The black magnetic beaches of Piha

A couple of weeks back we decided it was time again to go on what Pooh Bear would undoubtedly call an expotition. At the suggestion, Maya groaned and asked if she'd be expected again to walk miles and miles. Max looked up and asked if we would be visiting friends. The answers, yes and no respectively, did nothing to perk up the younger members of the family. The promise of ice-cream and a picnic, however, did wonders to the morale of the troops; so, armed with our debit card (called an "eftpos" card here) and a picnic pack stuffed to overflowing, and with the inclusion of beanies and scarves being our one concession to the ominous autumn weather, we set off for the wild, surf-battered Tasman coast: the untamed western landscape that irreverent Aucklanders call "the West Island"; where the undercurrents (both oceanic and social) are unpredictable and undisciplined, where the "Westies" (think Pretoria West, Benoni or the Cape Flats) reign supreme and the very basic holiday cottages called 'baches' (from the term 'bachelor pad') still bear a resemblance to their original form (unlike the millionaire holiday retreats we find out east where we live).

Thus we picknicked on Piha, origin of the reality sea-rescue show originally entitled "Piha Rescue", where the magnetic black sand meets wild black waves and roaring western winds; and whose forests and perilous mountain passes are reminiscent of Fangorn forest and where one imagines quite easily the sudden appearance of prehistoric creatures peering between the giant tree ferns and misty bearded fronds. We dared the winding, narrow road down the beautiful, eerie black beach called Karekare where "The Piano" was filmed, and splashed through the river mouth along the narrow path between craggy peaks of the gods' most recent creations to stand in wonder at the vast expanse of fine black volcanic sand on a feral beach that is simultaneously peaceful and vehement, but always intense.

We drove along curving tracks where still grow the forests that time forgot, which until so recently had never known the tread of mammals or the stench and screech of modern machines. Here, so close to Auckland, we stepped into a time bubble where only a short time ago the world's largest bird, the moa, and its largest eagle, the Haast eagle, foraged and hunted in what must have been an avian paradise; where, unhindered by predators, bright and melodious birds bejewelled the forests of the land mass Zealandia. Here, the archaic curling tree ferns and ancient gnarled tree trunks still bear witness to history even though the song of so many birds is long silenced, and a centuries-old Kauri tree with a girth of seven metres still stands tall. Some of these trees and plants remain virtually unchanged from the time that dinosaurs splashed in pools among their roots.

It was a good day. Maya learned about birds and allowed herself to be chased by the waves. Max enjoyed his hot chocolate and bonded with his dad. We indulged our spirit of adventure and romance and intrigue. We all breathed deeply the oxygen-rich air of the rolling Waitakere forests. And when we got home, with black-sanded feet and wind-tangled hair, bellies full of ice-cream and excitement, we all sleep deeply, and well.