In small towns, places can close up for winter. I learnt the hard way

Whangamomona is the only town of any sort on New Zealand’s Forgotten World Highway, a 148-kilometre stretch of winding backcountry road in the North Island region of Taranaki.

Credit: Jamie Brown

Lured by the idea of road-tripping on such an evocatively named route and intrigued to learn that this tiny place had declared itself a republic, I decide to spend two days driving the otherwise prosaically named State Highway 43.

The Whangamomona Hotel was the site of a 1989 “revolution” in which the town ceded from the rest of New Zealand, elected a president and started issuing its own passports. I want one.

Before arriving in Taranaki, I try to book a room at the pub online but find every night of my potential road trip “sold out”. Improbable as it seems for somewhere so remote, I decide that this is an indication of its popularity.

I go anyway. The Forgotten World Highway begins (or ends) in Stratford, about 40 kilometres south-east of New Plymouth. After another 60 kilometres of twisting country roads, punctuated with stops to read fading placards that tell the history of the region, I roll into Whangamomona, hungry for a pub lunch.

A bright red sign welcomes me to the Republic of Whangamomona before I reach the public toilets at the town entrance. They’re emblazoned with the republic’s logo, featuring symbols of things important: rugby, darts, pool, spinning and knitting, and axe-throwing. On the corner ahead is my destination, the impressive two-storey red-roofed colonial-style pub.

It seems strangely quiet. There are no other cars on the street and no people around. I drive past the handful of buildings, spin a U-turn and park outside the general store next to the hotel.

Across the street is a lonely mannequin wearing a white lace dress trimmed with pink bows and a double string of pearls; she’s propped up in a telephone box outside the closed gift shop.

The pub doors are firmly shut. Under the banner “Real Country Hospitality”, a sign taped to the window announces the “winter trading hours”: open from 5pm on Thursday, and 11am Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I was a day and a half too early on a Wednesday in June.

I had also forgotten that in small-town Aotearoa – as in many other countries – winter means many small businesses and attractions close, or operate on reduced hours.

I press my nose against the window of the general store, where a collection of images, newspaper clippings and memorabilia tell something of the story behind Whangamomona’s colourful recent history.

Whangamomona Hotel, the nerve centre of the republic.Credit: Forgotten World Adventures

It all began when the good people of Whangamomona – all 40 of them – became unhappy with a shift of local government boundaries that divided their community.

Without further ado, they declared their independence from the rest of New Zealand and elected a president. In the republic’s 36-year history, there have been six presidents, including a goat called Billy the Kid, who died 18 months after his appointment while on “weed-eating duties” on the town’s hillside. Tai the poodle was elected in 2003 but the pup’s nerves were never the same after a rumoured assassination attempt a year later. Human presidents seem to have fared better.

Republic Day celebrations, held biennially in January, swell the village to around 3000 people. Activities and events include sheep races, gumboot throwing, whip cracking and possum skinning, mostly in the main street.

Disappointed, I turn the car north. As I leave Whangamomona, bound for Taumarunui and the end of the Forgotten World Highway, a cheery sign bids me farewell – “Thank you and be happy!”

I’d have been happier if I’d remembered to check the “winter hours”.