boomers-on-the-road https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/ Mon, 20 Apr 2026 00:52:30 GMT World Nomads Adventures Happy Birthday Fidel To Havana today. Though Fidel’s 80th birthday party isn’t until Saturday the military will be locking down the entire city tomorrow at midnight – no one will be able to go in or out. We want to be there a day early just in case. We don’t want to miss it! We three confab over breakfast: Mauricio will find us a ride and we will go to change Euros because the rates are better here than Havana. We have to sit outside the bank on a wooden bench waiting for the guard to let us in, one by one, to sit on another bench. I ask a Cuban fellow if he is el ultimo, the last one in line. “Si.” I carefully memorise his face. It is the custom in Cuba to mark your place in line behind the current el ultimo. Then you can go for a walk or stand to the side and talk with your friends or whatever. As long as you return to the line before your el ultimo is served you can reclaim your place. It’s a very convenient system for a place where the locals spend a lot of time in lines. The guard is playing favorites by allowing locals to jump the queue, but why should they have to spend their lives always waiting for foreigners? Finally he points at us and flicks his fingers toward the glass door. We’re in. We still have time before Mauricio is scheduled to meet us, hopefully with a car. We stroll over to the botanic gardens which turn out to be someone’s back yard. We content ourselves with gazing through a wrought iron fence at the quarter acre of untamed jungle before returning to our casa to wait. Finally Mauricio shows up one hour late. He’s smiling but I can see a bit of stress underneath. “Senores, you were supposed to meet me at the bus terminal. I had to let three cars go.” Our mistake! We didn’t get the message right and thought he was coming back here. He has brought a big yellow taxi, an ageing Lada, and a new friend, a young guy who wants to show us his family’s property. It’s for sale. “Really? I ask. “I thought all real estate was property of the state.” Not this property he assures me. “Do not worry about the property, Senor, it is an excuse for you to visit and meet his family. We can do it quickly. They will be honored, Mauricio reassures me. “Why not!” We enjoy a guided tour of their well-kept pink farmhouse, a grove of fruit trees and a chicken coop, and are generously given a bag of grapefruit before hopping back in our taxi. The budding young realtor sits in back with us. He is talkative and wants to know about the countries we have visited. Most Cubans don’t get to travel much and they dream about faraway places. Our driver, Jilberto, has ginger hair and is about 60. He recalls the days before the revolution as being difficult. “Now I am still poor but I have enough to eat. I have a home, a business. My family is happy and my children are not like me; they have a good education.” Does he like Fidel? “Fidel is a special type of person that comes around only once in a century.” We exit the Autopista and drive through pastoral countryside to Las Terrazas. We pay an entry fee and coast past manicured lawns and forested glades to a sparkling manmade lake. White stucco houses with red tile roofs are tastefully arranged on the opposite hillside. This is the closest to a planned community we’ve seen in Cuba. One of these homes belonged to Polo Montanez, another unsung Cuban musician who, like the world famous Buena Vista Social Club, received recognition in later years when his star exploded throughout Latin America. He received awards, gold records and more for his songs about the simplicity of rural life. He died in a car crash a few years ago and now his home is a museum full of pictures, framed awards, guitars, hats and other memorabilia. His brother, sister and former bass player graciously shake our hands and show us around. We buy a pirated copy of one of his DVDs from them and take their picture. Jilberto drives us up to La Moka Hotel which sprawls elegantly down the slope. Here trees grow through balconies and the birds chirp beautifully, restfully. We reach Havana as the sun descends and soon find the quiet neighborhood where the casas we’d reserved are located across the street from each other. It’s within a short walk of the Plaza de la Revolucion where the birthday festivities will take place. We ring the bell and Dona Oneida welcomes us. She’s bird-like, chirpy and friendly while her husband is smiling and very easygoing. Our bedroom is immaculate and yes, it’s pink but not too pink. After the formalities with our passports, we walk over to Mauricio’s digs which aren’t so immaculate but they’re serviceable. The old woman ushers us in and we are surprised to see a Canadian guy we’d met in Vinales. It takes over an hour to arrange plates of fast food because our first choice has run out of potatoes, the second choice is selling only drinks because the chef left, and number three’s kitchen is somehow broken. Mauricio’s fourth choice is a sad story. The one-eyed chef who had been making gourmet box meals from his home sits and stares sightlessly at the TV. “Diabetes has taken his other eye,” his wife relates. She is so fat she can barely walk. Finally we settle for burgers and roast chicken at the mall. Back at the casa we watch the pre-birthday festivities on TV. People in their thousands are streaming about on the Malecon taking in the glittery performances of entertainers from many of the Latin American countries. It is said that representatives from 80 countries have come to Havana for Fidel’s birthday. Ecuador’s new leftist president has arrived with an entourage of 3,000 leaving behind many thousands more to protest in the streets over his obvious excess with taxpayers’ money in this, the second poorest South American country. Lynda’s painful back has become worse overnight. Not as bad as in Cusco but the pain doesn’t let her bend over easily. Mauricio arrives for breakfast but he’s not his usual happy self. “Senor, Senorita Lynda I have had a bad night. When I returned to my casa after dinner I found that the Canadian was registered with the police and the Senora hadn’t registered me.” “But we’d paid her for last night over a week ago before we’d left for Pinar. She took the number of your passport and visa to give to the police,” I interjected. “I know, Senor. She told me I could stay but I knew I had to find another casa because if the police came to check I would be jailed, and as you know all the neighborhoods near the Plaza de la Revolucion are crawling with police. I have been up all night looking but so far all the casas are full.” He finishes his breakfast. “Now I must go look for a casa. I am sorry I must leave you for a few hours. I will return by noon.” We take a walk and look in the windows of the small shops run in peoples’ living rooms where there’s a few vegetables for sale, clothing, make-up, video tapes. “Let’s go to the bus terminal to see if we can find Vincenzo,” Lynda suggests. Five minutes later we see him waiting beside his car. That’s a good sign. But when we greet him he seems distant and makes an excuse to walk away. A friend of his takes up the conversational slack and we exchange pleasantries. Soon we leave. Maybe Vincenzo is afraid to be seen with us after THE incident. Mauricio returns with good news. He has found a casa, a near miracle considering how many people have come for the event. We three walk the half mile to Old Havana and turn down a side street. Mauricio rings the bell and an orange steel door unlocks to reveal worn marble stairs leading to a dark-haired woman smiling at us from the landing. Erlinda invites us in and offers us cups of tea. While she busies herself in the kitchen, Mauricio shows us around her grand colonial apartment. Around the spacious