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.
Cape Farewell, New Zealand
Friday, October 15, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
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.
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