Rotorua

The thing about Rotorua is the smell.

It's generally a gorgeous little town, full of gardens and lamp-posts, cobbled sidewalks and cafe-bars. Our room comes with an en suite bathroom and shower, with a heated towel rack and an elegant design. There are candies on the pillows, free towels, extra bedding and a space heater. The fridge is full of beer ($2.00 each) and eggs ($0.40 each). It seems they've thought of everything.

But Rotorua is built along one of the most active geothermic fault lines in the world, and with that heat comes sulfur.

The people of Roturua don't seem to notice the strong boiled-eggs smell, so we imagine that we'll get used to it, too. We pack our bathing suits and visit the Polynesian Spa, where there are naturally heated pools surrounded by tropical gardens and steaming waterfalls. If you want, you can also pay for mud baths, massages, wraps-- the works. As we get closer, we can see the steam rising and we can smell the sulfur getting stronger.

The spa is full of Australian and Indian tourists who talk gaily and try to engage us in conversation also. We soak for hours, until we can't stand it. Afterward, I  have that rubbery, drained, completely content feeling you get when you've been in a hot tub for too long. I order carrot-orange-cranberry juice and John gets ice cream. We stroll through the town, which smells better to us now.

That night, we visit a Maori village, where we pay for a tour, show, and traditional feast. We watch the Maori warriors dance the Haka, and the girls dance and play games. The chief explains their rituals and history. We meet a French couple from New Caledonia, and together we eat and drink wine before venturing into the bush to see glow worms at the Sacred Spring.

Possibly the best day ever.

On our final day in Rotorua, we hire a car and drive to Wai-O-Tapu geothermal park. (It turns out that we haven't got used to the sulfur smell, after all; or otherwise it is just incredibly strong here.) The park is amazing and should win a place on the top-ten must-do activities in the country. Pools of boiling mud erupt and steam; there are bright green and bright orange pools of steaming water. Everywhere the forest is steaming, the earth belching sulfur from frowning yellow mouths. Orange moss drips from the trees. 

South to Rotorua

The only hostel in Kaitia is full.

We're forced to hike to the end of town, where we let a room for the night in the dodgiest hotel you can imagine. It's across the road from Liquorking, and up and down both sides of the street, the other businesses have been borded up. The common area is full of stale cigarette smoke and poor lighting, worn orange carpets and peeling wallpaper. The manager is missing most of his teeth and wears a dressing gown, but welcomes us very kindly before launching into reminisces about his glory days in the hippie colonies in California. He leads us upstairs, where the smoke smell is generously mixed with mildew. The bed in our room is made up, but we spread out our sleeping bags, feeling wary. Crumbs from someone else are scattered on the bedside tables and there are stale popcorn kernels on the floor. The ceiling is waterlogged, sagging under the weight of mold.

We take ourselves out for dinner.

Next day, we take the 8:00 am bus back to Auckland. It's a 7-hour bus ride, and I listen to an audio book while watching the fields and the rolling shoulders of land. At first I'm cheerful, but after four or five hours I'm starving and I badly need to use the bathroom-- but there are no breaks until 2:00, an hour from Auckland. I get really cranky. I haven't had breakfast and I slept poorly. My bladder hurts, my stomach hurts, and the scenery is redundant. I begin to complain a little loudly. It doesn't help.

We spend two nights in Auckland, which now seems amazing compared with Kaitaia. Our hostel has clean, crisp sheets and fresh paint. We brunch in a sunny outdoor garden, enjoying decadent pots of tea, fruit, and hot buttered toast. We walk among crowds, window shopping, getting lost in the glory of city lights and buzzing patios. We eat our fill of rich Indian food: Masala, Tandoori, rice, papadams, chutney, and naan. We have missed the city life.