central lounge room are three bedrooms and a study filled with books. Mauricio’s room overlooks the street. It’s huge! We can see the harbor from the terrace. Marble tiles cover the floors and ornate moldings frame the 20 foot high ceilings. There’s a chandelier wherever one should be. “Come sit and enjoy your tea while it is hot,” Erlinda calls. Tea and fresh bread sit on the round white wrought iron table that’s surrounded by potted and hanging plants. Directly above us a wide skylight completes the feel that we are outside in a small courtyard. Erlinda’s mother and daughter join us. They all look a generation younger than their years. Erlinda is a professor of philosophy at a nearby university. “The job doesn’t pay a lot but I like it very much. I have registered my home as a casa particular to earn enough money to keep it in good condition.” “I am an air traffic controller,” the daughter says in well-spoken English. “I have traveled to Mexico City to work at their airport for experience. We get only about 80 planes a day on our one runway but Mexico City has three runways and has many more landings and takeoffs every day. It is a different world.” “I am 85,” says the grandmother. Later that afternoon we return to our casa for Lynda to do some more Pilates and rest her back for tomorrow. We are not honored guests and will have to do lots of standing. Mauricio is waiting for us in front of our casa at 7am sharp. “Good morning Senor, Senorita Lynda! It’s a beautiful morning but it will be hot later. Let’s go look for a good spot to watch the celebrations. The security is tight and we will not be able to get very close so we must find our spot early to ensure you will get a good view for your cameras.” Walking along a park-lined boulevard towards the Plaza we see people filing out of every side street. Many are dressed in white and red. They’re smiling and talking animatedly. “Fidel comes out today!” I hear a man shout. Children rush about in excited groups; nearly all are in school uniform. Now we’re like a river rushing along the boulevard with overflowing tributaries of humanity joining us at every block. We hurry past a long line of buses, three wide, which brought in people from the other provinces. They had to arrive before Havana was locked down last midnight. Did they sleep in the buses, on the grass? We see a line of guards manning a barricade a block away and the masses flow to the right, up to the marshalling area where the parade will begin. “Let’s go talk to the guards,” Mauricio suggests. “Maybe they can help us find a good spot.” The soldiers are non-committal but a quick inspection tells us that we’ve found our spot. On the left and slightly obscured by a few drooping branches we can see the back of the bleachers which will soon be filled with dignitaries. Slightly to the right the 450 foot tall star-shaped Jose Marti Memorial tower looms over the trees. Beneath this monolith the various luminaries, including Fidel hopefully, will exhort the faithful to stay the course of the revolution. And directly in front of us, 200 or so feet away, is a bridge, an overpass that our street dips under. The entire parade must cross this bridge. It’s a straight shot with nothing to block the view and the bridge is narrower than the avenue on either side of it so they will have to slow down. I take a few scenery shots then change to the telephoto lens. Soon it will be picture-taking time! Cubans and foreigners begin crowding around us, finding suitable spots. There’s an air of excitement “because I think this is an important day three times over,” Mauricio informs us. “This is the fiftieth anniversary of Fidel’s landing back on Cuban shores to start the revolution. It’s the delayed celebration of his 80th birthday (Fidel Ruiz Castro was born on August 13, 1926). And everyone is hoping to see and hear Fidel today for the first time since his operation. I have witnessed previous celebrations,” Mauricio relates, “and often Fidel will talk for hours. Then the marching will begin. The people will march past the grandstand several times then Fidel would join them and lead the march throughout Havana. Many thousands would march with him for hours.” “I don’t think that will happen today,” I respond. “Unfortunately, no. It is a specially Cuban experience that may never happen again.” The microphone comes alive and the dignitaries clap and wave their small Cuban flags in unison. A brief introduction precedes the Cuban National Anthem after which the speeches begin in earnest. How long will this last? An Australian traveler wearing a shirt made of a Cuban flag and with flags affixed to his hat and backpack starts waving his other Cuban flags and shouting for Fidel. A dark glare from one of the soldiers silences him but not his enthusiasm; he keeps waving his flags. Then Raul starts to speak. Fidel’s younger brother and caretaker of the government while Fidel is recuperating, Raul’s voice is less inflective and his style more sonorous than his older brother. But does he have the staying power to speak for hours? Will we have to wait for hours in the heating sun for the parade to begin? The short answer turns out to be ‘no’. Raul is more kindly than Fidel and speaks for less than an hour. Then the show begins with a bang, literally. We plug our ears and enjoy a 21-gun cannonade which fills the air with smoke. Now comes the motorcade of saluting generals standing in jeeps, which sets off another round of flag-waving amongst the dignitaries sitting on the bleachers. It’s time for a rolling review of recent Cuban history. First come horsemen dressed in white colonial uniforms carrying different versions of the Cuban flag. A full-size replica of the motor vessel Grandma follows. It is motorised and mounted on wheels, perfect for a parade if not a cruise on the high seas. Hundreds of school kids surround it. They are in uniform and wave small red, white and blue Cuban flags above their heads. “The flags are meant to represent waves,” Mauricio informs us. Now the revolutionaries of 1956 have landed, or at least their enactors. Dressed in peasant gear or old khaki uniforms and shouldering rifles and the occasional bazooka, they walk past in a random formation looking ragtag and disheveled. As they should. Historically, they have just survived a near shipwreck and are being chased throughout the Sierra Madres by the old dictator Batista’s soldiers. The parade returns to the present with a few more generals in jeeps (applause). Then the military marches past. Led by flag bearers holding their ensign, representatives of various units of the Army and Navy, in their dress whites or khaki best, march past in strict formation. We hear a roar from the right and look up in time to see a formation of helicopter gunships, bristling with missiles, fly impressively overhead. Oohs and aahs escape from the crowd. Here comes the rolling stock. Amphibious armored cars, rocket launchers and personnel carriers precede a wave of light tanks who belch thick white smog that fogs our view and lends a surreal atmosphere to what I’d describe as an all-too-realistic scene. Personnel carriers are followed by truck-mounted rocket launchers and more tanks. Then comes the mobile artillery followed by heavier tanks and truck-mounted radar units. Now come the big boys, the mobile missile launchers some of which take up more than the length of the bridge. And there’s more! A high-pitched rush hits the ears as a formation of jet fighters streaks overhead. Now that’s a rush! The crowd around us cheers. They like a good show. It’s the people’s turn. Led by a line dressed identically in red and white they file past ten to twelve abreast in their tens of thousands waving flags, raising arms, cheering, or just walking. A half hour passes and they’re still coming. I see a few tourists among them. They seem giddy