boomers-on-the-road

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.