May 6th - The Waitomo Caves

I will gladly jump out a plane, throw myself from a bridge, or plummet off a 7m waterfall, but don’t ask me to go caving. The sport of caving, by definition, states that an individual in a cave is not a caver until they have attempted to find their way without maps or a guide. This often involves squeezing through tight spaces and discovering new passageways by travelling underwater. I can now officially add caving to my curriculum vitae. Kelsey and I, along with our recent addition Simon Lee, drove west from Rotorua to the Waitomo Caves, an area of hilly farmland that upon closer inspection resembles Swiss cheese. Waitomo is covered in hundreds of caves and holes of all shapes and sizes, many of which have tours running through them featuring various adventure activities. We decided upon one called Rap, Raft, and Rock. If you’re a bit slow that means rappelling, rafting, and rock climbing. I must add that I ate a massive plate of bangers ‘n’ mash before caving that was supremely delicious and reminded me of the monstrous meals I’d eaten to fuel back up at the end of a day in my walk across England. Back to the story, Simon had done a similar tour a few weeks back and had mentioned that caving is part of the overall experience. This had my heart going a bit; it was only recently that I’d watched 127 hours and the images were still fresh in my mind. Our tour began with a 27m rappel down a crevice literally in the middle of nowhere followed by a trek into the blackness lit only by our headlamps. We’d only been walking for a minute or so when the guide said that in order to prove ourselves ready for the rest of the journey we’d need to experience some proper caving. He sent the six of us in the tour group off down a separate corridor promising that he’d be waiting for us in a while once we’d found our way. Our corridor led upwards for a while, over sharp rocks that were barely suitable for climbing before descending sharply, leaving us facing a small hole with only one way to go, inside. It was a tight enough squeeze for me to feel quite uncomfortable but being in the middle of the group certainly helped. I was thinking to myself the whole time how nice it was to have lost so much weight. At the end of the squeeze we came to a wider room with two exits this time, though both of them were noticeably smaller than the one we’d just come through. Our guide was on the other side telling us that we needed to go on our chests with our arms straight ahead of ourselves, slithering like snakes. As much as I would’ve felt better crawling I was inclined not to argue with a professional and I found that when I eventually came to the end, it was so tight I wouldn’t have been able to fit my arms at my sides. In order to remove myself, I was told that I had to somehow roll myself onto my back and grip my hands to the rocks on the roof and pull myself free. Even though it probably took only 30 seconds to manoeuvre from my chest to my back, it felt like hours in my mind. Putting myself in a situation as claustrophobic as that is something I never want to do again. I am glad that I did it and overcame my fear but I most certainly wasn’t surprised when afterwards the guide explained that at least once a week someone loses their cool and just starts screaming like a baby. After that harrowing experience we were treated to a lightshow by the glow-worms that attach to the cave ceiling and illuminate it like constellations. The guide then asked that we turn off our headlamps to fully appreciate their luminescence. We sat in the dark for a while when suddenly their came a thunderous crack from somewhere nearby. The guide had slapped an inner tube against the water and the loud noise had caused our heart to beat faster and our pupils to dilate, making our eyes better suited to take in the light from the glow-worms. If we weren’t frightened enough by that, the guide proceeded to explain how 3m long eels swim around in the water we’d been wading through. Everyone moved a bit more cautiously after that tidbit of information. We were then allowed to float down the underground stream in our tubes which was relaxing for a few moments before we hit small rapids and waterfalls that had jagged rocks poking our behinds when the water became too shallow. We came to a point where the walls narrowed slightly and the guide stood up and asked the tour group if anyone could guess where we were heading next. After a few incorrect responses he pointed to a small hole in the rock wall, barely visible above the water level. Apparently we were expected to stick our legs through the hole, hold our breath and be shoved underneath rock and water such that we would emerge a few feet later on the other side of the wall. This was worse than the tight squeeze because at least in there I could breathe. It took all my strength not to panic under there and hit my head on the wall while passing through but somehow I emerged on the other side with nothing but lots of water up my nose. We were given hot lemon drinks and dairy milk chocolate for a reward before wading against the stream we’d just tubed down to make it back to where we’d dropped in. The last step was climbing back up the 27m we’d rappelled down in the first place. I found myself at the front of the line and went first while everyone watched my technique and choice of path from below. Hopefully they didn’t see me struggle and lose my footing near the top, or see the cuts I received all over my hands at the very end. I bet I made this tour sound absolutely horrible but it really wasn’t. For what I paid I certainly got my money’s worth which was an inexperience I’ll never forget. That evening we were the only guests at a hostel run by the tour company so we had an entire farmhouse to ourselves and after that ordeal the prawn stir fry and cheap wine was one of best dinners I’d ever had.