with the excitement but to the Cubans it is simply something civic that you do. The civic-minded march and those less political watch it on TV. Later that evening we will watch it on the news with Dona Oneida and her husband. The crowd will look even larger as the announcers guess the numbers at 500,000. Now it’s been nearly an hour since the people started marching past and their line has thinned out. We three decide to find another vantage but a short walk tells us it is all over. No Fidel. As we wander home through the dispersing multitude I can’t help but notice the different atmosphere. The Cubans are quiet. When they do talk their voices are low and subdued. I think this year’s celebration is a disappointment to them and I wonder how much of the Cuban revolution is based on a cult of personality. Will it outlast Fidel? https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13525/Cuba/Happy-Birthday-Fidel Travel Cuba boomersontheroad https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13525/Cuba/Happy-Birthday-Fidel#comments https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13525/Cuba/Happy-Birthday-Fidel Mon, 31 Dec 2007 14:38:00 GMT 0 JEFF: We hate to say goodbye to our wonderful friends, Bob and Joan, but adventure calls. We’ll spend the next three days canoeing the Whanganui River. “That’s pronounced ‘Fanganui’. All Maori names that start with ‘wh’ are pronounced ‘fa’,” our outfitter Mark instructs me. Tall with a blonde ponytail, he looks the part. We pack the four watertight plastic drums with tent, sleeping bags, clothes, cooking and eating gear, and survival stuff like our first aid kit, compass, space blankets and more. We will also be taking our chilly bin (cooler) with us. It had accompanied us from home as a piece of checked luggage and now is filled with food and ice. I wander over to check out our canoe which is tightly lashed to a trailer. A full sized Canadian brand made in Maine, it looks good. “These tupperware (polyurethane plastic) canoes are the toughest,” I remark, attempting to artfully show him I know something. “Yup, since I hire my boats to beginners 95% of the time they have to be tough,” he smiles. Then he gives a thorough safety talk. Joined by his wife, we hop in his well-used van for the bumpy trip to Wade’s Landing where we will put in the river. There’s plenty of time on the dusty drive for him to fill us in. “The Whanganui is a wild river but it’s navigable. A hundred years ago steamers travelled from the port of Whanganui up here to service the settlers. Now there are no settlers and no steamers. Now it’s a national park and quite a popular one. Over 14,000 people float this river every year but you’ve picked a good time. It doesn’t get very busy until the school holidays start in a fortnight.” At Wade’s Landing we help him load the canoe and lash everything together, “So in case you have spill you won’t be chasing your gear.” With Lynda poised in front and me taking up the rear seat, we’re all ready to go. He gives us a push and we’re away! We won’t see him again until he picks us up three days from now at the next road access, 55 miles downstream. I wave quickly but have to turn to concentrate on a small rapid. We shoot through it but scrape on the cobbled bottom. The river is very low and I’ll have to concentrate better to find the channel. When we have time to turn around Wade’s Landing has disappeared. We’re alone on the river. But it’s a beautiful day. The sun shines through a nearly transparent haze, the river is crystal clear and where it’s smooth the reflections are near perfect. We’re navigating through a gorge. The banks are very steep, often cliff faces, and the hills are close. Huge trees tower over us and deep green foliage coats everything. Wild feral goats clamber over the rocks. Some stare quizzically at us when Lynda imitates their bleating. The whole place feels primeval. Rapids appear every few minutes. We can hear their roar. Then we see the white water. They always look a bit scary from a distance but when we float close enough to study them, the mystery disappears and I can see an obvious line to take. Steering carefully, we follow the tongue of smooth water right toward the waves because this is where the channel is deepest. If the waves are too big we try to skirt them seldom missing them by more than a couple feet. Lynda paddles hard on the danger side where the river piles against the shore and I paddle with her yet I’m always ready to use my paddle as a rudder to steer us away from a submerged rock. We’re in the heart of it and virtually flying down the river! The tricky part comes when we exit the rapid. We have to suddenly switch and paddle hard on the opposite side of the canoe because cross eddies and sometimes small whirlpools lurk in wait to catch our bow and swing us around until we point backward. This happens once or twice before we get the hang of it, but the most embarrassing moment comes when I try to short cut a rapid and a submerged rock catches our canoe and turns us sideways. Shouting ineffective orders at each other, we slide sideways down a cobbled drop where the river plunks us unceremoniously into the edge of the rapid I was trying to avoid. Fortunately we are pointed in the right direction and the rapid proves to be a piece of cake. If all this sounds way too exciting, here’s a reality check: all the rapids on the Whanganui River have been designated Class 1. That’s the easiest. We miss the first designated campsite. A large and obvious sign says ‘Campsite 200 metres’ but a mile goes by and we still don’t see a thing. An hour later we spot a similar sign which states ‘Campsite 250 metres’. Fortunately several canoes are beached in front of this site or else we may not have noticed the two dirty white fence posts that mark it. They’re planted way up the bank. Later I notice there’s an official park service badge on one of the posts. It can be read from about three feet. It’s a long steep trudge to the grassy terraced tenting area. We explore a bit further and find a spacious backcountry hut with a kitchen - bring your own dishes and stove - and sleeping area with 70 plastic mattresses lined up side by side on a huge bunk bed that spans the room. We are the only ones opting for camping and, after we haul all our gear up the steep sandy slope, we enjoy a quiet dinner sitting at a covered picnic table. Huge iridescent green pigeons entertain us by cooing and landing ponderously in the top branches of small trees. Contrary to the forecast it starts to sprinkle just as we go to bed. No matter, I reflect as I fall asleep to the patter of little drops. 2:00 am. Its pitch dark and the rain pounds on the tent’s fly. I bolt upright. How much has the river risen? I’d tied the canoe well but it’s upside down and the paddles are still in it. Feeling for the pocket sized flashlight, I put on my hat and crawl outside. The trail down to the river will be ten times more treacherous in the dark. Time to concentrate. Carefully I pick my way down stairs and sandy embankments to the river. It hasn’t risen much. Yet. I check the knot: it will hold. I check the others’ tie ups and they’re all good. Then I right our canoe and carry the paddles up to camp. Just as I reach the picnic table my flashlight goes dead. Five minutes sooner and I would have been stuck out for the night in a rainstorm in my pyjamas. I find my way back into bed and quickly fall asleep. LYNDA: The weak light of early morning filters through our mustard-yellow tent. Morning stretching – oops! What’s this I feel? My sleeping bag is wet! Still in my bag I lift my legs and see water dripping from my bag. The whole bottom section from my knees down including the three-quart length thermarest has been well rinsed from the all night rain. Clothes I left folded and stacked on the tent floor are wet. Well, there’s