The West Coast of New Zealand: A Never-fading Twilight

by Daniel White (New Zealand)

I didn't expect to find New Zealand

People say you have your whole life ahead of you, but sometimes you can’t move forward without first tracing your steps. I was raised on the West Coast of New Zealand. The gleaming snowcapped valleys, graceful blue rivers and quiet gravel roads were my playground. There, I whiled away the days with my siblings, all of us homeschooled and blissfully ignorant of the rest of the world. It’s been many years since I visited home. I grew up. I studied. Got a job. As they say, life got in the way. I’m an adult now, and adults can’t be children again. Or can we? ***** Palmer Road, off State Highway 7. The sun is setting as I turn onto our bumpy driveway. Around, the mountains tower, like sagacious overseers that have shepherded me back to this place. I feel nostalgia, with every sense I feel it. And yet, it’s as though I am a foreigner here. A wayward wanderer who deserves no—and should expect no—welcome home. I feel this way because my father lives here still. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I’m guilty. He’s unwell. Still, he stubbornly chooses to live in this pristine valley, far from the modern world he criticizes so relentlessly. Like the old trees of the forest, Father endures here – a relic of a never-fading twilight. I step out from the car. He’s waiting on the verandah, smiling warmly. We embrace. We talk. We drink good food and bad wine. Candlelight glows upon our wistful faces as we reminisce of days gone. “I wish I could still walk, Danny,” he says. “I’d love to go fishing again.” “I remember when you first taught us how.” “You and your brothers used to love it.” He looks away, into a memory. “Those were the days.” I feel the longing in his voice, longing to have his family reunited with him here in his valley paradise. Now, only one candle lights this corner, and the house is gripped by shadow. Late the next morning, after recharging like the solar panels on the roof, I travel to the local township of Reefton to pick up some winter supplies. Again nostalgia floods my senses; again coupled with that feeling like I am unwelcome. I’m a city guy, unfaithful to his small-town roots. No longer am I that curly-haired child running to the dairy to buy mixed lollies with his $1.50 allowance. The town itself remains markedly similar. It was a gold mining town once. At the centre is a little tourist attraction called ‘The Bearded Miners’. The men who run it, bearded miners, offer visitors a little taste of the gold mining days. I recognise the owner, Gavin, and say hello. He nods and looks at me with an indiscernible grin. Does he recognise me, or am I just another passing traveler? I pay a small fee to use a mining pan in a barrel filled with water, river stones and occasional flakes of gold. I loved this when I was a kid. Now it’s not gold I seek, but the golden glimmer of excitement I felt all those years ago, trusting I would unearth a valuable nugget at any moment. Maybe next time. When I return home, Dad is happily watching native birds from the verandah. The valley is calm, restful. Tears begin to well in my eyes. I’d come here hoping to affirm that this place is old, tired and forgettable… But it’s me. I’ve grown out of touch. The truth is, this rural slice of New Zealand is everything I have missed in the city. Right here, now, I feel reconnected. The long grass gently sways in the wind. Fantails dance in the trees, chirping cheerily. The river glistens with warm sunrays. Mist drifts across the mountainsides. It’s not my childhood home that I’ve rediscovered, it’s the feeling of being a child again. Before I leave the next day, I pluck up the courage, turn and say, “You’re still my father.” Chris looks at me with a glint in his eye. “You’re still my son.”