MONDAY 28th MARCH - MONGREL MOB
I woke myself in the dark as I didn't want anyone to find me sleeping in the open fronted shelter. As I set off the sign siad 79km to Wanganui so it was going to be a return to 90 mile beach distances but this time I didn't intend to be crippled at the end of it. I would be walking down the Wanganui river road which accompanied the vast muddy watered Wanganui river down its deep cut gorge on its way to the Tasman sea. I had been warned that the whole stretch was dangerous as a lot of poor Maori families lived along it but I wasn't worried. I have never felt threatened in Maori areas and I think most peoples perceptions are based upon negative steriotypes rather than first hand experience. I could have been lulling myself into a false sense of security but I would rather walk confidently than hop like a scared rabbit into the nearest bush whenever I heard a car coming.

It was a beautiful road to follow as it was deadly quiet and it hugged the side of the gorge along its meandering path. There were a fair few beer cans and burn out cars littering the road side but they did little to tarnish the lush geen scenery. I picked up as many beer cans as I could but I didn't have much spare space for other peoples rubbish let alone my own. Someone kept flicking the rain switch for most of the day but I happily splashed my way through it while relishing the brief sunny patches. Before I stopped for lunch I passed the small but famous settlement of Jerusalem where New Zealand poet, James K Baxter, is buried. I am ashamed to admit that I have never heard of him but I have heard of the Mongrel Mob, an infamous and feared Maori gang who supposedly have a stronghold in Jerusalem where they strip stolen cars and distribute their locally grown dope from. There was no sign of major criminal activity from the sleepy village as I passed through so maybe the stories are all hearsay. It was still fairly early though so I reacon the drug barons and criminal masterminds must have still been in the land of nod after a late night of debauchery and gang banging!

I had lunch during one of the brief sunny patches at a wonderful old restored mill that Brian had told me about the day before. It had been commisioned in 1854 by the then British Govenor Gray to grind the wheat grown by local Maori farmers. It had served them for over 100 years before falling into dereliction. In the late 70s the huge water wheel and milling stones were restored and it was now back to its former glory. Not able to linger in the past for too long I pushed onwards, ticking the kms off as I went. I was hoping there would be a campsite further on as, although im sure it would have been fine, I didn'r relish having to knock on someones door to ask if I could camp on their paddock. If the accounts were true even the dogs were more ferocious down here. About mid afternoon I passed an old woman and who I assumed to be her grown up grand-daughter. They were impressed by the distance I had covered and they confirmed that there was a campsite about 15km further on. By their reaction not many hikers had preceeded my footsteps and I though to myself as I stepped on that most of them had probably been scared off by the rumours.

Before I got to the campsite a few locals stopped their cars to see if I wanted a ride. This wasn't such a bad neighbourhood afterall. My last encounter was with a half Maori farmer who was off upto the campsite with his dogs to see if any pigs had come out of the bush due to the bad weather. He stopped again on his way back past me and we chatted about the gorges bad reputation. As if on cue a shiny Subaru Impretza shot past us at breakneck speed heading towards Jerusalem. "Thats stolen," he pronounced after seeing that it had no back numberplate. "They race them up here at dusk, strip them and then burn them out. The police don't do anything about it," he continued. He said he knew all the Mob personally and that they were just, "a bunch of kids trying to look tough." He also confirmed that they didn't dirty their own doorstep and that I was totally safe walking by myself. Before I headed to camp a pick-up shot by us  at a similar speed as the Impretza, almost wiping out at the corner just along from us. "Thats another one," the farmer announced and just as I was about to say, "what kind of nutter drives like that," he suddenly cut in, "oh no, thats my son!"

A Sobering Sign		Mt Thoughts Exactly

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