not much to do than pull my feet up to a dry section, relax, stay warm and wake Jeff to this good morning surprise. Wet gear bundled together, dry clothes on, breakfasted, packed and ready to go we paddle off in the rain for an estimated steady five and one half hour paddle. This is such a steady rain. We’ll not take out the camera until the rain lets up a bit. Today as yesterday the Whanganui proves to be a scenic river. Although we are wearing rain ponchos and hats we are totally soaked to the skin from this rain and river water splashes within minutes. Regardless, we will look at and listen to what is around us through this rain. The banks of the river are the almost vertical walls of a vegetation covered gorge. Green feathery leafed, black stemmed and trunk fern trees grow in profusion amongst many species of branched trees. The New Zealand ‘Christmas’ trees are flowering causing splashes of red. Native grasses which grow in bunches and have long silky cream plumed spikes add interesting texture to the forest. Iridescent blue and russet miniature Kingfisher birds rest on river-side branches. The Pukeko bird, red beaked and crested with deep bluey-black feathers, walks through the low growth exposing its orange-red legs and feet. The New Zealand Pigeon (kereru) with emerald green feathers and white feathered chest is so hefty that when it comes to rest on a branch the branch seems to groan and gives way under the landing weight. There are sections of the river were we can take a short break from paddling to rest our muscles, yet we want to keep paddling especially when I hear again that tell-tale sound looming ahead – rapids! Well, yes these are only level one rapids, but we are in a canoe, a fully loaded canoe – and this is my first experience paddling a canoe on a river and a river with rapids! I’ve paddled canoes many times before on lakes, shown others how to paddle and have been down mighty river rapids in inflatable rafts, but this is different. Let’s just say I have a good degree of apprehension and I am totally ‘in the moment’. In time I’ll get to ‘read’ the rapids, yet for now I’m reliant upon Jeff’s river rapid canoeing experience and strength. I’m no slouch. I’m paddling for all my might through these rapids. So, every time I hear that rapid sound I’ll call out: “Jeff, there are rapids ahead.” I know that he can hear and see them too, yet I want to make sure that we are well prepared, ready and well plan our approach and route through. About half way down this section of today’s paddle we’ll stop and see the Bridge to Nowhere. And here is the stopping point. Talk about a challenge to get out of the canoe on a steep slippery smooth rock surface in a niche of rock and pull the canoe up high enough to tie onto a metal steak in the rock. A forty-five minute walk along a surprisingly well groomed trail brings us to the Bridge. Built by two men in one and one half years towards the end of the depression this cement bridge with cement balustrades and expansion joints, spans a deep chasm and is a bridge that would be the pride amongst any civic bridges. Still white cement after all these years, it goes nowhere. The history is that the New Zealand government gave its returning veterans land. A number of families were given land in this area. The names of those families can still be seen on memorial plaques beside salvaged ploughs. The depths of the depression hit with the result that the families had to leave to survive elsewhere. This bridge is a testament to the strength, ingenuity and determination of those two men and the families of the area. All that is left is the bridge and the remains of a cliff hugging roadway. Back in the canoe, let’s paddle to the other side of the river where a few rocks will provide a beaching area where we’ll get out and eat the sandwiches I prepared earlier this morning. Well, we’ll have to stand with our backs to the force of the rain to eat so that we’ll not get mouthfuls of rain water with every bite. Still the rain and really it’s not that bad. Surprisingly I don’t feel that cold. Bummer! Now the wind! It’s howling and gusting, funnelling up the river against the direction we want to go – down river. The rain is coming in at a 33 degree angle and we’re paddling our guts out. Jeff is doing a superb job of steering us through the rapids and I’m paddling for all I’m worth. My rain poncho frequently flies up covering my face just at a critical rapid moment. The rain runs down our necks, arms and splashes from the rapids add additional soaking. Battling the wind I’m grunting and groaning a bit, thinking that might help in some way. After all these hours paddling against the wind – finally there are canoes beached on a rocky finger ahead. This must be the Maori campsite. Stepping into the river water it feels as warm as a bath - something is wrong, because that river water should feel cold. Oh, no! Its hit me like a wall – I’m suddenly shaking uncontrollably. My breathing rate is very rapid, erratic and shallow, my facial muscles have cramped up, and I can barely walk. Jeff is shaking too with the cold. We are in the first stage of hypothermia. Shaking, we climb up the sand hill and trail to the cabins. There is a cook house and two sleeping huts with plastic mattresses. People can travel the river by canoe, as we and a few other travellers are doing, or by jet boat with a river guide. Well, the place is packed with wet travellers. A group of jet boat travelling high school boys with their teachers and guides fill one hut, while other guided canoe and jet boat groups fill the second hut. Thanks to one of the teachers and a canoeist we get two mattresses for sleeping that night. Since the tent failed to keep us dry last night it is not an option. Now all our gear needs to be hauled up and the canoe pulled high from the river which has risen five to six feet since this morning and could still rise a lot with this continuing rain. Dried off and wearing a mixed assemblage of dry clothes we enjoy the warmth of the cookhouse. Someone has started a fire in the fireplace. I’ll park myself here since I don’t have much energy for anything else right now. Jeff heats up a can of kumara (sweet potato) soup and I make us bowls of oats with fruit. Time for bed. I’ll wear more clothing than usual to put more insulation between me and the damp sleeping bag. The rain water from what was the dripping wet bottom half of my sleeping bag this morning has been absorbed by the rest of the bag and it’s now just damp all over. I’m feeling warm with that soup in me and all bundled up like a sausage in this bag. We are both so tired I don’t think we’ll move or turn over all night. All’s well. JEFF: The alarm on my watch sounds. Its 5 am and already windy. That’s a bit disheartening because I was hoping an early start would help us miss the upstream winds. Quickly and quietly we pack and tiptoe out of the bunkhouse to the kitchen. While I’m pulling our breakfast out of the chilly bin (cooler) one of the chaperones of the high school group asks if I have a match so he can light the stove. “How about a lighter?” I respond. He thanks me and a few minutes later offers a steaming cuppa tea. “You beauty!” I say. Lynda goes for her usual cup of hot water – straight. The hot cuppas really add comfort to our quickly swallowed breakfast of tuna sandwiches, pre-made last night. The wind seems to die off while I tote our gear down to the canoe. The river has risen from last night and most of the canoes that had been pulled up on the bank are now floating. The stern quarter of one canoe is in the river and full of water, making it impossible to bail out and very heavy to pull further up the bank. Our craft sits very high and dry. I load the chilly bin and four plastic drums, lash them tightly and slide our canoe into the river. We’re off, the first