On a whim we overnight in Hamilton, which turns out to be a bust. It's basically one or two streets, full of restaurants which have closed down. It's Saturday night, but the sidewalks are eerily quiet. A steady stream of traffic is leaving town. We find an empty pub, where we order sandwiches and plan our escape. The server brings us ketchup ("tomato sauce" in New Zealand) in a rubber tomato with a hole in the stem for squeezing. I think about stealing it, to send home to my father. That might sound weird, but you have to understand: he has always wanted a rubber tomato.

Maybe I will find some of those for sale somewhere.

John takes the reigns and decides on our next move: east, to Rotorua, land of volcanoes.

The Cape Reinga Trek

Day 1

The man with the SUV drops us off at Te Paki Stream. He's a lot like Sean Connery with a hearing aid, a Tilly hat, and binoculars. He wishes us luck and leaves a cloud of dust behind him; we hardly notice. Instead we take stock of our surroundings. There are enormous sand dunes on all sides of us, with a wide delta carved into the sand to create a valley floor like a scar. We splash through the river for awhile, getting our boots wet, before deciding to head up over the dunes instead. It is exciting. I feel like a Gertrude Bell, forging a path through the desert.

After about half an hour, we can see the ocean, separated from us by a belt of scrub bush and grass. We make our way in.

It's not as it appears. The grass, easy enough at first, proves deceptive: it becomes a stronger type very like copper wire, and grows too thick to wade through. John begins to push clumps of it down to walk over, avoiding the prickles and spiders' nests. I follow. Then, to my dismay, our footing gives way to marsh. The water smells awful, and is soon ankle-deep. I feel that this is not what I signed up for. We wander in a wide circle, trying to find some drier way. We have no luck. After half an hour, we're forced to turn back. The swamp has defeated us. I follow my own footsteps back over the dunes, to the river where we began. We've used an hour and I am hot, tired, and cross-- but we've learned not to take shortcuts away from the path.

It's hard to stay cranky out here. The river takes about forty minutes to hike, remaining, for the most part, shallow and sandy. We can hear the ocean's roar long before it's visible. By the time I catch a glimpse of blue it's already upon us: the Tasman Sea, giant turquoise waves curling and crashing over the hard sand. There is no one in sight for miles. This is 90-Mile Beach, but we'll only be walking the last three kilometers of it. After a well-deserved break, we turn our steps north-west, towards the Cape. I take off my boots and walk barefoot, in my underwear, in the long surf. The distant bluffs, at first indistinct gray-green shapes, gain remote detail as we walk.

I don't hear them coming over the deafening surf. They're suddenly beside me and then past: a group of guys in an SUV, driving on the beach. I have just enough time to blush and put my pants back on before we're among them at the foot of Cape Scott. We make small-talk; they offer us a beer. I accept. Then the boys wish us the best day ever, and head off to go fishing. We sit on the sand and eat lunch. The beer is cold and tastes like celebration. But there are no garbage bins on this empty beach, and John will end up carrying our empty bottles for the better part of two days.

We climb the summit of Scott Point, a near-vertical slope. There is no wind up here, and the sun is like a hot fist beating down on me as I toil up the cliffs with thirty pounds on my back. My shirt is soaked through in no time. My thirst amazes me. I stop often to rehydrate and catch my breath. After several hours, the hills finally peter downwards, and the trek evens out to Twilight Beach. It's another stunning, empty beach, complete with huge, curling waves, a strong undertow, and the refuse of the ocean. I see lots of dead coral, spiral shells, kelp, and even a dolphin-- small, black, maybe a baby, recently dead. Its fins are perfectly formed, and it smiles still, even in death.

When we reach our camp, we're nearly out of water. The nearest stream is a one-hour round-trip away, so we drop our packs and head east, over sand dunes, this time following orange markers. Each time we reach one, we see another on the horizon. We point out animal tracks to each other, and try to guess their origin. Sheep? Possum? We see no animals. By the time we make the return trip, with a day's worth of fresh water, the sun is setting and the wind has already obscured our footprints.

That night, the roar of the ocean becomes deafening white noise. I sleep like the dead.

