When I got to Westport on the west coast of the Southern Island in New Zealand it was time for a town pit stop. I found a laundrette and got my honking cloths going around in circles, then I wandered in the main street picking up little items I needed and had a meat pie with coffee. A choice of two petrol stations here so I elected to use the one that had more space for me to check oil, fill up the jerry can on the roof rack with drinking water, fill up with petrol and clean dirty and dusty windows. By the time that was done my laundry was cooked and I headed for the supermarket to stock up with food and liquids. Another 15 minutes later I’d stowed everything away and my campervan Zeawag was ship shape for her next exploit. I consulted my map to see where I was bound next.

I was supposed to be heading south but that had been going on for a couple of months now so direction wasn’t high on my agenda. I’d already been up to the top of the west coast and down the side as far as I could get where the road and beach ran out. I’d enjoyed both the country and locals I’d met up there – being folk who live down dead end roads they seemed to be salt of the earth sort of characters. Now sitting in Westport looking at my map I saw that the road went a little further north up to a place called Karamea. Another dead end road that stopped just 50 clicks south of where I had got to from up north. It needed investigating. It could very possibly be another little gem of a way. Besides I was supposed to be back up on Nelson in 4 or 5 days and this little area would only take a day or two, three at the most and then I could head back up the Buller valley to Nelson.

I felt good pulling out of Westport – van all in working order, enough food for a few days and, for a change, no dirty smelly laundry slumming it in the unoccupied passenger seat footwell. We were clean, loaded and ready for anything that we could encounter.

It was a pleasant cruise up the straight road towards Karamea. I stopped on the way and walked up to a river chasm which was pretty but somewhat lacking in water at this time of the year and hence not quite as good as it could have been. Over Corbyvale – a far more attractive part of the world than Corby in North England – and gently round a little pass. It was by now two hours before sunset and than meant that it was time for me to start looking for a place to park up for the night. I peered down a couple of likely looking spots but wasn’t overly impressed with them. Then I found a little track down towards a river. Track seemed fine but I still got out and walked it before driving it. The lip into the near as damn it dry river bed was a little steep but would not present a problem to my 4 wheel drive equipped campervan. But there wasn’t a decent looking bit of beach and I was sandfly attacked so I moved on. Then there was another pitch but it was overlooked by houses and I really didn’t want to be a show to others from their sea facing living rooms at a time that they would be sitting in them. So on I moved again – there had to be a corker of a little site around this part of the world somewhere – it was just a case of finding it. I approached another bridge and sure enough there was a little dirt track down to a dry stony river bed below the bridge. I parked at the top and walked down to do an inspection. There was a bit of mud to walk though but nothing that would trouble Zeawag’s big off road tyres. The lip down to the river back was steep – no problem to get down over but I should think about my exit as well so I walked down it and faced back up imagining Zeawag making her way back up it. Ok – steep but perfectly achievable. The Little Wanganui River was indeed present but it was a little trickle on t’other side of the bank and the vast majority of the river bed was good, broad and dry. Yup, this is good. I’ve a place to park, cook up my sausages and kip the night. I was just 20 clicks short of Karamea and could head there the next morning.

I did put Zeawag in 4 wheel drive before I went down the muddy track – I wasn’t convinced that this was necessary but it’s always easier to have her in 4WD before it’s possibly needed rather than when needed. Half way down the track I spied a sign lying in the mud at the side of the track. I’d missed seeing this on my walk. There was no writing visible on the muddy side I could see and the sign was snapped. But it could have had a message on the other side. I braked, considered it and was tempted to carry on because getting out looked pretty muddy and I’m not a fan of wet muddy shoes. But the sign could say something that I needed to know. So with a huff I got out, landed in mud and picked the sign up. Nothing written on t’other side. Ok – onwards we go – no worries here. 2 mins later we’re down on the stone beach and I’m looking across at the trickle of a stream way across t’other side of the bank.

