Hamilton to Maungaturoto

 Friday 2nd October.

I’d been phoned by a former colleague in relation to a teaching job in Northland, and I decided it would be good to explore the area. I had never been to Northland before. I also had Friday evening free, with no tasks such as Saturday football matches, so could travel. C was with his mother, as her boyfriend’s kids were visiting. I saw that the school was near Whangarei, so I found backpackers’ hostel called “The Cell”, booked a dormitory bed, and rode up north.

The NavMan told me that the distance was over 320km. Familiar roads took me from Hillcrest to Taupiri, where I filled up with petrol. It was a beautiful, sunny day, though not too warm. I continued along the new highway that by-passes Huntly and it does not appear on the NavMan, so it showed me an arrow heading up the screen but no road. Whenever I crossed a rural road, the NavMan, in a panic, would tell me that I was exceeding the speed limit. After Huntly, the GPS guide was able to relax as I had returned to the State Highway.

This road is quite well maintained as there is always a lot of traffic heading to and from Auckland. As I rode along, I thought about my plans for next year. I had started an application to be a school inspector for the Education Review Office which would be an interesting job; I have been in many teaching situations and I think that I can be an inspector and write reports. One part of me feels burnt-out with teaching. 32 years of facing up to classes, from July 1988. However, it is hard to get other jobs. So, should I look for easier teaching situations, such as teaching Spanish? Of course, that is the reason for looking at Otamatea High School; I want to check it out, even if only from the outside on a Saturday. It is in the back of beyond.

Mind you, equally far away are my applications for Area Schools in Roxburgh, Otago, and Collingwood, Tasman. They are a long way from my little son C, though the Otago post is close to my oldest son.

Housing and accommodation is another related problem. I was shocked at how difficult it is to get a rental property in Hamilton, how the estate agencies treat potential tenants as scum, and the high prices of the properties. That led me in to political thoughts; with an election coming up, would a party offer the 100,000 new homes that New Zealand needs? The best seems the Labour Party, with 18,000 new homes over five years, suggesting, and I did the mathematics as I rode along, 3,600 per year, so initially 96,400 homes short of requirement, then the following year only 92,800 homes short… Once Covid-19 is over, we can expect more immigrants to New Zealand, and they require 20,000 new homes per year. It reminded me of a short story by Witi Ihimaera, concerning a young Maori kid who goes to school to discover all the Pakeha kids are ahead of him in learning, knowledge, and language. Can he ever catch up? Can NZ’s politicians ever build enough houses to catch up the shortfall, and then to keep building enough for the future demand? And what is with it with “tiny houses?” New Zealand has a population of around 5 million in the same area of land that Britain has, while Britain has 60 million inhabitants. We have more than enough space, we should not have to live in damp basements like Koreans, or cubicles like the Japanese!

As I rode along, I thought about the cities of Hamilton, Auckland, and Wellington. Should I sell all my belongings and live as a lodger in someone else’s shared property in a big city, with a roll-out mattress for C’s visits? Can I sell everything? The books, the copies of Wisden with my brother’s name in them, the furniture, the washing machine, the pots and pans, the sheets and blankets, the golf clubs, the beds, the fridge, and the pictures? Or do I store everything? For a year? For two years? Would I ever be able to find a rental of my dreams, or even a house to buy and then to furnish? Would the cost of storage for two years be equivalent to replacement? The storage costs which would be $170/month, which would be over $2000 in a year, or $4000.

And then there is C. Can I invite him over to spend time with his dad who is in a room in a house?

Or do I give up on all of this and enjoy myself travelling?

Australia, New Zealand or South America? The destination choice is tricky, especially with Covid-19 causing panic worldwide. The finances could work out, but that would mean diving into my savings, and thus not having any savings to buy a house in the future. If I can ever buy a house! Travelling would make it difficult to see C. The travel would be fun, and fulfilling, but what do I do after? Do I return to teaching, or find another job? Should I write a book? In which case, should it be insightful, factual, or amusing?

If I don’t travel, do I accept a routine teaching job?

 

Auckland. Three lanes of traffic, mostly at slightly above the speed limit. I was careful to regularly check my rear-view mirrors and the ride went well. I did not need to turn off State Highway One, and so made good progress. I did quite a bit of filtering as the Friday evening commute was on, and I felt pleased with my manoeuvres, though I observed other motorcyclists zipping through faster than I moved. The Harbour Bridge was spectacular as always. There are such great views of the sea, the skyscrapers and the yachts on the deep blue sea far below.

Once north of the big city, I avoided the toll road. I don’t know the fee, where the road goes or how scenic it is, so I took the coast road along Orewa. I know this road is very attractive, and I continued north to Waiwera, Warkworth, Wellsford and, to break up the alliteration of /w/, Brynderwyn. The latter place sounds like something from Dylan Thomas or Terry Pratchett. Brynderwyn does not seem to be a town but just the turn-off to Maungaturoto, where I was planning to visit the next day. The State HIghway curved, rose and fell amongst forested hills. The drivers mostly stuck to the speed limit, perhaps because the road was narrow.

At this stage, I was further north than I had ever been in New Zealand. I had also been on the bike for over two hours since I filled up with petrol in Taupiri. I felt tired, and a little sore. Motorcycling does require more concentration than driving, and I knew that it is easy to make a mistake, so I consciously told myself to focus. I was rewarded with some beautiful views of the coast, the islands, and the ocean. As I rode down the curves on lovely new tarmac, I thought I could see Whangarei in the distance, but later I decided that I was probably looking at Marsden Point.

I rolled into Whangarei at about 7.20 pm, and I had told the owner/manager of “The Cell” that I would arrive at 7.30. I parked at the front, rushed to find a toilet, and then checked in, which, in reality, meant paying. I was told that the shutters would be pulled down at the front of “The Cell”, named after a former prison, but that I could put the bike in the car park at the back. Someone asked if I could help with their car, but by the time I got the bike there, the problem was fixed. I headed out for something to eat and to explore Whangarei. I can’t say much happens on a Friday night; there were a number of various expensive restaurants, but I managed to find a South African braai place, which was novel and inexpensive. I had an over-priced beer in a pub. I don’t normally go to pubs but thought I would experience Whangarei to its maximum. The bar staff were all young, the clientele all old, older than me. On the televisions we were treated to blaring modern music videos, with Beyonce and others of her ilk pushing out their breasts and treating us to salacious shots of their bums and thighs. The elderly men looked with interest, the elderly women gossiped. I drank up and returned to “The Cell,” where I chatted to a Dutchman, an Argentinean and a Swedish girl, who was the centre of attraction.

I slept well, though the Chinese girl in the dormitory bed next to me snored a little.