Day 2

John makes pancakes for breakfast, and then we head back over the dunes to Te Werahi beach. It's another hot day, and although I've been applying sunscreen, I realize that I've forgotten my ears. They've blistered.

The beach is a welcome sight, not least because it includes a wide, deep, cold river. Without hesitation, I grab some soap, strip, and jump in to bathe. The water is clear and icy, and I yell and blow and shiver as I splash water on myself, washing away two days' worth of sweat and grime before lying in the sun to dry off and warm up, completely content.

In the Maori language, Reinga means "place of leaping." Traditionally, it is the point of departure for Maori souls as they leave this life, and return to the homeland of their Polynesian ancestors.

But the Cape is not particularly impressive compared with the scenery we've seen already. Really, it's just a lighthouse. More beautiful to me is Cape Maria van Diemen, New Zealand's westernmost point, and the Three King Islands, faintly visible offshore. Still, people drive all day to see this lighthouse, and crowds of tourists get out of their cars to take token photographs. I guess they have no idea that, if they walked for an hour, they would see the breathtaking private beach I've just come from. It makes me glad we've decided to do this tramp. It makes me wonder what I've missed already from a vehicle window.

We finish our day's hike at Pandora Beach, two and a half hours from the Cape. This is the Pacific Ocean side, and there is something decidedly familiar about the kelp and shells that have washed up here. Our camp is a formal DOC campground full of RVs and painted vans, and the crowd seems surreal after so much time spent in isolation.

I wake in the night to the splatter of raindrops. There is also a roaring sound that could be waves nearby, but turns out to be wind coming up through the trees. The wind picks up, billowing the tent inward, shaking the walls. John wakes also. We lie in silence, listening to the scream of the storm and the watching the tent heave and pitch under the weight of the wind. At one point the ceiling of the tent lays down on me completely. I try to push it back and hope that the tarp doesn't fly away.

Day 3

The rain stops just after daybreak, but the wind storm continues. We have to yell over the incredible noise as we pack up camp and head into an estuary, where we wade through the river and slosh through a strange landscape of crunchy mangroves and thick mud.

Finally, we reach an old rutted road and hunker down for breakfast. John puts on The Beatles and the sun comes out. The weather is very changeable, though, because the wind is blowing the clouds across the sky so fast. Over the course of the day, we climb three mountains and experience every kind of weather, from rain to sun to hail. The wind is constant. In the mountain passes we walk warily, conscious of the ridge, straining against the strength of the wind. At one point, we huddle under a bush, laughing incredulously, as horizontal hail comes stinging from the sky. I notice that someone has posted orange signs scribbled with sayings like, "you are the master of this moment," or, "joy shared is doubled, sorrow shared is halved," and some which have been erased by the elements.

Our last night on the trail is spent in a lagoon in Spirit's Bay, reached by negotiating rocks full of tidal pools and deep, dripping caves. We get into dry clothes, get warm, and fall asleep before it is fully dark.

Day 4

An old Maori chief once said that, after his death, his spirit would remain in this bay. I can see why. Spirit's Bay is one of the most interesting places I have yet seen in New Zealand. The sand we walk on is actually a mosaic of glassy shell-fragments, and what appears pink from afar turns out to include every pastel colour imaginable. But the shell-rubble is very deep and soft, and it's knee-bending work to reach the other side of the 8 km-long, crescent-shaped beach. John runs around, discovering empty glass bottles, coconuts, and bits of rubbish. We also see two beached Pilot whales, long dead, surrounded by gulls. They smell awful.

Sean Connery comes to pick us up in the early afternoon, and he drives us back to the tiny town of Waitiki Landing, where we treat ourselves to a pizza each, a couple of glasses of strong beer, and a game of pool. Every muscle hurts.

I think this is the best thing I've ever done.

