Arrested in New Zealand (well, almost)

It all started with an innocent walk on the Onetongi Beach on Waiheke Island.

New Zealand is blessed with many natural protected harbours, hundreds of small coves and little fishing villages. Islands abound with beautiful vineyards and small modest Eastern Cape style shacks. Waiheke Island is an hour’s ferry ride from Auckland. With a population of around 8000 inhabitants, many of them are daily commuters to the mainland.

We had barely arrived and, desperate for some exercise, I elected to take a walk along the kilometre stretch of beach – in the late afternoon. Barefoot, donned with my Bokke cap and my Dryazabone anorak, the weather was foul, I set off looking forward to the fresh air – the beach was desolate. I noticed the Charlie Farey pub on the way but took no notice of it as I carefully picked my way along the shelly beach. One has to quite mindful, the sand is coarse and the many shells sharp edged.

It was on my return that I encountered a serious squall. A powerful easterly was blowing in direct from the Pacific and the rain was icy cold. This in the middle of October, bit like being on the Bushman’s beach on a bad day during the Grahamstown festival.

I shot into the Charlie Farley, and it being 17h30 I ordered a pint of New Zealand’s best lager.

"Sorry mate, I can’t have you in here barefoot, it is in contravention of the Health and Occupational Safety Act, you might cut your feet on broken glass and then I’ll be in for the high jump."

Being a South African I was unfazed by this minor interruption to my intended libation.

"Is there a bottle store nearby?" I enquired

"Yeah, just five minutes walk up the road."

I have played squash all my adult life, so my feet are tough, a five minute walk on the rough tar surface didn’t bother. When in the bottle store I purchased a couple of beers and then as an afterthought I bought a bottle of Jameson’s Whisky as a gift for my host (all mid-range whisky’s are evenly priced here).

With this liquor in a black plastic bag (with an All Black fernleaf on it – branding and rugby team support is ubiquitous) I set off back down the road and onto the beach. The walk had generated quite a thirst so I popped open one of my beers and savoured the ice-cold taste as the wind blew into my face.

I was alone on the beach, and I guess in that weather the sight of me walking alone with a black plastic bag bristling in the wind drinking a beer might have reminded a South African passer by of a Kaapse bergie (homeless person) making his way to his shelter. Or I may have looked, in New Zealand terms, like a down-and-out islander doing something that is strictly illegal, consuming alcohol in a public place, in defiance of the law.

I didn’t notice the scooter pull up with ‘Police’ markings, nor did I notice the Policewoman alight and make her way across the beach towards me. Had I seen all of this I may have been better prepared.

She was suddenly in front of me.

I had an immediate attack of pre-arrest panic.

"Where are you going?" she enquired

Worried that I may implicate my host I replied "to the end of the beach"

"What’s in your packet, please show me."

Standing bare foot, I reluctantly showed her the contents, an empty beer bottle, a full beer bottle and a bottle of whisky. I had a horrible image of what I must have looked like, a middle–aged vagrant , inebriated, drowning his rugby sorrows on a lonely beach on an island somewhere.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To my friend’s house"

"Have you been drinking on the beach?"

"Yes"

"Do you know it is not allowed?"

"Yes"

In the meantime my hostess who had become alarmed at my disappearance and concerned that I was M.I.A (Missing in Action) had set off to find out if I had lost my bearings.

The same policewoman received a message alerting her to my missing person status.

"You better move along, your people are looking for you, and don’t let me catch you on the beach again" she reprimanded in a friendly kind of way.

Ah well, all’s well that ends well!

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