Firstly, let me clarify something. I have never been nightclubbing, not even in Ngāwī. In fact, before February, when we were forced in the wake of Cyclone Gabrielle to modify our North Island holiday itinerary, I had never even heard of this remote Southern Wairarapa fishing village.
We had successfully travelled up the west coast in the days following the rampage of Cyclone Gabrielle that triggered the declaration of a national state of emergency. Apart from my ending up just one day later under a Whanganui restaurant dining table as a result of a significant, but presumably unrelated earthquake, our journey had been relatively drama free.
We eventually made it safely across the North Island to the Bay of Plenty, but given the ongoing devastation being experienced on other parts of the east coast, our plans to visit Gisborne and Napier and spots in between were clearly no longer viable. We cancelled our prebooked accommodation in these badly affected areas, and canvassed various people as to where we might productively spend our remaining time before returning to Wellington. On hearing that our amended planned route included a stopover in the Wairarapa, one friend helpfully suggested that we extend our proposed stay in charming Greytown to include a visit to Ngāwī.
Despite our initial ignorance about this place, the more we heard and read about it, the more intrigued we became.
This twice-daily rigmarole is necessary because Ngāwī has neither boat ramp nor jetty. Before some bright sparks came up with the notion of using bulldozers to compensate for the lack of appropriate boat-launching facilities, there were limited opportunities for off-shore fishing. I got the impression that, apart from the deafening noise of ageing bulldozers in action with their coughing exhausts belching out accumulated detritus, this was otherwise a place of unparalleled tranquillity for those out-of-area fisherfolk who take up residence in Ngāwī at weekends in pursuit of choice kai moana.
ON the surface it all sounds very innocent, but the deeper I dug, the more I came to suspect that life in this isolated fishing community has a darker side. Over the years some sinister stories have emerged about Ngāwī. Some may be of dubious veracity; others have a strong evidential base.
I have read dramatic accounts of feisty locals taking the law into their own hands to defend their territory against a trio of out-of-town hooligans who embarked on something of a crime spree in the village back in 2006, then returned a week later for a repeat performance.
This particular episode generated spirited community retaliation that involved a road block, shotgun-fire, a subsequent court trial and the fining of one of the sharpshooters, later to sport a T-shirt branding him as the unofficial Sheriff of Ngāwī. Google the insightful New Zealand Geographic journalist Mark Scott’s article, 'The Beach', for more detail about this incident and his perspective on life in Ngāwī in general.
In his essay Scott also refers to an episode where he witnessed a group of lads being filmed by an accompanying adult as they wielded sticks at the inhabitants of a nearby fur seal colony, frightening the pinnipeds off the rocks in the process. The police were called from a 40-minute distant settlement, and after reviewing the video, concluded that the seals had not been hit and decided not to press charges. The author ponders whether such incidents might lead to the creatures being further tormented or even beaten to death.
That seems a highly probable scenario. My own informant relates how, just over a decade ago on a fishing trip to Ngāwī, he and a mate were invited to join a few Ngāwī residents in a ‘‘night-clubbing’’ expedition. We were cautioned not to accept such an invitation, should one come our way. It transpires that not only does Ngāwī lack any entertainment venue that might even remotely qualify as a night club, but also the locals’ definition of nightclubbing is not the commonly accepted one.
The seals had only begun to congregate on the southern outskirts of Ngāwī around 1991, and since then the colony has grown to be the largest on the North Island. It seems some resentful fishermen wanted to annihilate these hapless invaders whose fishing techniques were much superior to their own. They believed the seals were responsible for the dwindling amount of kai moana in the area. The Ngāwī contingent felt more entitled to this previously plentiful resource by dint of having settled in the area first. The proposed elimination initiative was allegedly debated at length within the community and, before being actioned, endorsed ‘‘at the highest level’’.
Ngāwī nightclubbing apparently became very popular as a result of these deliberations. Whether or not the barbaric practice still continues I do not know, nor am I aware of any subsequent impact it may have had on fishing quotas and catches. I was distressed, though, to learn of the gruesome aftermath of this particular nightclubbing incident. The majority of the bloodied seal pup corpses were disposed of in the overnight tide. The remainder were set upon by foreshore scavengers.
In view of this disturbing information, I approached our forthcoming trip to Cape Palliser with some trepidation. I resolved to keep a steely eye out for any signs of civil unrest when we were passing through Ngāwī, and to check out the welfare of the seal colonists next door. But first we had to get there.
Fortunately, we had stocked up on picnic supplies and refuelled before setting out. We were travelling on a weekday, and found limited opportunities to buy food or fuel on the way.
The route is also not exactly lined with public toilets. A roadside sign announcing that it is another 7km to the next facilities should put you on full alert. Miss them, and you will have to wait until the end of the road to find a long drop with paraplegic access somewhat incongruously sited at the foot of a 258-step vertical stairway to the base of the prominent red and white candy-striped Cape Palliser lighthouse.
Before we had headed over the hills to the exceedingly scenic 35km-long Cape Palliser Rd, we detoured to Lake Ferry to check out the well-known local hotel on the shores of Lake Ōnoke, separated from the sea by a 3km gravel spit. The first hotel to appear here was built in 1851.
What surprised us even more, was encountering the same man on the same bike in front of us on our return trip from the Cape later in the day. How far he had travelled we will never know. Maybe he was going back to the Lake Ferry hotel for another round.
You have spectacular views the whole length of Cape Palliser Rd. Sheer cliffs frequently rise up from one side of the road, sealed as far as Ngāwī. The often wild waters of Palliser Bay edge the other side. In places coastal erosion has taken its toll on the state of the road, and at times the motorist has to steer clear of ‘‘active slips’’, especially around Whatarangi Bluff.
Further on, we struck some washouts and also had to negotiate a significant ford before reaching the Cape. Some people travelling in a motorhome told us they had chosen to park at Ngāwī before cycling the rest of the way to the lighthouse.
I am relieved to report that I observed nothing amiss in Ngāwī. The settlement’s housing stock seemed well cared for, but whether there was anybody in residence it was impossible to determine. We saw virtually no-one else around, apart from some anglers. There was certainly nobody out on the Hitaround Golf Links on the approach to the village. Perhaps negotiating the nine holes of square greens mown into beachside grass is less appealing than nightclubbing.
There were disappointingly few bulldozers parked on the foreshore. Only one machine looked as if it had shifted at all that day. At least one cannot have moved for months. Weeds were threatening to overtake its rusting bulk. To be able to verify that any of these decrepit contraptions were capable of making the fearsome din I had been led to believe they could, we would have had to be passing by either much earlier or later in the day, depending on whether the fishing boats were putting out to sea or returning home.
Happily, the residents of the nearby seal colony appeared to be thriving, despite any previous attempts to reduce their numbers. Many adult seals basked in the sun on the surrounding rocks, some of them suckling their young. We spent a long time watching the antics of numerous seal pups frolicking in a large rock pool at one end of the rookery. Another tourist claimed to have counted 70. We were fascinated by the way these pups were leaping out of the water, almost dolphin like.
Although many travel writers cannot resist commenting on the off-putting stench associated with a seal colony, what struck us more was the ear-splitting noise these seals generated. Maybe this is their favoured counter strategy for deterring any potential nightclubbers from encroaching with malicious intent on what the Ngāwī seals have long perceived as their rightful territory.
