"What's the safest thing to be when one is met by a gang of social outcasts in an alley? ...another social outcast."
'The Outsiders', S E Hinton
I have talked before about the strange attraction of being in a 'club', and of feeling that you have, along with a select group of people, a special knowledge, language, or custom that other people just can't share. I have talked about whether it counts as a terrible blow to humanity or simply one of those things. Either way, what I think it boils down to is that everyone, at some point or another belongs to a club in some sense of the word, and rather enjoys it. In fact I think it happens every day to every person. So terrible blight or community spirit, it is an irremovable part of being human.
The Outsiders is a book about a journey made by a young lad, 'Ponyboy' on the 'wrong' side of town, who becomes a fugitive following rather too thoroughly 'winning' in a fight for his life against an opposing gang member. But it is a book which is far more about similarities than differences, and its protagonist, contrary to his compatriots, favours peace over 'rumbles', but understands, ultimately, that life is just not as simple as it should be.
"They used to be buddies," says Ponyboy, "they used to be friends, and now they hate each other because one has to work for a living and the other comes from the West Side."
The fact is that sometimes, simply by not taking up your place in one gang, you have created another. In Ponyboy's gritty world of back streets and flick knives, this is all too clear, all too visceral, though it isn't wholly negative, the distinction is clearly made between looking out for your fellow members and 'making like brothers', and becoming a 'snarling, distrustful, bickering pack...like the wolves in the timber.'
But I read The Outsiders in school, aged thirteen and about as far from being a fugitive gang member on the mean streets of 1960's America as it is possible to get. And I still understood. I understand now.
Two days ago, just before we left the Kauri forests for the mosquitoes and starlight of Tapotupotu, we went on a guided night walk in the forest looking for Kiwis. The Kiwis, which are large flightless birds, which snuffle around in the ground at night looking for food, and attempting to avoid capture by possums, wild cats, stoats and weasels, remained entirely invisible, though we could hear them calling. We were not in their gang. We used special torches which wouldn't startle the Kiwis or dazzle them, and were quietly outraged each time we came across people making their own way through the forest using 100 watt beams. They were not in our gang. They probably looked at us with their own sense of superiority, having walked out on their own for free, and not spent 35 dollars for the privilege. We were not in their gang. And the group of people we surprised in the darkness sharing a rather sizeable spliff were in another gang altogether. (It's amazing the amount of human activity that goes on in the forest after dark).
Sometimes being 'outside' can be a way of being 'inside'.
Having left Tapotupotu reluctantly on Monday, we continued around the glittering Northlands coastline to Russell. Russell feels as though it is about two inches square, has a resident population of less than a thousand, was the capital for all of nine months and seems to my admittedly rather feverish imagination, to be the embodiment of a 'club'. I imagine gossip abounding among the locals, people twitching net curtains and peering over their immaculate lawns at their neighbour's 'goings on'. I imagine new people being accepted only slowly, and with much speculation, with information about them being highly prized. I imagine community care of the rather more natural kind, neighbours bringing round a pie or popping in to see how Doris was doing. It's a very 'white picket fence' idea, only I imagined the nicer side as well as the sinister ideas we tend to have grown about nice little townships like this. Even so, it is picturesque and well kept, and the glittering seas and the large white houses and the (probably) rather glittering bank balances reflect it back at me like a sort of middle class utopia.
We climb the hill to look at the view, sea, cliffs, trees, boats and white houses laid out for us like objects in a shop, arranged to the best possible effect, and also to admire the famous flagstaff.
The flagstaff, erected rather characteristically to fly the 'Queens Flag' by the earlier British settlers, was seen, during a period of some unrest following initially friendlier relations between the intruders and the indigenous Maoris, as a symbol of oppression by certain of the tribes. Trading had been a key factor in the two populations working together but the imposition of various taxes and new laws had begun to undo that, creating a sense that the Ngãpuhi Maoris were being pushed out.
There began an almost comical battle of wits. The flagstaff was cut down for the first time by a member of the tribe.
It was replaced and guards established on a 24 hour basis. Somehow, nobody is quite sure how, Ngãpuhi members, led by the chief, Hone Heck, managed to cut it down again.
This time it got serious. The flagstaff was replaced by one sheathed in iron.
Amazingly, Hone Heck, once again, and seemingly effortlessly, felled it. Iron and all.
It is hard, reading about it, to have much sympathy for the British, in the face of such clever adversaries, and it surprised me to find that it was erected once again.
This time the conflict, during which guards were killed and a full scale war was started, was much more bloody, and, after much loss of life on both sides, peace was forged and the flagstaff was not reestablished.
What we view now is a new flagstaff, made when a more lasting peace had been garnered, by volunteers composed entirely of Maori tribe members who had been instrumental in cutting down the first four. They refused any help. It exists now as a token of peace.
