My goal today is the town of Whakatane on the Bay of Plenty. I don’t know much about the place except that it’s four hours away, has a reputable golf course, and a good right point surf break, anything beyond that is inconsequential.
My first leg-stretching stop is Mount Maunganui on the western end of the Bay of Plenty. The Mount, as it’s called, is a holiday spot. Condos, long white sand beaches, and beach shanties that rent every floating contraption God ever intended man to invent. Mount Maunganui is actually an imposing extinct volcano that sits at the entrance of the Tauranga Harbor. The downtown is bustling but the beaches are quiet; it’s a Wednesday after all. This is the first peek I have at the ocean. Is the surf up? No. Flat. A couple of old people pudder around on the surface of the water. If it’s flat here, it’ll be flat in Whakatane for sure. Bugger. Onward ho!
The countryside in New Zealand is a hilly one. Hills on top of hills like a bubbling caldron frozen in time. The fertile volcanic soil, frequent rains, and rich damp air from the Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean somehow must combine to color in hillsides and dales with a green I’ve never seen. It is no wonder New Zealand produces the world’s finest wool; the sheep live off a land that practically breathes beneath them.
All roads except around the major cities are of the two-lane country variety. Instead of going through the countryside, the roads in New Zealand go with it. Driving is a process of turning, left and right, around endless contours in the landscape. The roads demand a Porsche or Ferrari, and I drive as if I’m in one, but the makers of my four-door Honda Concerto had the speed limit firmly in mind when they built her. She squeals and lists at uncomfortable angles around corners, sputters up hills. 50% of her power is rerouted when the air conditioning is turned on. To pass other cars, I stamp on the gas pedal and try and force it through the floorboards for more power, a kilometer later I pull up along side my quarry, car begins to shimmy and lurch, “C’mon baby!” but she screams back, I can na give ye no more. Then one of three possibilities transgresses, I give up, my opponent gives in, or an oncoming car appears around the bend and we sort it out between the three of us.
A belly rumble forces me off the road and into the small town of Te Puke (Pu-ke not puke). Must be lunchtime. I park, stretch, and set out to see what happens in Te Puke on a Wednesday afternoon.
There’s a certain repetition to small town, New Zealand. The main drag lined with shops on either side, uninspired architecture, fixed awnings covering the sidewalks, similar wooden plank signage above the shops: chemist, hardware, lotto, realty, TAB (to wager on horses), bookstore, and post. Most downtowns look like what Americans call strip malls. I like Te Puke though; it’s tidy, pedestrian walks are new, and the main street is positively bustling. Where all the people come from I’m not sure, but I wondered if they were being recycled like on a Hollywood set, some type of marketing campaign perhaps. I pick a busy café for lunch and then leave Te Puke and it’s mysterious inhabitants.
I flew past it, you couldn’t miss it, but the further I drove away from it, the worse I felt, like a moth forsaking the charm of a neon light. Ten minutes down the road, I could stand it no longer. I turned the car around, the anticipation palatable.
It was a kiwi I saw, the fruity kind. Not just any kiwi, mind you, but a giant kiwi at least four stories tall with a big banner, Kiwifruit Country – Kiwifruit Capital of the World. My decision to return was affirmed when I spied a small door at the bottom of the giant kiwi. I was going to take a walk into a giant kiwi I was. I fished out the camera, locked the car door. As I stood composing a photo waiting for just the right light to highlight the colossus, I heard a kid yell from behind, “C’mon dad!” The kid grabbed his dad’s hand and half dragged him through the little door and inside my kiwi. The little turd, I wanted it to myself. I snapped my photo and decided to wait them out in the neighboring gift shop.
Kiwi shirts, towels, key chains, and more kiwi trinkets then I could wrap my mind around. I poked, and nosed my way up and down the aisles fascinated beyond words at the sheer size of the kiwi knick-knack industry. Every niche was covered. The fact that I was going to buy something was settled upon when I walked in the door, but what bauble pray tell, most catches my fancy? The furry kiwi dice or perhaps the kiwi ear rings for my fair wife? At length I settled on a postcard of the giant kiwi out front (in case my photo didn’t turn out) and a jar of kiwifruit jam.
The woman at the counter asked me if I’d be interested in seeing the museum, confident that anyone who buys the postcard would be an easy sell.
“How much?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Hmmm…”
“Would you like to go on the tour? The next tram leaves in forty five minutes.”
“How much?”
“That’s also ten dollars. It’s quite nice.” She pulled out a brochure showing a tram pulling little kiwi shaped cars with smiling people out in the orchards.
“Hmmm…” I found my fascination with kiwis had a monetary limit somewhere less than ten dollars. Another customer distracted the woman and I slinked back outside.
The annoying kid and his dad had departed; the kiwifruit was mine. I opened the door and ventured in. It may look like a giant succulent kiwi from the outside, but on the inside it was dark, hot, and smelled of urine. My nostrils flared and I pulled my shirt up around my nose, with arms extended and flailing I walked forward into the gloom. I snubbed my toe into what I thought at first might be a body, possibly the source of the odor, but on second thought it didn’t give or grunt like a body. I reached down and discovered it was the first step of a staircase going up. I followed it. The higher I went the darker it became until my sense of feel became my only guide. I was sure my hand would encounter something unpleasant on the banister or that I’d simply walk off the edge of what was to be the next flight of stairs slated for completion in January 2000. Whatever the risks, the mystery of the kiwi was too strong to deny.
Transport this giant kiwi to the U.S., a well-timed slip in the dark, and I’m a millionaire. If I pulled the stunt here I’d be lucky to escape the court with only a hiding. The entire trial would be two questions long.
The defending lawyer would ask, ‘Can you tell the court Mr. Sassaman just exactly what it was you were doing inside a giant kiwi steeped in utter darkness?’
‘Well sir, you see…it’s like this…I like kiwis…and, um…urine…slip…’ my voice trails off and drool appears.
‘Was it YOU that urinated in the kiwi Mr. Sassaman?’
‘Who me? Why…no…my slip…I slipped I mean…I…’
‘Case dismissed!’ Bellows the judge, ‘Mr. Sassaman to pay reparations to Kiwifruit Country for removal of urine scent.’
After four flights of stairs I reached what I believed to be the upper echelon of the fruit. I stumbled forward until I hit a wall, my groping hands discerned the outline of a door. I pushed it open and intense light enveloped me, I was more blinded than before. Kiwifruit heaven? Not exactly, I found myself outside on a small observation platform that couldn’t be seen from below. The kiwi groves stretched out beneath me and I realized that this was it. The conundrum solved. That is to say there was no puzzle, just a hair-raising walk through a dark urine stained kiwifruit.
The open road welcomed me back. I grumbled at the wasted time and punched it to Whakatane, my steed gasped, but followed my bidding.
Copyright Douglas S. Sassaman
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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