boat out in this muddy swirling river. We see a long white object floating in the river. It’s a canoe and there’s no one in it. Unfortunately we have no way to assist and have to sadly watch it float lazily with the current as we paddle past. A jet boat will probably pick it up in due course and return it to the marooned owner. In the meantime we enjoy moving in the strong current. Ducks swim hard against the current then find an eddy in which to rest. There is no place for them to go ashore because the high water has buried all the gravel bars. Rushing water and canyon walls are all any of us have today. The tributaries are either in canyons themselves - narrow steep gorges mostly obscured by clinging greenery – or they are waterfalls that splash spectacularly into the main channel. The Whanganui sure meets my definition of a scenic river. But this canyon can betray you as well, for now the wind picks up and we must paddle like galley slaves to keep from sliding backwards. A peaking gust shoves us against the shore. Then another turns us backwards, facing up river. We are learning to relax and let these short events happen then resume our normal paddling when the wind dies (which is slight and ever so brief). Hours later, rounding a wide bend we see our first vehicle since we were dropped off three days ago. We see a road. This must be Pipiriki, the end of our journey. But is it? We don’t see a sign. “Is this Pipiriki?” Lynda calls to the man in the truck. “Sorry, luv, but Pipiriki is about a half hour upstream.” Right! We laugh then put ashore. Clambering out of our trusty canoe for the last time, we give each other the high five. Another adventure completed, with honors! Mark the outfitter and his wife arrive two hours early and we’re heading up the muddy road back to Piriaka and our patient car. When we get to the bitumen (blacktop) Mark stops to check the canoes lashed to the trailer we’re towing. We get out to admire the distant view of Mt Ruapehu freshly covered with snow. Lynda shudders at the wintry scene. “Yeah, they’re skiing on it.” Mark informs us. Ruapehu is the North Island’s tallest mountain, a massive volcano. Back at Mark’s we transfer our gear to the car taking care to keep the wet stuff separated. Then it’s a handshake and thanks for everything, and we speed south to Wellington where we will spend our last few days in New Zealand with friends, Nathan and Hilary and their beautiful daughters Maia and Niamh. They treat us royally and Hilary puts on wonderful dinners. Located at the southern tip of the North Island, Wellington is New Zealand’s capital. Nathan is a professional photographer. He shows us his side of Wellington: the unique architecture and great views. Built on a series of steep hills surrounding a vast bay, Wellington reminds us of San Francisco But with only 200,000 residents, it’s a more relaxed San Francisco. All the buildings have to fit the crumpled topography, hence they’re all originals. For an exciting look at Wellington’s and New Zealand’s architecture go to Nathan’s website at http://www.nathanross.co.nz/ We sneak out of Wellington before the start of the Monday morning rush hour. Our last day in New Zealand is spent driving back to Auckland. Lucky Taupo is halfway there to give us another excuse to see Bob and Joan, and thankfully enjoy Joan’s cooking one more time. By early evening we arrive at our motel near the airport to finish packing, get a few hours rest then get whisked to the international terminal in the early morning dark for the flight home. All up, we have spent 3 weeks in New Zealand exploring part of the North Island. We could easily come back for another 3 weeks and not repeat ourselves. Then there’s the South Island. https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13458/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-4-Canoeing-the-Whanganui-River Travel New Zealand boomersontheroad https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13458/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-4-Canoeing-the-Whanganui-River#comments https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13458/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-4-Canoeing-the-Whanganui-River Sun, 30 Dec 2007 06:03:00 GMT 0 JEFF: We rise early, pack the tent and speed south. We’re heading to Lake Rotorua and the town of the same name which literally is New Zealand’s hot spot. There are geysers and boiling pots everywhere. Even our motorcamp has one. “And we have heated tent sites as well,” the teenage girl behind the counter informs us, “for no extra charge.” Plus there are two hot tubs, a mineral bath and a thermally heated swimming pool. We’re in it for the lot! After dinner we get into our swim suits and stay up late sitting in the mineral bath talking to Kiwi, Spanish and Irish travellers about how great life can be. Following a relaxing slumber in our thermally heated tent we efficiently down breakfast then start on lunch. On preparing lunch, that is. Rather than pay $95 each for the pleasure of gorging ourselves at an ‘authentic’ Maori hangi, the equivalent of a Hawaiian luau, we are going to cook our own in the natural steam oven that is yet one more feature of this motor camp. We layer three sheets of tin foil then place sliced onion, chicken tenderloins, more onion, three types of kumara the indigenous sweet potato, apple slices, and carrot slices in an ordered pile. After sealing the foil around all this we place it on the grate in the oven and close the stainless steel lid. After a four hour exploration around town we return to unwrap a succulent lunch. Surprisingly, each of the different types of kumara has unique flavor and texture. We greedily sop up all the juices using about half a loaf of bread. LYNDA: Besides being a hot spot, Rotorua is a center of Maori culture. The Maori village is just a short walk away. Steam from deep inside the earth, vents out of fissures in the backyards of local homes in this Maori village. Bubbling and steaming creeks meander through neighbourhoods. Inlets of Lake Rotorua steam. Here beside the lake is the Maori church which is of Anglican denomination with services held in Maori. The inside of the church is well decorated with the intricate wooden carvings of tikis and symbolic Maori geometric designs. The Maori colours of blood red, black, green and white are selectively added to enhance the visual impact of the carvings. A colourful stained glass image of Jesus walking on water is positioned behind the altar. Outside the church the remains of an ancient canoe faces the lake. Across the small square, directly opposite the church is the marae. This is a sacred place for the Maori, a special meeting place and the seat of local Maori government. The marae is also a venue for wedding receptions for the Maori in this community. The front face of the building is elaborately caved with Maori images and painted blood red. We peer through the windows to see a large open space with walls completely covered with intricate wall grass and wood weavings and exposed wooden roof beams painted with intricate designs. This marae is opened only for community significant events. Close by another vent spews jets of steam from Mother Earth. Here near the central square is an art gallery – a Maori treasure house filled with carvings in kauri wood and greenstone plus other items of interest for locals and tourists looking to find that special memento. Greenstone is jade. There are two types of jade, jadeite and nephrite. The greenstone here in New Zealand is nephrite. Greenstone, also called pounamu, is carved into wearable art in the form of tikis and other culturally important Maori images. Highly prized by the Maori, greenstone is found predominately on the West Coast of the south island, high in the mountains. The tradition, we are told, is that greenstone is