It's difficult to discover who, exactly, is the outsider in the early tines when the British arrived. They, quite clearly, were the intruders, but they were initially welcomed by the Maori people who were intelligent and resourceful, and saw the possible trade advantages. Relations between Maori and Christian missionaries were also very strong, and the church largely remained allies to the indigenous people in the later conflicts. The explanation for this is that the Maori people were, themselves, deeply spiritual and understood the search for God and the concept of God. Both Christians and Maori had that in common, they were in the gang that believed in a God. And, as I have found so often as we travel, exactly how you describe God and interpret his or her instructions, doesn't really matter as much as the idea that God exists. We have warred pointlessly over the exact size and shape of God for centuries. The Maoris and Christians back then knew better.
There would, I imagine, have been a rather patronising attitude among the new settlers to the Maori tribes. They would have been classed as what British explorers back then rather liked to call 'savages' though there was nothing much to justify this, particularly given the later display of intelligence and skill in the flagstaff escapades. But might the Maori's not have surveyed the tightly buttoned, uncomfortably dressed intruders as rather comical, displaying so little in the way of local knowledge? Later in this trip we visited a film installation in Auckland in which the Maori born artist had re-imagined the scenes at that first landing, and the British, hot and sweating in their uniforms appeared rather more ridiculous than the, by comparison, half naked indigenous people, conducting dances and tattoo ceremonies on the beach.
In fact the Maori/British relationship seems to have been, at least at times, more harmonious than other settlement experiences, with both sides taking at least some interest in the practices of the other. This juxtaposition between this and the historical bloodshed and, given modern Maori art reflecting the racist attitudes they still experience, or have experienced, still sits strangely with me. On the one hand many if the place names are Maori and Maori terms seem to be knitted more deeply into the English used in New Zealand than we had seen, for example, in Australia. On the other, we encountered several people who demonstrated a sense of dismissal if Maori tradition, and others who told us that they felt things had 'gone too far', that the Maori people had equality now, but wanted more power, an outlook which is reflected in Britain quite often if you are silly or brave enough to engage a mixed group on the topic of women's rights. We do struggle with identifying what equality is, and whether in fact we have achieved it. And there is often, though I am not sure whether it is the case in respect of the Maori people, a sense among those who have historically been subjugated, that they have done right to compensation in the form, quite often, of extra power. Stopping at equality, even if we can be sure we have achieved it, which we normally can't, is really quite difficult to pull off. And somewhere along the line resentment grows among the previous subjugators, until you have, once again, a set of two gangs and the right climate for a fight.
Moving on from Russell, and its relatively posh and correspondingly pricey campsite, we move towards the Coromandell peninsula to stay in the car park of the local boat club. It boasts a public toilet and a sea view, and is absolutely free. We park up and walk around the corner to sample some New Zealand fish and chips. Well chips anyway. And I am hoping for, if not a good old Yorkshire pea fritter, maybe a gherkin or a pickled egg.
The town we are parked in is more or less one street with four or five shops, two of which are fish and chip vendors. Being poverty stricken, still reeling from the shock of western prices after South East Asia, we opt for the least pricey option and go to the take out, still enjoying the prospect of eating cozily in our van with a bottle if red wine which we have previously procured with this in mind.
New Zealanders have, to date, been incredibly friendly, open and chatty, full of smiles and with the special ability to move from the rather dull strictures that characterise 'small talk' into an interesting conversation with a stranger, however strange that stranger might be.
The lady at the chip shop is the exception. She glares at us from behind a face which is wrinkled and grooved in all the places one might expect from a lifetime of frowning. We hesitate because we are not sure what a 'vegetable roll' is. It might be a spring roll, or it might be a veggie burger, neither of us are sure. There are no pickled eggs or gherkins. This isn't really a problem, what we want are the chips, so we approach with our widest smiles and ask for two portions of chips and whether she could tell us what a vegetable roll is.
She fixes us with an unsmiling gaze and replies, flatly,
"It's a roll. With vegetables in."
She doesn't like us. We are not in her club.
We hang around awkwardly until our food arrives, which she bangs on the counter. We have salt in the van but are not sure if the Chios have already been vinegared. Tentatively, and against our instincts to grab the chips, turn and flee, we ask.
She doesn't reply. But she reaches behind the counter, pulls out a small plastic pot of a liquid we assume is vinegar and bangs it down on the counter so hard it makes me jump.
We take the vinegar. And run.
Somehow, we reflect rather gigglingly over our wine, we have done something very wrong. We are not sure what it was. Being vegetarian, perhaps? Being tourists? Being 'not from round here?' Either way, the experience has caused us more hilarity than upset, and we eat happily. There is only one thing mussing. And it's not vinegar. It's the grease that the vinegar is meant to cut through.
