Australasia > New Zealand > Other > Great Barrier Island > Articles > Ourselves, Alone

If New Zealand is isolated, then Great Barrier Island is splendidly isolated. It’s the sort of isolation that causes Kiwis to refer to the island as ‘New Zealand the way it used to be.’ And since we’re not sure who or what we are now, it seemed like a good place to go back to, a time when life was simpler and we knew what we were- pioneers, every one of us.

Ninety kilometres off the coast of Auckland, with only 1500 permanent residents, gravel roads, no mains electricity, dominated by spiny mountains which act as a weather shield to the mainland, Great Barrier is the sort of place where you have to develop a pioneering spirit or die.

A mother new to the island told me that just two months after arriving from the mainland her 15-year-old son had learned to fish, milk cows, kill same cows and butcher them into oven-sized pieces for dinner. It had made a man of him, she said.

Whatever you think of that, life on the Barrier is pretty much an anvil on which a hardy character is hammered out. And like a lot of islands, it’s also the sort of place where the weird and wonderful wash up, running to or from something. Recurrent visions of Utopia are played out here.

Years ago I was dispatched to Great Barrier Island for a national newspaper to interview a recluse and track the fate of a commune in the north, accessible only by boat. This was rather fortunate, since the only car offered me by the rental company was massive, dented, lacked a key and could only be started by some hot-wiring hi-jinx.

At the virtually terminal commune I remember staying in a house which had been built by city folk turned hippies. It leaned and gaped and bulged and creaked. Their second attempt was thankfully better, but the road was still rutted and muddy and often the children had to stay home rather than walk the 8km to school.

Nobody could remember the commune now, but this time I was staying at a Christian commune (they call it community) also in the north at Karaka Bay, established some 40 years ago. Called Orama from the Greek word which means ‘to perceive with insight’, the community has evolved through three generations, financial success and near ruin to the point where the god-fearing now open their arms to the godless who do not share their vision of a Christian charity marching hand-in-hand with sound business practice.

They provided us with three meals a day, regular outings to the better surf beaches on the east coast (safer swimming beaches on the west) and accessible hikes plus a daily time-out club for children. Those who wished could attend devotions and meetings, and everyone joined in for the farewell bonfire and fireworks which blazed brighter than usual against a dark, empty sky.

Orama attracts an eclectic mix of born agains, junkies and alcoholics in rehab, boisterous families, the intellectually handicapped and the big-hearted socially concerned. Not a member of the chattering class in sight. A proper holiday.

It rained of course- sheets of icy splinters, wind in breath-robbing gusts- but the pioneering spirit soon takes over and you learn to fish in the lulls between outbursts, using the small yellow-tails as bait to catch a juicy snapper. Tramping a muddy track to hot pools becomes jolly good squelchy fun when you do it in bare feet. You can pay a fortune for this privilege in some spa resorts. And who could believe that soaking in the natural spring hot pools is free too.

Then just when you’re getting used to hunkering down, the sun comes out, the sky turns a deep electric blue and you’re jumping off the wharf into a glassy sea. This is the time everyone comes out of hiding. Shiny white boats appear in the harbour, slim red kayaks skim the bays, mountain bikers kick up the dust and everyone is overcome by an urge to see the rest of the island.

You could walk the length of the Barrier in a couple of days (Great Barrier is only 285 sq km) but you wouldn’t. Not in the high season at any rate, when you’re likely to be side-swiped by a car. Driving is faster and easier.

The south of Great Barrier is where most of the visitors congregate. If you haven’t paid a fortune to take a car to the island it’s more convenient to be located near the scarce shops, and besides, the gorgeous white-sand big-capped waves of Medlands beach are nearby. Big architecturally designed cedar statements now dot Medlands’ sand dunes but it’s a long way from built-up or spoilt- yet.

In any event there are dozens of stunning beaches along the coast, my favourite being Harataonga for its gnarly pohutukawas, fresh water stream, grassy rolling backdrop and spun-sugar sand. Like many of the beaches on Great Barrier, camping here is permitted though bringing enough food for several shopping-free days takes more foresight and planning than most people can manage.

I also took a peek at the island’s latest addition to the international tourist trail- a five-star lodge. This took some doing, since the track to Earthsong Lodge was 4WD only and said ‘no trespassers’ at least three times. But the fact that once I’d started out there was no room on the track to turn back kept me going.

Earthsong is a two-year-old Sante Fe strawbale construction, eminently tasteful in a no-surprises kind of way (though if anyone can tell me what an 80s chrome and glass dining suite relic are doing here you’ll take a load off my mind) with a stupendous view of the coast offering a hushed respite and three gourmet meals a day.

Rather like Orama, I thought, except Orama is rough, noisy and the meals could only be described as family fare (practically a synonym for crap- at any rate the sort of crap you’re proud to serve at home).

I liked Oasis Lodge too for its quirky collectibles, tropical gardens and upbeat proprietor, Penny. The Jetty at Port Fitzroy had my vote as a place to moor if you’re a boatie. The self-contained chalets are private and overlook a deep harbour but there’s a restaurant offering basic hearty fodder if you need it.

My last stop was an indulgence (it made me late for dinner at Orama) but I couldn’t resist it. About six years ago I holidayed at the Barrier at a place called Paradise Park, run by a couple in the throes of divorce. This meant that the duties were divided between them but since neither was talking to the other, you had to remember who was responsible for what.

On the last night we decided to eat at the restaurant run by the man in question. Trouble was, since the wife had been the waitress, this had him bobbing in and out of the kitchen cooking and serving. We had seven courses, all meat. I don’t think I’d ever been served tongue au naturel before at a restaurant, and I don’t think it’s likely to happen again.

The place is now called Medlands Lodge and the new proprietor, I’m happy to report, doesn’t cook at all. He pays someone to do this and she cooks Italian.

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