obtained only as a gift from another person. Now, that’s a great idea! Our walk through Rotorua takes us along the lake shore past gaping hole formations where more steam rises while other rock holes encircle bubbling mud. There is no scent of sulphur or rotten eggs, possibly due to the direction of the wind. The city’s Tudor-style museum is an impressive four storey building. Adjacent is the botanical rose gardens with a multicoloured display of roses. On we walk through the shopping section of town and stop in a corner grocery store where the proprietor is a jovial and talkative Fijian born man of Indian descent. He tells us of his long-term plans, and kava, the favourite drink of Fiji. Next is the city park where the grass lawn grounds are well peppered with fenced lakes. All of the lakes are steaming – what a great sight! JEFF: We spend the morning driving through the countryside around Rotorua visiting the fabled green and blue lakes which both look gray. Then it’s off to Taupo to visit friends Bob and Joan and sleep in a real bed. Lake Taupo is New Zealand’s largest lake. It’s one of the best places in the world to fish for rainbow trout and Bob is one of the best people to fish with. He’s not concerned with an early start because he fishes by the moon, even in broad daylight. “The moon will be right at about 1 pm today so let’s try to be on the water by about 10 or 11.” That works for us because we all have been staying up late sampling Joan’s fine cooking, such as smoked trout and pasta stirfry, and catching up on all manner of subjects. Bob loads his aluminum runabout with fly fishing gear and for us a couple of spin casting poles. Armed with one day fishing licenses and a hamper full of sandwiches we tow the tinny to a midsize Maori owned lake that Bob and a few others have special rights to fish. It’s windy so after floating the boat off its trailer we speed to a protected cove to set up the poles. “Since its windy let’s drift fish with flies.” Bob expertly whips Lynda’s pole to and fro then lays the fly gently on the water over 50 feet away. “Now keep the tip down and retrieve the fly a wee bit at a time making it look all natural.” Then he sets me up and we’re fishin’. It’s not long before Lynda has a fish on. She’s excited but keeps the pole up and the line taut, and soon Bob scoops up a very nice rainbow trout. “Do you mind if I release your fish? I think its good karma to give back the first one.” No worries! We continue to drift and cast. Both Lynda and I lose one, mine due to inattention, before I land a 21 inch rainbow. Lynda lands a 14 incher which we release before we move to another part of the lake for the prime fishing hours. After a quick lunch Bob has me drive until the depth sounder tells him we’re smack over a small drop off. In the next 2 hours I land a 3 to 4 pound trout, then Bob fishes for a few minutes and gets one. “That’s enough for me.” I take the pole again and land a shaker which we release. Lynda keeps getting strikes. At day’s end we have three large rainbows representing well over 10 pounds of fish flesh. Bob gives the caretaker one. “I’ll get the other two smoked and you can take them home.” I’m imagining a heaping plate of smoked trout stirfry. https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13457/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-3-Rotorua-and-Taupo-Two-Hot-Spots Travel New Zealand boomersontheroad https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13457/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-3-Rotorua-and-Taupo-Two-Hot-Spots#comments https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13457/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-3-Rotorua-and-Taupo-Two-Hot-Spots Sun, 30 Dec 2007 05:57:00 GMT 0 JEFF: The Dutch couple and ourselves have been waiting for nearly an hour. What began as an animated interchange between travellers has degraded into a desultory series of remarks as we wait for the overdue tour bus. Finally a brightly painted bus chugs up the driveway of the coastal motor camp and lurches to a halt. The beefy Maori driver strides out the door, looks us over and exclaims, “You’re late!!” We laugh and not for the last time. Jimmy is a hearty loud talkative funny knowledgeable tour guide. And he’s opinionated. As we motor up the two lane highway, heading to Cape Reinga at the northern tip of New Zealand, he has lots to say, especially about the Highway Department. “Look here. We are on New Zealand’s State Highway Number One and what do we have? A one-lane bridge!” And: “Feast your eyes on this engineering marvel. Four sharp curves and we can see straight from one end to the other of this section. What do those highway blokes think? That since its New Zealand all the roads have to be as crooked as a dog’s leg?” While telling bad jokes, he shows us little used beaches, rich avocado orchards, Maori ruins. He recounts the local history, which centered on the kauri tree, and adds history of a personal nature. “This country pub was where my mum and us kids would find my dad of a Friday evening and lead him home. He‘d be quite full. Like all the kauri getters he worked hard and played hard.” “Now this little store is where I’d spend all my pennies on lollies. You’ll meet my nana if you go in for an ice cream.” We did meet his petite and wrinkled nana who shovels two grand scoops of New Zealand’s signature hokey pokey ice cream (butter brickle) onto a cone, then smiles and says, “That’ll be two dollars, please.” Cape Reinga is a wind blown protrusion that divides the Tasman Sea from the Pacific Ocean. Once the necking couple notices we’ve invaded their space and goes to seek new privacy, we huddle in the lee of the bright white lighthouse and gape at the treacherous surf breaking over a reef that juts out for nearly a mile. After lunch it’s time to back track but soon we’re taking another route. Our rascal bus driver is taking us down a widely flowing sandy stream. “Row you warriors!” he shouts at us as the spray flies from the tires. We halt on a sand bar next to a very steep and well-travelled dune where our driver pulls out a few dozen flimsy plastic sleds. The adventurous ones trudge up the dune then try to slide down. Very few make it to the bottom still attached to their sleds but lots finish on their heads. Several are trying to clear compressed sand from their nostrils and ear canals. We finish up by driving down famous Ninety Mile Beach, which is 60 miles long. We sit on the sea side and enjoy watching the lapping surf and the occasional rock haystack while the bus motors us smoothly back to our fully packed vehicle. Under an evening sun we drive to the Bay of Islands where we pitch our tent right beside a peaceful bay in a motor camp surrounded by dark green forest. Sitting at our private beachside picnic table we enjoy dinner while watching the shadows lengthen. The lapping of tiny waves lulls us to sleep. The Bay of Islands was the first place in New Zealand settled by Europeans and by 1835 the settlement of Kororareka, later named Russell, housed a small garrison of British troops. Over 170 years later, the community of Russell doesn’t look to be much busier. Warmed by the sunshine but cooled by the breeze we stroll the nearly empty streets, look into quiet shops, and sit in the otherwise vacant lounge of an historic seaside hotel. At a nearby lookout, where the flag pole holding the Union Jack was chopped down so many times that the British had to wrap it in iron, we enjoy a 360 degree view of the bay. This includes two houses with shrubbery on their roofs and a modern sprawling mansion that we later learn serves as an exclusive hideaway for the rich and famous. It is rumoured the rooms go for $5,500 per night, if you are rich and famous enough to qualify for a quote. We return by the small car ferry to our side of the bay