Paihia and the North

In Paihia, we stay at a busy hostel. It's full of young people from all around the world, especially Europe and Asia. Fifteen or twenty of them crowd the kitchen and dining areas at dinnertime, eating noodles and talking. The noise is unbelievable. A huge flat-screen TV dominates the common room, where several Germans watch episodes of The Simpsons and Family Guy at full volume, with the English subtitles on, so they will have a better chance of understanding the jokes.

John and I go out for pizza, sipping beer on a patio overlooking the boardwalk. We pick up a cheap bottle of red wine and a bar of dark chocolate on our way back, which we enjoy in the company of the dinner crowd at the hostel. Many comment on our healthy "dinner of champions," not realizing that this is dessert. We agree. I tell them that antioxidants are essential to a balanced diet. We offer them chocolate.

We wake up early the next morning and take the free kayaks out on the water. They are really cheap little devices, full of air and made of plastic, with holes in the bottom designed to take in a boatload of water for stability. The weather has turned cold and cloudy overnight, though, and the icy water is not welcome. We sit on our knees on the hard plastic, trying to stay dry and upright as we row across the bay to a nearby island. Ten minutes in, I am no longer having a good time. The wind is picking up, my feet are painfully asleep, and I am wet and cold. Worse, boats going by are creating big waves that threaten to topple me. The island does not appear to be getting closer. I want to go home. John, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. He's a few feet ahead of me, cackling madly and shouting insults at the weather and the waves ("is that all you've got?!"). We reach the island finally, where we see orange-breasted sandpipers and black oystercatchers searching for snails.

Two hours later, having explored the elusive island, I am once again miserable, resolutely steering my stupid kayak towards the beach. The weather has, if anything, gotten worse. The current is fighting me. My ankles are killing me. John is trying to convince me to stay out longer, and I pointedly ignore him, teeth clenched.

That night, we meet a couple of girls in the common room who are eager for conversation as they plan a road trip around Northland. Alexz is a 19-year-old Abercrombie & Fitch model from Canada, who's just completed a one-year tour of Australia. She is tanned, blonde, beautiful, and outgoing. Her favourite expressions are "Oh, my GOSH!", "WOW!", and "That is, like, SO GOOD!". Her goal is to travel the world. Olivia, the Brit, is more serious. She always has her Lonely Planet guidebook in hand, and organizes every detail of the road trip, from hiring the car, planning the route, wine tastings, hikes, and hostels. She's 28, and starts a lot of sentences with "To be fair..." or "To be honest,..." in a somewhat posh British accent. Alexz has nicknamed her "Oblivia," for her tendency to jump into and out of conversation at random. Finally, Ezzy, the Scot, is our favourite of the bunch: she's 23, and just graduated from "Uni" in "maths." She is hard to describe because she's completely unique and unpredictable. She can make realistic bird calls, wears interesting clothes (i.e., a Spiderman-Venom hoodie that zips all the way up over her face to make a mask), and carries a trashy romance novel with her. She's up for anything, like singing campy songs, going for a bike ride, or joining a road trip with strangers without hesitation.

When the girls invite us on the trip, we weigh the cost, and accept with a sense of exciting spontaneity. They leave to go to the pub and ask us to join them later. We do. The pub is in chaos by the time we wander in. A costume party is in full swing-- we see a huge colourful sombrero, brightly coloured wigs, coconut bras, flashy dresses, bright sunglasses, cowboy hats, and men in nightdresses. Olivia, Alexz and Ezzy dance around in full costume, drinking cocktails out of teapots. We end up staying out most of night with a German guy we've met, Benny, who is friendly and interesting, and invites us to visit him in Germany someday.

Needless to say, our 8 a.m. departure the next morning, and the windy country roads, don't go over too well.

But the road trip is a blast. We stay in 5-bed dorm rooms and hike to waterfalls, taking photographs of giant Kauri trees. We pull over often to take pictures of the rolling hills, lakes, livestock, and beaches. We detour to take the scenic route at every opportunity. After just three nights, the road trip is over. The girls drop us off in Kaitaia, and continue on, back to Paihia where we met. John and I are on our own again, heading north.