I sat in the drivers seat and read my book for a while before dark. When I was ready to get out and cook it had started to drizzle rain so I reconsidered my intended cook up. With time on my hands and without my belly rumbling I decided food could wait until the morrow and I got into the back and soon found myself lying down on my bed. Tiredness caught up with me and soon I fell asleep to the sound of pitter pattering rain on the roof. I must have been more tired than I thought for I woke after light had dawned and glanced out of the window. The stream had become broader than it was the previous evening. The sight of running water stimulated my bladder and I got out to go to the loo. The water was up, alarmingly up. Not only had the stream become wider it had also become stronger – twigs were being carried down at near walking pace and my bodily waste was carried down in a swilling foaming mass and soon out of sight. As I turned round I saw the stream had encroached over to my side of the once dry river bed. A shiver ran up my spine. You could be in trouble here I told myself. There was a pool of eddying water in front of the van that looked about a foot or two deep. I backed up Zeawag onto a slightly higher bank of shingle so that I would be able to get in and out of her without wetting my feet. Time to get out I decided. I knew I could drive though that pool of water without any problems but then I considered the lip coming out of the river bed onto the track. I went for an inspection. Instead of a nice dry gripey surface before the lip I now had a four foot pool of water to climb out of and then onto a muddy track. This would be a tough call for Zeawag. And instead of being able to do a turn on the once was dry riverbed so as I could give Zeawag a straight run at the slope I would have to drive upstream through two feet of water and turn straight away at a 90 degree angle up and onto the slope. It would have to be done correctly first time otherwise I would become stuck. Could Zeawag do this? I wasn’t sure. So I had another piss and my mind induced shivers ran up and down my arms. Bladder empty I could focus on my situation. She, Zeawag, can’t do that turn and wet slope I realised. What to do, what to do?

I needed to know how much this river was going to rise so I put out stones on the riverbed. A nice little neat line of them from water to dry riverbed. I thought stone ones and two might get a wetting but I was sure stones three, four, five and six would remain dry. I got out of the rain into Zeawag and watched progress. As I did so I realised that it had probably been raining all night – I’d been so tired I’d slept the sleep of the dead for 10 or hours. I looked up the valley to where the water was coming from. It looked grey and rainy up there. You could be in trouble here I retold myself. Meanwhile stone one was captured by water. River rising. Ok. But I was sure it wouldn’t capture all my stones – the river would subside in an hour or so and I would be able to get out. I read my book.

When I looked up a while later stones two and three were submerged. What if the river doesn’t subside I asked myself. Dargh, sure, she’ll go down as quick as she came up I informed myself. However I found myself compelled to walk around to see my situation better. The water was still rising and now nearing Zeawag’s wheels. There was a slightly higher bank of shingle a few yards behind Zeawag so I moved her up onto that. I kept her facing upstream for that was the direction that I would eventually be going when the river decreed I could leave. I considered forming a little wall of stones around Zeawag to prevent the water from reaching her but decided this would be a waste of effort – all I needed was a bit of patience and time would solve my little predicament. I re-loaded myself into the driver’s seat and decided to read my book to while away the time.

But I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was on the river not my book. I glanced up and didn’t see stone four. I got out again. This time I walked up to the bridge. This meant walking though the undergrowth on the side of the bank into a paddock – Kiwi for a field. The going was rough though the undergrowth and I brushed past fallen trees that broke underfoot or if I put any weight on them. I picked up a good looking stick to act as a walking and water testing depth stick. I discovered an old birds’ nest. That was good news I thought – no bird would build a nest where it would be threatened by water. The paddock was bordered by a fence, possibly electric. Before I gingerly crossed it I checked for a bull in the paddock. I had no wish to jump out of the frying pan into the fire. But nowhere, though the incessant rain, could I see a bull. Two minutes later I was on the bridge from where I thought I would have a better view of my position. But Zeawag was nowhere to be seen. When I’d moved her onto the higher bit of shingle I’d also tucked behind a willow tree which obscured her view from the bridge. I wasn’t particularly proud of situation I now found myself in and was rather pleased by this – I didn’t want the embarrassment of parking in a riverbed to be known by the locals – I’d take some ribbing about this I was sure if they knew. Besides Zeawag is supposed to be an independent traveller – all equipment on board should see me right and get me out of any given situation should it arise.

