A Place Called Home - Waikanae

Courtesy of NZ Today magazine.

Waikanae is Reuben Bonner’s spiritual home in many ways — it’s where his “Nana” still lives and he has many pleasant memories from a sunny childhood there.

Sleepy Waikanae will always hold a special place for me. Nestled at the foothills of the Akatarawa ranges on the edge of SH1 between Otaki and Paraparaumu, and part of the beautiful and rugged Kapiti Coast, this was the first place I ever called home. I continued to do so until, as a curious five-yearold, I made the journey north to Auckland with my mum and left most of my other family behind.

Pulling back into Waikanae and after a brief stop to see Nanna for a chinwag and some tips on what delights the coast held, I felt a nostalgic drive around the reasonably quiet suburbs was in order. My cousin Eric had told me a friend of his from college referred to Waikanae as ‘Death’s Waiting Room’ due to the number of elderly and retired folks who lived there. It would be hard to disagree with this — there are a lot of my grandparent’s generation who have made homes here and it is hard to miss them, out walking or playing bowls, croquet, golf or petanque at their various clubs — but the quaint beachside atmosphere and the smell of the sea carrying across on the breeze still makes Waikanae a pretty special little place. And worth a visit as far as I’m concerned.

I have been back many times in the 20 years since I have been gone. And in the best possible way, not a lot changes. The Fire Station sits untouched, the fish’n’chip shop still has the same posters outlining the various species of fish in the ocean, and the playground at the Waikanae kindergarten seems almost exactly the same. I sat outside wondering if the rules still stated ‘No Sticks Allowed in the Playground’, and also if anyone would still chuck one over the fence from the outside like I did so it would be waiting for me in there at playtime. Ready to unleash hell at a young age, and cunning as an outhouse rat, play-doh and paint was far less appealing than a good stick.

I drove past Waikanae park. That playground was also much the same. I got the familiar chill at the back of my spine that I always did when I looked at the park’s surrounding forest. I remember being told not to go in that forest because that’s where the ‘hooligans’ would congregate.

As a four-year-old the word ‘hooligan’ made me think of goblins, trolls and other mythical beasts that may sneak out and take my leg off as I played on the swings. You wouldn’t catch me near that forest. Not a chance. Even now. It’s amazing how memories from childhood resurface and stick to the back of your throat.

Waikanae beach looks out on to the magnificent Kapiti Island and is usually prone to pretty flat water because of it. The beach itself — like Paraparaumu just down the road — is littered with driftwood of all shapes and sizes and makes for a rugged and beautiful setting.

It’s 28 degrees today and people are out sunbathing and sandcastle making. It’s home to some of the greediest seagulls in the world and the thick maram grass on the crest of the beach is a nice place to cool your feet before you have to run across the boiling sand. It is where Danny Richmond and I would go to write our names on the beach with sticks and where we found an injured magpie that we made a pet and named ‘42’.

Down the road at the Waikanae Croquet Club Dennis Kerr is about to compete in a championship match. His wife Ann lets me out onto the green and introduces me to some of the ladies who think I am another Reuben from the Croquet Association. I am flattered, as it must mean I have the look of a ‘stickman’ about me. It’s all in the way you hold yourself or talk the talk. I keep my mouth shut and just try and look intelligent in a croquet kind of way.

Waikanae suburbia is charming and colourful. Unlike many matchbox-house, look-alike towns scattered across the country, there is a real community feel here. Old houses with character and lush gardens line the streets which have green grass, nice footpaths, and big strong trees. It still feels like a safe place to grow up, or settle down. And retire of course. I keep cruising the streets, perusing. I drive past 14 Walton Ave, my first home, and on the corner Richmond Ave.

I used to have a recurring nightmare that an old witch who lived at the end of that particular cul’de sac would kidnap me and throw me in a boiling cauldron to make soup to feed to her army of stray cats. Big mangy strays. With big fangs. And fleas (that also had fangs, and mini-fleas).

But it’s quaint alright: Waikanae. Peaceful an slow-paced, almost like a game of bowls really. Don’t just pass on through; take a look when you’re next in town.

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