The sun sets in the east

A few weeks ago, still on the North Island, we hadn’t yet crossed over to the South Island. Left Rotorua, headed east to the shore of the Bay of Plenty, and then up and over the Huihara Mountains to Gisborne – at the northern end of Hawke Bay.

Hawke’s Bay is one of NZ’s premier wine regions, and vineyards abound in the mountains around Gisborne. But Gisborne is perhaps even more famous as the “earliest” city in the world. It sits on the NZ east coast, in a part of NZ that juts out more easterly into the Pacific than the rest of the mainland.  And all of NZ sits just slightly west of the international date line. Put it all together, and every day, Gisborne claims, it is the first city in the world to see the sunrise, the city of first light.

Such a bold claim. And I was tempted to rise at dawn to experience the magic of first light.   But, well, absolutely not.  As usual, I emerged at the crack of 9. Bill was on his 3rd cup of tea, having also missed the dawn.

It was here in Gisborne that we had our first brush with freedom camping. And we were hooked!

The FC site in Gisborne sits on Kaiti Beach, which is on the east side of an impressive horseshoe-shaped natural harbour – the beach faces west into the harbour.  So, although we would miss the famous sunrise in Gisborne, catching the sunset from our east coast campsite was an unexpected delight.

Surprisingly, there were few if any vineyards on our drive along the shore of Hawke Bay. Lots of grapes north of Gisborne and south of Napier, but virtually no fruit of any variety along the shore of the Bay. So the journey that day was a little disappointing, but arriving in Napier was spectacular in so many ways.

First of all, it’s a spectacular looking city. Having suffered a major earthquake in 1931, the Napier town centre and neighbouring Hastings were completely re-built in the art deco style of the day. Napier boasts that it’s the art deco capital of the world. If you happen to like that sort of thing, as Bill and I both do, it’s reason enough to visit Napier.

Second, Napier’s stunning coastal location is beautifully enhanced by the generous commitment to what Bill calls “public domain”. We’ve marvelled at it throughout this country – both national and local or district-level NZ governments seem to prioritize public access and public places, and they spend real money making them convenient and safe and beautiful.

Napier is a good  example. Lots of public parkland on pristine beaches and other exquisite sites, wide welcoming pathways, many and varied, safe and interesting children’s playgrounds, well-maintained public washrooms – lots of them, clean and well supplied with hand soap and TP (just to be clear about the important nitty gritty).  Even public showers for a small fee.

And art. An astonishing amount of public art. Beautiful large commanding public sculpture everywhere.  And not to mention freedom camping sites maintained at very fine locations – including the one we enjoyed on the ocean at the edge of town and a 10-minute walk to one of the local wineries.

Which brings me to a third good reason to visit Napier – the wineries.  Hawke’s Bay is New Zealand’s oldest wine region with hundreds of vineyards and something like 76 wineries within the greater Napier-Hastings area, many of them offering wine tastings and excellent food.

And there’s so much more.  For us, our little indulgence was a visit to the gannet colonies.  Hawke’s Bay is home to one of the largest and most accessible gannet colonies. There are many places to view gannets, but I’m not sure there’s anywhere else you can visit these handsome birds as up close and personal as you can here in Hawke’s Bay. 

And here’s the thing with gannets.  They’re not just incredibly handsome, they’re also super-interesting. 

About 20,000 pairs live at Cape Kidnappers.  They mate for life – although for the life of me, I don’t know how they tell each other apart. I wonder if they think the same about us?  In the gannet world, unlike most bird species, the boys and girls look alike, you really can’t tell them apart.

From September to December, they lay their egg – just one egg per couple every year or two – mom takes care of the laying part. But from then on, it’s a joint effort.  Mom and dad take turns going out fishing, while the other incubates the egg.  When it’s hatched, the shared routine continues – except now, with a voracious baby to feed, mom and dad go out there, alternating – and out there may be really far away, as far as 100 kms.

They load up on a big fish feed – diving from high above at astonishing speeds up to 145 kms – their necks wou;d break on impact from the dive alone, but for the protective inflatable air sacs around their neck and chest. Precision hunters with binocular vision, once underwater, they use their wings to pursue prey down to depths of 25 metres. They can hold their breath underwater for a long time thanks to their nostrils being conveniently located inside their beaks. Prey is swallowed whole before they return to the surface. And then they return swan-like on their 6-foot wings to the colony, where they regurgitate their digested fish meal so that baby “guga” can stick its long beak down parent’s gullet to feed. Nice! Doting parents indeed. I suppose, every species does incredibly disgusting things for the sake of their young, but honestly this strikes me as a bit extreme. 

But here’s where it gets intriguing.  The guga don’t fly at all.  For months, they just hang out at the colony and wait for parent to come home so they can jump down their throat to eat regurgitated fish.  As guga gets bigger and bigger, both parents have to go out fishing, and guga feeds from both of them each day.  Eventually guga gets even bigger than mom and dad.  Now and then, guga spreads and flaps their wings – flexing and stretching their big mighty wings – but they don’t yet fly – they’re just getting ready to launch.  And then, one day, when they’re ready – I think, it’s around 3 or 4 months – they just launch themselves off the cliff – first flight ever – and they just keep flying until they reach Australia, some 3,000 kms away. 

What a massive accomplishment – actually 70% of them perish on the journey.  Like tundra swans, I think, they must have this hugely challenging migratory lifestyle.  But no, I’m wrong, gannets aren’t migratory at all.  They make this big journey just once as teenagers. A few years later, as adults, they fly home, and they never do it again.  That’s what I mean by weird.  Why bother? But for those who make it, they set about to find a life partner. And it all starts over again.