The Regent bought an aluminum contraption at the grocery store that would serve as a disposable grill at our beach barbecue. We had an array of veggies to share and skewers of meat for him. While we were shopping, I found a kilo baggie of small, waxy tubers in dreamy sunset colors labeled ‘yams’ that woke my passion for culinary adventure.
“Nah, yeah, those are good.” the Regent was happy to introduce me to this edible member of the oxalis family. “Traditional Kiwi veges. Just like potatoes, you know? You roast them up and they’re sweet as.”
“We have yams, too, only they’re sweet potatoes; what you call kumaras. These are something new and fabulous! I must try them!” Squirreling them into our shopping basket, I was nearly giddy with the pleasure of sharing a grocery run with someone. I made sure to pay for the yams and the Regent insisted on purchasing the rest.
Before we left, I asked the Regent to walk me through the process of buying a lottery ticket. I’d only done that once or twice back home, and the whole idea was foreign to me. To me, playing the lottery is literally throwing money away on a scrap of paper, but my mother had gone to great lengths in her last email to tell me that the stars were aligned for me to have a huge financial windfall. I’d regret it if I didn’t listen to her and take this gift from heaven. I couldn’t tell if the Regent found my mother’s assertions intriguing or off-putting, but he ended up buying a lottery ticket for himself as well.
Our destination, Omau Cliffs beach, was on the way to Cape Foulwind. It was nice to enjoy the roadside scenery as a passenger. We played tourist and tour guide again, talking about my favorite subject; New Zealand, as she casually angled the long blades of flax that flanked us to catch the piercing rays of the now resplendent sun. Winking like flashbulbs, the spiky plants led us to a pebbly cove where obstinate cliffs suffered the onslaught of the relentless sea. The wide beach was joyfully wild, with massive driftwood logs set in a pristine canvas of unblemished sand. Brackish tidemarks patterned the shore.
“Wow.” I was grateful for the salty crash of ocean and the appetizing winter breeze. “Thanks, Regent. This is a gorgeous spot for a picnic.”
“Yeah, nah, I thought you’d like it. One of the best beaches around here.”
“Absolutely. I want to get in the water so badly!”
“Yeah, go for it.”
“It’s cold. It’s winter. I’d be crazy.”
“Nah, it’s good. Up to you.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Don’t need one here. It’s New Zealand.”
“I’ll do it,” I threatened. Half of my cells were already pulling towards the ocean. The other half were quite cozy under my winter coat and possum sweater. “Seriously. You won’t think I’m nuts?”
The Regent shrugged noncommittally, lifting his hands and eyebrows to relinquish my story back to its origin. After a few furtive glances around the empty beach, I shucked my layers. The West Coast air was cold, but it didn’t carry the bite of snow like winters back home. Nevertheless, the fine grains of sand felt like crushed ice beneath my bare feet. A long, sloppy shelf of sand kept the depths far from the comfortable length of driftwood where we’d set our bags.
It was all at once or not at all. I plowed steadily into the cold, frothy waves until they pounded at belly and breasts. The water had an inky quality, and as I dove under to wet my head (once, twice, thrice), I felt how darkness could be perfectly clear and clean and revitalizing.
Shuddering, I returned to our driftwood campsite and quickly dried my frigid skin. I dressed quickly as well, pretending that the Regent’s pretense of ignoring me was genuine. He was carefully setting up our tinfoil barbecue.
“How’s it going?” I asked him as he poked at the small supply of coals that came with the kit.
“Great. We’ll just get it lit, and then we wait for a wee bit to get the coals going.” His round face was shuttered against the sun’s rays. “How was your swim?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” I felt fresh and sparkly from my recent scouring in the sea. “I love it here! Well, can I help with lunch at all? Maybe cut up some veggies?”
“Nah, we’ll just throw some oil on these yams, and the meat already has spices. It’ll be a while, though. Maybe half an hour, 40 minutes, until everything’s cooked.”
“Cool! Ok, sounds like a perfect time for some yoga! Want to join me?”
“Yeah, nah, I’ll stay here and watch the barbecue.” The Regent waved me away. “Have fun with your yoga.”
I did enjoy a short yoga practice. The barbecued veggies made a delicious lunch, but the yams were slow to soften and crisp. After much poking, we decided to leave well enough alone and let the tinfoil fire pour out its remaining energy in a protected hollow in the sand, hoping that it would be sufficient to cook the waxy yams.
In that time, I learned about the Regent’s family in Hokitika. His family holds significant power in that region, and they own land on the thick river that serves the town. They’d fought hard to win the rights to their native land and the rich resources of the river. The Regent tried to stifle his tribal pride, and it was adorable. The story had a fairy-tale quality, rich with the treasure of Pounamu1 and rife with British colonialism. It had come down to legal battles: fighting on enemy turf. The Regent’s family had a splendidly long and prestigious Whakapapa.2 They were warriors that kept winning, generation after generation. They were the history-writers of Hokitika, and they conquered the courtroom with the same fierce determination that won them these islands seven hundred years ago.
Like the other potentially powerful Maori boys of his generation, the Regent had been sent to the best schools in New Zealand so that he could learn the enemy’s tactics. He’d attended a military school in Wellington and later moved to Sydney for several years in some sort of rite of passage.
It is common for freshly-graduated Kiwis to try to find their fortunes in Australia. New Zealand is simply too small for big dreams. Not only is the cost of living cheaper across the Tasman Sea, but the wages are higher and the opportunities more abundant. Kiwis eagerly sow their wild oats in Australia’s expanse. Some stay, but most return when they realized that New Zealand’s lushness is far better at balancing out the harsh southern sun than volatile deserts, impersonal cities, and a pandering parliament. The Maori, especially, were inevitably drawn back to their tribes. The outside world is no place for a warrior.
The Regent failed to mention why he’d ended up alone in Westport, but he intimated that he was an emissary of his family in some capacity. It’s not my place to pry.
Yam-scented plumes of smoke eventually stopped floating towards our driftwood chairs. The coals were growing cold, and the warm golden yams were succulent and salty in our eager mouths.
1 https://hakatours.com/blog/pounamu-the-story-behind-new-zealand-greenstone/
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