and drive past the tourist trap town of Paihia to Waitangi where in 1840 the treaty of the same name was first signed by 46 Maori chieftains, officially making New Zealand a British colony and the Maoris British subjects. Atop a nearby hill forested with exotic pines we watch the sun set over this historic area. We’re leaning against a round concrete table that at a cursory glance transforms into an intricately tiled sundial. Closer inspection reveals arrows pointing to various world capitals, with distances attached. An arrow pointing to the northwest informs me it is over 12,000 miles to London but when I wander over to that side of the sundial I am treated to an arrow pointing straight down that lets me know I can save over 4,000 miles by burrowing to London through the center of the earth. The aptly named Bay of Islands is dotted with nearly 150 islands, and today we are going to see most of them. We board the large aluminium catamaran that will cruise to all the major islands. This tour is called The Cream Trip because in the past they picked up containers of milk and cream from the small dairy farms located on these islands. The dairy farms have long since been retired but our very touristy vessel still delivers supplies to the isolated homesteads. It’s a bright sunny day yet windy and cold so we hurry to grab good seats in the large heated saloon on the main deck only to find we are the only ones choosing to occupy this theatre sized area. Given that every one else has hustled upstairs to the open vista deck where they can freeze and get sunburned simultaneously, we have a private door to the bow deck where we can take pictures then retreat into the warm cabin. The boat cruises through narrow passages and across spacious sounds, between forested and farmed islands and rocky protrusions. We sidle up to a small dock where the lady of the island accepts a box marked Avon and her dog accepts several dog biscuits from the crew. After picnicking under a spreading tree on an island with a low key resort and overcurious sheep, we clamber aboard for the advertised high point of the day, a journey to The Hole in the Rock. This is the farthest out point, past the lighthouse, with only the wide Pacific beyond. A five foot swell is running. As we approach the huge pointed rock arch it actually begins to look smaller yet the skipper is boasting over the intercom that he may pilot this three deck behemoth through it. Lynda doesn’t believe he means it until the intercom orders, “Will the two persons on the forward deck please hold on with both hands.” Yessir! We grab onto the bow railing and feel the pitch as our vessel begins plowing through The Hole. It gets darker and I hear a strange mix of echoes from the motor and the slapping surf. There’s not a lot of room to either side but the folks on the top deck aren’t noticing. They are all staring upward at the jagged ceiling that our boat gets considerably closer to every time we crest a swell. Then we’re back in the sunlight and motoring smoothly to port. https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13456/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-2-Farthest-North Travel New Zealand boomersontheroad https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13456/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-2-Farthest-North#comments https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13456/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-2-Farthest-North Sun, 30 Dec 2007 05:54:00 GMT 0 JEFF: It’s great to take a break. Whether it’s from the daily routines of work or an active retirement, new places and faces enliven the body and renew the spirit. We have only three weeks free so visiting an island nation like New Zealand makes sense. This is a good time of year to travel here. It’s almost summer but schools have yet to close for the combined Christmas and summer holidays. Although New Zealand has affordable cabin style accommodation in most of its motor camps, we can camp for half the price and splurge on a room when the mood or the weather hits us. This could prove to be a real concern because the climate statistics for the parts we plan to visit say that on average we should experience rain for one third of our days. Not to worry, our trusty mountaineering tent has never leaked since the day it was purchased in 1989. With confidence I stride up to the customs officer at New Zealand’s Auckland International Airport. Knowing of their strict quarantine regulations I feel prepared. “What, you washed your tent?!” the officer asks incredulously. “Why, I’ve never heard of that. But you didn’t do a very good job on the pegs. I see flecks of dirt. I’ll get them sterilised for you. You can pick your tent up at the window outside the customs area.” When I ask for my tent the blonde athletic-looking female in uniform laughs, “This is yours? And you washed it?? Crikey, but it stinks. And the rain fly is all stuck together. I wouldn’t sleep in this thing!” She’s still chuckling while I cringe off with our trusty but sticky and smelly shelter, vowing to never wash it again. They can wash it for me. Now we can pick up our rental car and go find the real New Zealand. I rummage in my daypack then unfold the reservation advice. In bold letters its titled El Cheapo, a reference to the class of motorcar we’re about to get. I am given a contract to peruse. It seems that the only guarantee specifically given is that our vehicle will have at least 200,000 kilometres on the clock. The agent drives up in a silver Nissan Sunny of unspecified vintage then walks around the car while furiously scribbling on the clipboard. “Have a look at this and if you agree please sign it. There’s lots of scratches and the like, which I’ve only roughly put down, so we won’t notice if you add a few more. We’ll only be concerned if you return it with a bent panel.” I perform a quick body check and see that two hubcaps and part of the front bumper are held together with plastic strap ties. Looking inside I find the assurance I was looking for and relate it to the agent, “I see that your organisation has exceeded their guarantee with this vehicle. There’s 220,000 kilometres on the odometer.” His businesslike expression changes to puzzled, “What? Oh, yeah, more than 200. Good one!” We drive off with everyone happy. Housing over a third of New Zealand’s four million population, Auckland is a big city and we aren’t planning to see much of it. We’re interested in the unique countryside, the palm and fern forests and the flightless birds, which include the nation’s mascot, the kiwi. Surprisingly, this leads us right downtown. After a long and restful sleep in our comfortable, clean smelling (after an afternoon’s airing out), and decidedly non-stick tent, we race to the heart of the beast that is Auckland to find maps, breakfast, and the one dock in this huge seaport where we are to meet our friends Judy and Shelley as they disembark from a cruise liner elegantly christened the Rhapsody of the Seas. We arrive with minutes to spare then whisk them past the numerous expensive shops to the Waitakere Ranges Regional Park on the island’s west coast. After being confronted by a Maori totem pole, a carved thirty-foot stack of grimacing tikis, we enter the park’s visitor centre where we are further intimidated by full size models of two of New Zealand’s extinct species of megafauna. I stand shoulder to shoulder with the flightless Moa which is depicted bent over in a grazing pose. If it were to raise its head it would seriously tower over me. Then I read it’s just a juvenile. When the Polynesian Maoris first landed here and spotted these huge flightless and blissfully unaware birds they realised the table was set. Anthropologists think it may have taken only three centuries for the Moa to be wiped out. Then the Maoris had to work