIand, I end up staying the night with Jeni, Katy’s cousin, because I discover to my cost that ferries don’t run to Waiheke at 11 o’clock. I finally meet a fellow 18 year old; Jeni’s son, David, who invites me out for Friday night shenanigans. I think I’ll acquiesce, and delay my Waiheke scheme by a day. Thanks Jeni. And Katy. Life savers.
Poroporoaki. Fxx