Whangarei & Paihia

Whangarei

We come north to Whangarei through the rain. North of Auckland, the landscape turns swampy, with reedy wetlands and mangrove pools giving way to sticky inlets and muddy beaches. From my seat, the landscape seems to roll by. Rainwater runs in little rivers over the coach windows. We ascend the mountains, and the bus circles as it climbs, like a Roadrunner cartoon, and then rushes down the other side so fast I feel my stomach lift. On either side of us, thick rain forest crowds the road. Waxy-leaved palm trees tower over dripping deciduous. Low clouds lay in recesses in the hills. It reminds me of home.

Gradually, the forested hills give way to rolling countryside pastures. Bright and overlapping hills are stepped like rice fields, as if the sheep are inclined to eat their grass in rows. Pockets of trees cluster, like shadows, in huddled copses. I see small homes with cozy smokestacks, and livestock grazing in the rain.Calla lilies stand crowded under trees, catching drips.

Strange, in a flash and gone, a forest of totems, each tall staff bearing a stoic carved face. John and I glance at each other and shrug, bewildered. We plug in our ear-buds and watch the greenery for awhile. He plays backgammon against the computer; I read my book in snatches.

It is still raining when we arrive. Whangarei is a truck-stop town, dominated by car lots and box stores, like Liquorking and Pak-n-Save. We see a lineup almost down the block at the local KFC. Somehow, this doesn't seem promising.

Peter, the hostel owner, picks us up from the bus stop and takes us to his rambling Victorian house outside of town. It's got floral wallpaper, epic ceilings, and a confusing array of hallways and hidden doors. Also an ancient, toothless retriever with hairy paws, named after some herb or other. Our apartment is at the furthest end of the house. It is cold and the windows are open. There is no heating.

But then the sun comes out, and we sit happily on wicker furniture on the back porch and warm up, reading until we are hungry. There is an aviary in the garden. A black-and-white kitten watches the birds with calculation.

Eventually, we wander into town and find a pretty Victorian quarter with shops and restaurants. We walk further to the grocery store, which is enormous! There are no hand baskets here; only industrial-sized carts. We want to buy, at most, two days' worth of vegetables and a bit of tea. We negotiate the tedious crowds, our cart nearly empty, and at the checkout, realize that we have forgotten to buy a lemon.

We spot a cheese cart in the parking lot, climb aboard, and taste every goat cheese on offer.

Next day, the sun is hot. We hike 15 or 20 km to Whangarei Falls and back. It's a gorgeous, shady track that winds beside a river, through tree ferns, over suspension bridges. The waterfall is impressive. It sends mist out in rolling clouds one hundred metres down the river.

That night we venture out to hear live music in a dark little Irish pub. There is a lady harmonica player wailing out CCR covers. I am really impressed and want to tell her so. Middle-aged people are dancing and drinking pints of Guiness by the fireplace. We talk to some locals and wander around town, looking into other bars, of which there are a surprising amount. 

It is past midnight when we get in.

Paikia

We roll through more countryside on our way north to Paihia, a pretty seaside town in the Bay of Islands. The wind blows cloud-shadows across the hills. I see a cow scratching herself on a low tree-branch, liquid eyes bright and tongue lolling. Hawks glide overhead. Islands of hairy trees shift in the wind, the forest somewhere between palm and pine. We pass wide muddy rivers, tire-track rutted driveways, and orchards blooming.

The bus drops us off beside the wharf in the center of town. The ocean lays all to one side, with a long boardwalk, shops, and sailboats. It reminds me of the Oregon coast. Tourists mill about barefoot, eating ice cream, tossing footballs on the beach, and sitting on patios. I kick off my shoes and feel the freedom of summer. Our hostel offers free kayaks, so we make plans to paddle to a nearby must-see waterfall in the morning. In the meantime, we get lunch and stroll down to the beach, where John makes friends with a puppy. We dip our feet.

I have made it to the south Pacific.