I considered walking up to the nearby farm on my side of the river and asking for help. But what help would I be given? The river was now too deep to risk taking another 4WD into her. A tractor would do the trick but again I didn’t want to bother the farmer. This was after all not heavy rain, just constant rain and the river would subside soon and I could be on my way. Could I be wrong? Na, I told myself, patience is the key.

I returned to the van. I left my walking stick on the river bank just below the birds nest where it would be safe from running water should I need it again. Water was now lapping up around Zeawag’s wheels. I thought I better be sensible and attach my tow rope while I could still do without having to do it under water. It was doubtful if the engine would start when the time came for my exit and I had better be prepared for a tow out. Despite being cold from the rain, my now soaked shoes and wet trousers I still wasn’t overly worried and sat in the back of the van. I had a cigarette and continued to wait.

Now the river took on a new demeanour. She was starting to sound forceful. But I dismissed this thinking it was only because I could hear water running below her and around her wheels. “Chill out” I told myself, “you’ve a good book and no real worries – it’s all in you’re imagination.” But the water level continued to rise.

“You bloody idiot” I heard myself telling myself. My walking stick, so carefully placed on the bank, was now nowhere to be seen. I tried to tell myself the bird must have come along and used it for its nest but I knew I was only trying, unsuccessfully, to kid myself. Now I smoked a cigarette in super quick time, not letting the tobacco time to burn before I gulped the smoke down. I saw a refection in the side foot well where the side door slides open. Water. In the van now. I moved my laptop and camera bits off the floor onto the bed where they were higher and surely out of the reach of the water.

Ok – this is serious. No more malarking around trying to tell yourself all is ok ‘cause “it ain’t!” I yelled at myself. “Go get help!” I smelled fear, the rancid, ponging smell of a caged animal that knew it was in dire straights such as you smell in an abattoir or in a full prison cell. And there was nobody else here but me. The smell was coming from me. I was realising the anguish of King Canute.

Now the water came up to and on the spare tyre attached to the front of Zeawag. I sat inside in the back watching the river helpless to prevent what I was seeing. Should I stay in Zeawag or should I get out? My reply came when I felt a huge jolt at the front of the van. I knew it was a submerged log floating down river that had collided with Zeawag. Zeawag budged an inch or two but it felt like a foot. Worse still her nose was edged a little left - into the flow of the river.

“Christ Almighty!” I bawled, “she might float down river!” However I knew float would be the wrong word. She’s very rectangular so the force of water would tumble her down river like a dice on a craps table. I saw the offending log be flushed out from underneath Zeawag – it was three foot long and a foot wide. Given the jolt I’d thought she must have been bigger. I instinctively gazed up river to see if there were any more coming. There were none, but what else would the river bring downstream? I spied a dead tree washed up on the side of the far bank. Should that loosen and come over and bump Zeawag she would, quite simply, be a gonna.

I felt like a captain in a sinking ship. Had I had a captain’s cap I’d have put it on. As it was I thought my Aussie Bushman’s hat might be a bit ridiculous. With a glance over the port to see the wave we were causing I pondered if I should abandon ship or stay put – my weight might have held her fast. Or should I wade out and anchor Zeawag to the bank. But the bank was fragile and had no where to fasten a rope to.

“BLAST” I bellowed. I could at least, while I was sitting there doing nothing but slowly falling into a panic, pack a bag of essentials. In case I should have to bail out. As I selected items I would need with me I despaired to find my papers, passport, driving license etc. were high on my list. I also gathered up a change of cloths, all that I wore below waist was now wet, and comically I found I grabbed my sandals.