Chips in New Zealand seem yo pride themselves on being non greasy and healthy. And they are. And they taste good. But our English palates, used to fat, greasy chips which grace the paper they are in and most of your face with a shiney gleam, sort of ordered the chips because we wanted the fat in them. We are in the fatty chips club, I'm afraid.
We make a mental note to get fish and chips from a proper greasy chippy as soon as we get home. Well pea fritters, anyway. And vinegar.
We sleep, listening to the waves, snug in our van, and, as will become a theme in New Zealand, I am rewarded when I grit my teeth and dash, coldly, to the toilet in the night, by a beautiful uninterrupted night sky.
In the morning we drive around the Coromandel Peninsula, using the handy coastal road. It is absolutely stunning. I look out over more glittering water, somehow managing a certain shade of blue, half way between torquise and indigo, which I have seen nowhere else in the world but here. The rocks seem to have been hewn deliberately into the most attractive of shapes and the grey in them shines, punctuated by clumps of wild grasses and nesting birds. Our campsite tonight is more salubrious in that it has showers and laundry facilities, which we need by now, and we are, as soon as we drive in and turn up at reception, instantly In The Club. Because this campsite is also a brewery. And, though my post surgical insides don't allow me to drink very much of it, beer is something that we, and M especially, actually know something about. We chatter happily to the enormously friendly receptionist (a little later I go back to reception to ask for change for the washing machines, and we swap life histories), and then we prepare for the experience we came to this particular part of the peninsula for - Hot Water Beach.
Hot Water Beach is a beach under which there are naturally hot mountain springs, so that you can, in theory, dig a hole, find the water which comes up to fill it is a healthy shade of very hot, add a little sea water to make it feasible to sit in, and relax in your 'spa'.
I am quite excited about this, especially as it is a chilly day. We don our swimwear, rent a spade from our receptionist friend, and drive the shirt distance to the beach just in time for what the website promised us is 'low tide'.
When we arrive the beach is heaving with people. We start to dig.
"Is it feeling hot to you?" says M, doubtfully, after about ten minutes.
"Not really," I admit.
We look around. All around us are small clusters of people alternately digging and frowning, and asking each other if it seems to have got hot yet.
We are about to give up when we notice a rather smug looking cluster of people, in quite a large, shallow hole, luxuriating, apparently, in steaming hot water. Encouraged, we carry on, casting envious looks in their direction and getting down to some serious digging, such as you might do if you were trying to dig through the centre of the earth to save on your airfare home.
The process is further complicated by the sea, which, (I suspect) is rather enjoying itself. It turns out that 'low tide' on this beach, is not actually all that 'low' and our efforts are frustrated by a huge wave, on a fairly frequent basis, rushing noisily and exuberantly up the beach and dousing everyone in freezing cold water. The waves are quite string, they can knock you off your feet and send your flip flops, towel, spade etc. floating off towards the cliffs so that you have to break off to go dashing after them, apologising as you run to all the people whose holes you might have fallen into on your journey.
Although of course, nobody's holes are especially intact at that point. Because if you throw a lot of water at speed onto a sand wall, it rather quickly dissolves and helpfully fills in your burgeoning attempts so that you have to start again. I try sitting in the hole as a barrier. I get buried.
After a while, both us and pretty much everyone else with the exception of the smug spa dwellers, has given up digging and realised that the hot water is only on a small section of beach, coincidentally being the bit with the spa on. Moreover most people have been gazing longingly at the 'smug spa' for long enough to notice that it is not in fact as relaxing as it might seem to be, as you have, if you care lucky enough to be part of the spa clan, to constantly reinforce the walls of your spa following each wave attack, and your warm and peaceful contemplation is rudely interrupted every few minutes by being doused with freezing water, and all the whole you have to keep up the necessary appearance of absolute bliss.
You see? When you are not in the club, you have to go to great lengths to justify why you never wanted to be in it anyway. Especially if not being in it wasn't actually your choice.
"I lie to myself all the time," says Ponyboy, "but I never believe me."
We go back and thaw out over beers in the brewery. We talk happily to the bar tender. He likes that we like the beers. He likes them too. We are in the beer club.
When I look back on these few days, and indeed on every day, the same pattern reveals itself. We, like everybody, have experienced being in the inside and outside of various groups. Most of the time it doesn't matter, but there are people who spend a lifetime on the outside of the things that matter, to them, or to the world in general, with serious side effects. People are social misfits because the options they have for the groups they can gain entrance to, don't suit them.
"They grew up on the outside of society," says S E Hinton, of her struggling characters, "they weren't looking for a fight. They were looking to belong."
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