Jane Wilks - Where the River Meets the Sea: An Oral History Of Growing Up In The Wild King Country Of New Zealand During The Great Depression

Where the river meets thesea

An oral history of growingup in the wild King Country of New Zealand

during the GreatDepression

Jane Wilks

Published by Jane Wilks at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Jane Wilks

Discover other titles by Jane Wilks atSmashwords.com

Foreword

Grace turned ninety-two on the 27 th February 2013. She is aremarkable woman, not just for her age. She is one of those peopleothers refer to as a character.

Hersmall frame belies her inner strength and tenacity that hassustained her throughout her long life. She has her marbles asthey say, and a great sense of humour. Often she has a little jokeor humorous verse to share with anyone who cares tolisten

When youlook at her round, lined face, her short thick white hair and herblue eyes you are sometimes reminded how great her age is.Sometimes her blue eyes seem to fade in such a way you feel shejust might become invisible and you could walk throughher.

Graceslife has been a simple one and an honest one. A hard-working woman,she has only ever had one holiday. One of eleven children, she hasnow outlived all her siblings and has never had children of herown. She has been married twice. Widowed, she has now lived on herown for many years. Her only home companion is her beloved catBoy.

Grace isa true local identity in the central Auckland suburb known asWestmere. Having never driven a car, the local bus drivers know herwell and some have become her friends over the years. Sometimesthey even drop her right off outside her own front gate.

She is aperson rare in our time with the proliferation of technology,mass consumerism and the indulgent lifestyles many of uspursue.

Herchildhood upbringing was a humble and poor one. It is a story worthtelling and is an interesting account of what it was like to growup in rural New Zealand during the Great Depression.

Thisoral history is an opportunity for Graces voice to be heard overthe generations. It is also fascinating reading. As the reader, youtoo can have the pleasure of sitting at Graces table and hearingher talk as I have done on many an occasion.

Finally,she is famous for her mussel fritters. Her recipe is given at theend of this book.

Thisbook is fondly dedicated to her.

May2013

Preface

Over along holiday weekend, we made the three and a half hour car tripfrom Auckland down to Mokau and Awakino. Apart from what Grace hadtold me in our conversations together, I didnt really know what toexpect. It seemed a bit like a no mans land as our car wendedits way through the hills on the last leg of the trip on StateHighway 3. Eventually we saw a cluster of buildings. This wasAwakino.

Wepulled up outside the main building which was the country pub knownas Awakino Hotel. We would be staying there for the next couple ofdays.

Thehotel looked plain and somewhat small from the outside. There was aTui beer sign and a bright yellow sandwich board advertising ahandle and a burger for $11. Opening the front door, we walkedstraight into the bar area. You couldnt help but notice three bigblack wild boars heads with their tusks mounted above the bar.Their expressions, each slightly different, were frozen intime.

A gaudyjuke box lit up one wall and the friendly Maori girl at the barserved us drinks that were generously full to the brim.

Everywhere on the walls there were plaques and namesbelonging to the fishing club, the Tainui pig hunting club asnapper board and a crayfish board recorded in big letters thebig fish and cray caught in the area. You immediately got a realsense of what it was like to live in this small community where youcould still literally live off the land and the sea much the sameas in Graces day when she was a child growing up in thearea.

As westepped outside the hotel to explore the few roads in the place, werealized just how small the township was. Presently the permanentpopulation stands at eight according to the hotel proprietor. Thereare also several holiday makersplaces. These were places that hadbeen bought by townies as baches and others were houses that hadbeen passed down in the family to use.

As wewalked along the road next to the river, we saw a young wild blackpig running freely down the road, nosing for scraps of food on thewayside. At this time of the year there were just a handful ofpeople to be seen. A couple of campervans passed through with theiroccupants looking curiously through the window. In summertime, theplace swells with holiday makers. The famous whitebaiting seasongoes from the second week in August to the last day of November,and this too creates a throng of visitors.

As wecontinued to quietly saunter along the road, we tried to picturesome of the places Grace had recounted to me. Nearby, what was oncethe General Store built in 1884, is now a holiday

lodge.The old boarding house is now the Awakino Hotel, and what was oncethe local garage is now boarded up and used as a private workshop.On one corner an old gracious looking house stands vacant. We weretold it was once the local Post Office. In the distance we couldsee the sale yards that are used twice a year. Here in Awakinothere are no traffic lights, only the occasional car at this timeof the year and there is no sign of the ubiquitous cellphone.

The next day as we walked alongside the Awakino River furtheraway from the hotel, we tried to retrace Graces footsteps. I beganto imagine how she must have felt as a child running freely alongthe beach and exploring. There was awonderful sense of space. You could hear the loud roar of the seain the distance behind the towering black sand hills as the rivercrept past us towards the sea. Across the river, you could see asteep hill face, where the cows grazing along the ridge, riskedfalling into the water. Graces old home would have stood somewherenear where we looked across.

As wewalked along with our shoes sinking deeply in the smooth glitteringblack sand, we could see huge white skeletons of trees lyingeverywhere. I remember Grace telling me that as a child, they wouldoften find pieces of shipwrecks. Through a valley across the river,you could see a mist starting to descend into the bush clad hillsbeyond.

Everywhere, there was the raw beauty of the largely untouchedlandscape. As we walked, you could smell the sea, hear its loudroar and feel the light salt spray in the air. It was strange tothink you couldnt actually see the sea because of the imposing seadunes that acted as a barrier.

Timereally does seem irrelevant in a place like this. The angular hillsseemed untouched over the years, and the sea forever constant withthe loud sound of the surf.

Afterexploring Awakino, we decided to look around Mokau accompanied by aknowledgeable and friendly gentleman who was the local historian.Mokau is a small neighbouring township just a few minutes south ofAwakino. It is known as the whitebaiting capital of the NorthIsland. It has a permanent population of around 400. In summer theplace teems with holiday makers. Along the main road we spotted acouple of cafes, one motel, the old Mokau butchery shop and theMokau museum run by the Historical Society.

By thebridge down by the river, where you looked straight across toCherry Island you could see wild blackberries and poker plantsgrowing in the long grass. This was where once Gracesgrandmothers house had stood. Next to the old dairy factory whereonce Graces family had sold cream to, is now a builders workshopadjoining a lovely family home. The boat ramp and dairy factoryhave all been built on land where there was once the local MaoriPa. A very large mud slip had ended the use of this Pa.