“DAMNATION” I roared like my grandfather. My entire trip to NZ could be marred by this. If van goes swimming downriver so does my trip. It’ll be classified as a failure. Disaster struck. And disaster was happening now. I really didn’t like it. How I wished I could have been transported from this time and place to somewhere entirely dull. But as I thought those thoughts I caught myself. “Now is now and you must deal with now – not wish for some other now. Get you’re arse outta this death trap before she goes scuba-diving. She ain’t no sub neither. She’s a land-lubber, like you, now get out onto dryish land.”

With rucbag and laptop I could not exit Zeawag though the side door – water would pour in, water log her and move her off downstream. DUMPH. Another log hit. Zeawag jolted and stones shingled. Nose another few inched into the force of the water. I clambered over into the driver’s seat to open the door. The ignition key was still in the slot. Bizarrely I wondered if I should take it or not. What’s the pro forma? Does a captain pocket his whistle? I had to push the door hard against the starboard wave of water but I got her open enough to slide out. Grabbing racbag and laptop I placed them high on my shoulders and waded for the bank. I must have looked some sight. What a prat. I sat on the bird’s nest.

Still I needed to know the state of the river. So I stood on the bank and watched both the progress of the water up the side of Zeawag and a leaf and stone on the bank. The spare tyre had the makers name on it. I watched as each 2 inch high letters disappeared under the brown silt water. Soon I had no idea who had made the tyre. Leaf and stone were gone too. Logs were coming downstream with more regularity now, each one doing its bit to jolt Zeawag a little bit more. The shingling stones sounded like a death rattle. Now my attention focused on the 4WD sign on the bonnet. I felt sure the water would submerge that too but I stubbornly carried on willing the water to abate.

Was it my imagination or was the water slowing down? I’d willed it to do so so many times before that I didn’t like to believe it even though it was what I wanted to happen. But the water seemed to not continue covering the 4WD sign. Also the latest twig and leaf were still on the bank. I watched a small pool of water on the bank – it was no longer getting bigger, but it wasn’t getting smaller either. Good news given the circumstances.

I rose from my nest even though it was comfortable. There was light upon my horizon even if the rain and grey clouds obliterated it. Now the sand I’d been watching revealed itself a little bit more. The 4WD sign was re-revealing itself. My leaf and twig were, at least for the moment, safe from the dreaded water. Could it be, could it be?

For an age I stood wet upon the bank side. I didn’t care about the cold wetness that numbed my feet and legs. I revelled in the sight of the water receding. Sure, there was still the worry of a down bound river log bumping Zeawag into the still considerable flow of water but at least the water was slowing. As I stood and waited I checked the time. Knowing the time meant consulting my mobile phone for it contained my only clock to hand. There seemed something ridiculous in viewing my mobile as if I were in London Town and not the West Coast of South Island, New Zealand where rain fall is amongst the highest in the world. I really felt like a city boy. But back to business at hand; what rate per hour would it take for the flow of water to recede sufficiently so Zeawag could be got out?

And getting out was going to be the next challenge. There was no way, the engine having been under water for about 3 hours now, that Zeawag was going to start on her own. Despite my reluctance to “bother the neighbours” I was certainly going to need help. I’d just have to swallow the shame. Slowly the water dropped. I could see a letter or two on the spare tyre again. As long as the rain held off and no logs came cruising down the river there was a chance of Zeawag staying where she was. When I felt it was sufficiently safe to leave Zeawag I clambered though the scrub back into the paddock. Looking left, right and left again there was still no bull.

I looked over to the farm on my bank. No tractor in view and, my senses now at high alert, I found myself sniffing the wind to gather what sort of reception I might get if I knocked upon the door. It didn’t feel favourable. I walked over the bridge. There were two homes in view and an almightily Toka toy of a truck for I knew not what for but it looked handy for pulling vans out of rivers. I made my way to the house.