harder for their meat. I look up and get a fright. Hovering right above me with outstretched talons is by far the largest eagle I have ever seen. Fortunately for my life expectancy this bird is a model that’s hanging lifelike from wires fixed to the ceiling. The information sheet tells me this eagle had a wing span of more than 10 feet. It also explains that the extinct eagle’s primary food was young Moas. We drive through the dark green forest down steep winding roads until we reach a volcanic black sand beach. Today the sand and ocean are grey. Both look cold. We walk along the beach then up a steep path through tall fern trees to a 130 foot tall water fall that splashes white on the rocks below, a fairy tale setting. Time is passing quickly and we start retracing our path back to the cruise ship lest it sail without two passengers. With just enough time, and in anticipation of an expansive view of the city, we visit Auckland’s historically infamous One Tree Hill. Once a pa or Maori fortress, this bald dome was topped with a sacred totara tree which the victorious British felled in 1876 and replaced with a pine which grew to regal dimensions until felled by a Maori protester in 1999. Since then two replacements have been planted, only to be felled within months. Now it is One Stump Hill. After dropping Judy and Shelly off we shop for groceries then return to the motor camp and go for a stroll. A few tiny derelict caravans (trailers) squat in various corners of the place. The sounds of radio or TV float from the darkness beyond their open doors. A heavy man on the wrong side of 60 emerges and shuffles to the ablution block to the toilets and showers. It seems that pensioners, mostly single men, inhabit these small spaces. We return to our tent and settle in for long, restful sleep. LYNDA: Whoa! What’s happening? Its pitch-black, middle of the night and the deep sound of “whup, whup, whup” from a helicopter positioned directly overhead shocks me awake. The sound is deep, loud and the tent shakes. Are they going to land on top of us? I realize they wouldn’t due to the trees we are camped beside. After two to three minutes the chopper leaves. Jeff’s earplugs help him slumber through the whole exciting event. What would a helicopter be doing at such a low flying level, hovering in that area and at that time of night? Mystery. We’re off to the kauri forests of Waipoua, many kilometres north and west of Auckland. The kauri is a majestic and historically important tree. These slow-growing native trees were native only in the Northland and on the Coromandel Peninsula to the east of Auckland. When European settlers arrived the kauri was recognized as a great source of material for sailing ship masts, buildings and fine furniture. For years kauri was logged and shipped to Britain. Kauri gum, which is hardened sap dropped from the trees, was also an important commodity. Dug from where it had fallen from the tree and got buried in the earth, the kauri gum (looks like chunks of amber) was used in the production of resins and linoleum. Then when the gum quantity dwindled, kauris were cut and ‘bled’ for their sap. This practice resulted in the destruction of those trees and the practice was stopped in the early 1900’s. Here’s Matakohe, the Kauri Museum on our way to Waipoua. This is a large interactive museum fully staffed and supported by volunteers. A simulated working saw mill holds massive kauri logs ready to be cut. Push a button and the mill starts up without the log actually being cut. Life-size mannequins dressed in the garb of the day wrestle with the logs. Another area houses a two storied boarding house of the era. Each room is a diorama again with life-size mannequins depicting some aspect of life in that area of New Zealand during the days when so much kauri was logged. In each diorama and all around us are items made from this beautiful, warm golden-glowing wood. Interestingly, each mannequin strikingly represents an actual person whose photo is mounted nearby. These are people whose families have historic significance in the area. A volunteer tells us that one of her friends aged 92 likes to dress up in her nightie and sit very still on the bed in one of the dioramas amongst the mannequins. When visitors are looking in she will then wink, or wiggle her toes, much to the shock of the observers. Another volunteer dresses up as a maid of the era and sits motionless on a chair in the hallway amongst the visitors. When a man in shorts stands beside her looking at a diorama, the ‘maid’ will tickle his bare legs with her feather duster. And boy do they jump! This is such an interesting museum. We’ve been here for over three hours and now our stomachs complain to be fed. Good thing we’ve got the makings for a picnic lunch and here outside overlooking green rolling hills and distant views we have our pick of picnic tables. Stomachs first, then Waipoua the giant kauri forest. We hear that the oldest living kauri named Te Matua Ngahere (Father of the Forest) is over 2,000 years of age and that the tallest kauri, Tane Mahuta (Lord of the Forest) is close by, both in Waipoua. Tane Mahuta is more than 50 metres tall with a trunk girth of up to 16 metres. In the late 1800’s the largest recorded kauri was taken on the Coromandel Peninsula. It had a girth of 88 metres! The only reason that the forests of Waipoua were saved from destruction was first due to their remoteness and then by the 1876 purchase by the Crown. Still the forests were vulnerable to logging. In the 1940s a campaign was started to ensure protection of the kauri. These efforts resulted in the creation of the 9105 hectare Waipoua Sanctuary in 1952. Camp set up in the Waipoua Forest campground we walk some tracks amongst the kauris on Rickers, Lookout and Toatoa Tracks. What a wonderful experience to be amongst these majestic trees. We’re up with the birds and eager to set off for walks to Te Matua Ngahere (oldest kauri), Tane Mahuta (tallest kauri), Yakas Kauri (seventh largest), the Four Sisters (stand of four very close kauris), and the Cathedral Grove (many kauris in close proximity). Standing near these trees, aware of their imposing sizes and ages, makes us feel tiny and like just a brief whisper of life on this planet. It has taken so many years for these trees to grow and man can cut them down in minutes. Mankind needs to protect these giants. Multiple camera images of kauris, we’ll head further north to Cape Reinga tomorrow. A hand painted sign beckons us up a gravel driveway to see kauri woodcraft. In the open garage a wiry man stands at a lathe. Then he sees us, grins and motions us to him. “Hi ya, I’m called Irish. I was a professional golfer’s caddy and now I have found my second love. I love to work with the kauri wood. Have a look!” He shows us inside his home stacked with beautiful hand turned platters and bowls. “I use the swamp kauri. ‘Now what is that,’ you ask. You see, scientists determined that between 45 and 50,000 years ago there was a massive earthquake resulting in many kauris falling to the ground. A watery swamp covered them and now they are being dug up, cleaned up and turned into beautiful art. They used carbon dating to confirm the age of these swamp kauri. Some the trees are so big that a man carved an entire circular staircase inside a huge stump using a chainsaw. He took months to finish it.” https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13455/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-1-Auckland-and-Kauri-Country Travel New Zealand boomersontheroad https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13455/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-1-Auckland-and-Kauri-Country#comments https://journals.worldnomads.com/boomersontheroad/story/13455/New-Zealand/ADVENTURE-1-Auckland-and-Kauri-Country Sun, 30 Dec 2007 05:52:00 GMT 0