What was I to say? I’ve a little problem,,, Help, I’m messed up,,, Hi, does it always rain this much here? I really didn’t have a clue as to what to say so rather than having a rehearsed line I sploshed towards the house and stood on the porch. A tall strong lady was in her kitchen and came to see what I wanted. I knew I’d either found a friend or would be dismissed as a fool. Upon hearing my brief explanation she put on boots and a coat and went to have a look. Remarkable she had been tending her vegetables earlier and had not seen my white van in her river.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. I knew then that I’d found a friend. I accepted gratefully. While she made coffee I stood on her porch and stripped off my wet cloths and put on dry cloths. Lorraine made coffee and made a phone call to her son Clive. In an unflustered voice she spoke to Clive and told him to come home straight away – there was an emergency here; a Pome parked in the river.

Over the fireplace there was a framed and signed All Blacks rugby shirt. With horror I thought that Lorraine’s husband might be an All Black. Had I really walked into the home of such a legendary man with such a pitiful tale to tell? Lorraine laughed a good hearty laugh when I questioned her on that but said no, her husband was just a farmer.

I asked how many other tourists had parked in the river and made the same mistake as me. “None in 40 years” came the reply and I felt let down by all the other campervaners who visit New Zealand. More phone calls happened including one from Loraine’s husband, Tony. “Stupid bloody Pome” he said and I agreed. I felt it was my best tack – the truth usually is.

Clive arrived. “No risks there Clive” said Lorraine. Clive was a 30 something year old with a boys’ gleam in his eye. I liked the gleam, it said that this chap had some gumption about him wasn’t afraid of a challenge. He looked though the bushes across the river to the van. “Bloody oath” he said, “that’s well are truly buggered. Let’s take a better look.”

He fired up an old pickup truck and we crossed the bridge. We inspected the track into the river then walked though the paddock, the scrub and down to the bank where Zeawag still serenely sat wallowing in her water. At least she was still there. There was no way Clive could get a tractor down into the river to haul Zeawag out but he said he’d go and fetch the digger which would be better. While he did so I stood at the end of the track into the river and planted a stick by the river’s edge to mark the height of the river.

15 minutes later Clive returned on an enormous machine with tank tracks instead of tyres. If this machine couldn’t get Zeawag out nothing could. Clive drove it down the track to the river and, with the digger extended, tested the depth of the water. 5 foot deep and still rushing past, it was too deep to take the machine into the water because the computer that ran the contraption was only 4 foot off the ground and couldn’t be got wet. More patience was required while the river went down. I realised that Clive was my only chance of a saviour and I engaged him in conversation to keep him interested. I asked about the farm, the river, the village but all the while my mind was really on Zeawag. As we sat and stood we watched the river which was now dropping at about a rate of 4 inches per hours.

After an hour or two Clive reckoned that it would be 8.00 o’clock before he could attempt to get Zeawag out and suggested we might be more comfortable in the pub where they also had a room I could stay in that night. It sounded like an excellent idea to me other than that I would have to face the music of the locals in the pub. I was pretty sure what the topic of conversation was gonna be.

On arrival there Clive explained to the Landlord Dave the basics of what had happened. I introduced myself as the stupid bloody Pome. That went down well enough. I bought Clive a beer and then slopped off to the room and stood underneath the hot shower. My enjoyment of the hot water was tempered by my now distrust of anything water but I thawed out some and steeled myself for the questions that were coming my way.

The Landlady Kas offered me a drink. “Anything” I said, “as long as it has alcohol in it please!” I’d left my wallet in a wet pair of trousers and couldn’t pay for my drink. Could my day get any worse? Kas wasn’t worried and said “Well, you ain’t going nowhere are you!” Let the ribbing begin I wryly thought.

Of course they all wanted to hear how I’d come to be in the river so I told them. As soon as they had gathered that this silly bloody Pome at least has a sense of humour about him they were more than happy to laugh at any opportunity they got. So I gave them opportunities galore in my telling and they found a few of their own too. All in all we had a damned good laugh.

At 8.00 pm, having bought a number of drinks on credit, we returned to the river. Colin and Christian came too. The digger told us the water was only 2 – 3 foot deep now and yes Zeawag was still there like an obedient dog. Clive drove the monster digger down the river as the other 3 of us clambered though the undergrowth on the bank. I had already made it plain that I know little or nothing about engines so I’d been instructed not to try running Zeawag’s engine. As Clive rumbled downstream the noise of the tracks on the stones was deafening and we others had to shout to be heard. Tow rope was hitched and key was given a turn so the steering lock wouldn’t come on. To my amazement dashboard lights came on – she’s a good olde gal I thought. Tow rope snapped at the first tug. $20 that thing cost me. So a chain was fetched from the farm and attached to the front bull bar. This time Zeawag lumbered forward. It was slow progress but it was progress. The tricky bit came at the exit of the river but Clive knew his machine and I followed like a lamb behind, out of the river and a few feet up the track. We’d made it. I like the locals. Colin opened the back door to be greeted by a waterfall of water and plastic food jars which were hastily gathered and thrown back in. This time I took the ignition key out. Not because I was worried about anybody coming along and stealing my van or possessions but because I didn’t want anybody starting the engine up. So we retired back to the pub.

Drinks for the lads and many thanx were extended over details of how the van was spared a death by drowning. After all the adrenaline running though my veins all day I suddenly felt famished and Kristy made me something to eat as the others had eaten already. There were more verbal jibs and jabs thrown my way and I took them knowing that the worst of my troubles were over. It was debatable how much work would be needed to making Zeawag a serviceable vehicle again. Would the now silt ridden and water logged engine ever run again? I didn’t know but from their conversations it was obvious that Clive, Colin and Christian had a far better understanding of what to do to a vehicle that had been flooded than I did and already they were taking of draining oils, petrol, doing this and that to the carburettor etc. I was in good hands.

Earlier while Clive and I had been chatting down by the river as we watch the water recede he had asked me about my backgammon T shirt and I’d told him about my involvement in backgammon. He told me there was a backgammon board in the pub. Now I had time to take a look at it. It was inlaid into a slice of a rimu tree that made one of the tables near the bar. A lovely piece of craftsmanship. Dave had already noticed my T shirt and had asked if I play and we agreed we should play at some stage. After numerous beers and the day I had as people drifted off to their homes I too was ready and willing to fall into a deep untroubled sleep but Dave was thrilled that chance had bought a backgammon player into his pub and he asked “We gonna play now then?” I really could have done without playing bg but Dave had a backgammons glint in his eye and I couldn’t refuse. Maybe, I thought, I could show them that I can do somethings well. I didn’t; Dave thrashed me even though he played some bizarre moves. I slept like a, I tempted to say a log, but logs now had a different meaning in my life so let’s say I slept like a live lying down tree.

Next morning Clive appeared at 8.00 am ready and willing to start work on Zeawag. I bundled myself in the pickup he arrived in and we went to Clive’s farm house complete with workshops behind. There were old tractors galore, in various states of repair, in the large workshop. Here, evidently was a man who was used to pulling vehicles apart and getting them working again. Colin also appeared and rolled up his sleeves. Clive and Colin took a look at the engine but never fired her up. They drained oils, petrol in methodical order while I started pulling out everything inside Zeawag. Soon I had a pile of soaked and silted clobber on the back of the pickup. Even if Zeawag ran again I was obviously going to be here for a few days. Well there are worse communities to be bound to in the world and all things considered I decided I’d actually landed on my feet. Clive’s and Colin’s work was fantastic. They could have simply directed me to a local mechanic but that is not their way. I learnt that Clive’s family were one of the first settlers to have been placed in this part of the world in the early 1870s.

I stayed in the Karamea area for a couple of weeks. Most of the first week was spent just getting Zeawag back road-worthy again but the second week I spent looking around the area. Everywhere I went I was asked if I was the Pome who parked in the river – I was well known if nothing else. The people were fantastic. Being of Pioneer stock they all have the attitude that they will help each other when help is required. And to think I had sat in the van thinking I didn’t want to disturb the locals. On my last evening I bought all the locals who had helped me out a meal in the Pub - The Little Wanganui Hotel. Many thanx to all in Karamea. It’s you and others I’ll think of when I fondly remember New Zealand.

 

Published September 2007