May 4th and 5th - Tauranga to Rotorua

Rotorua stinks, but please, allow me to clarify.  The town itself is curled around Lake Rotorua where geothermal activity causes steam to rise out of every sewer grate and the sulphur smell of rotten eggs to permeate the air. So yes, Rotorua does stink, but not metaphorically speaking. Kelsey and I put our new principle into practice and chose the hostel with the highest BBH member rating rather than the one that tempted us with its movie theatre and climbing wall. We weren’t disappointed; the Funky Green Voyager had a down to earth vibe that we immediately fell in love with, prompting us to book two nights rather than our usual of just one. We scored an awesome twin in a bunkhouse separate from the main house that had the greatest item of luxury in a hostel room yet; a table! Since we didn’t need to be out first thing in the morning I decided to unload all my gear onto said table and try to become a little more organized with the minor items I seemed to be perpetually misplacing. Kelsey got a good chuckle out of the horrible Chinese to English translation on my dollar store toothpaste and more chuckles later as it took me 4 disposable razors to shave my 10 days of beard growth. Not only had the rain ceased but the sun was out in full force that first day so we rented bikes from the motel across the road and took a little trip to the center of town to see some of the mud pits and thermal baths. We worked up a sweat and so, on a tip from our good friends at Lonely Planet, we took a 25 minute car ride south, turning onto a gravel road off the main highway to a place called Kerosene Creek. It was there that we found one of those fantastic word-of-mouth spots that are treasured by locals because the majority of the tourists either don’t know about it or don’t have the means to get there. Walking down a secluded path lead to a tiny waterfall that fed a small pool where one can take a bath in water a little milder than your average hot tub. We soaked in there for an extended period of time as it was nothing short of heavenly. After about half an hour I decided that I’d gotten too many little rocks in my trunks so we were got up to leave when some bohemian-looking dude, beer in hand and walking his dog, passed by overhead. I gave him a friendly peace sign which he returned though I could read the slightest hint of disappointment that he didn’t have the spot to himself. It took us all of 30 seconds to dry off and grab our belongings to leave but the hippie couldn’t contain himself and stripped down to his birthday suit before we’d gotten out of sight. Regardless, it was one of the highlights of the trip thus far, a testament to the uniqueness of New Zealand that one can find if willing to search. We decided that our nerves had finally settled since the Auckland bungee and it was time to get the adrenaline flowing again so we booked a tour with a rafting company that takes thrill seekers over the highest commercially raft-able waterfall in the world, a 7 meter drop. We got suited up in wetsuits and ugly sweaters before enduring about half an hour of safety procedures. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the francophone couple from New Caledonia who barely spoke English and were dumfounded by the thick kiwi accent of our instructor. It was a fresh and exciting experience that has me completely stoked for our three day paddle down the Whanganui River even though I did sustain a rather nasty injury. I was quick to realize that there is only so much that the company can account for safety wise, and that the insurance forms we signed prior to rafting were without a doubt carefully worded such that we were essentially signing our lives over. It really is every man for himself out on the water, you try and work as a team but when you’re hurtling towards a waterfall or rock ledge all you really care about is saving your own bacon. Oddly enough we made it down the 7m one relatively smoothly. I was curled up in a ball at the front and the worst I got was a bunch of water up my nose and a few seconds of disorientation. My injury came a little later when we purposefully paddled back into some rapids so that they’d pull us in and we’d get flung about. We were pushed at a decent pace towards the rocky sides of the valley and, being in the front and tall, I had to lean back because I was sliding underneath an overhang. The space got tighter and tighter and as a natural defence mechanism I raised my arms to protect my face resulting in a series of cuts and scrapes along the length of my left arm. The captain at the back of the raft was rather impressed and pondered whether or not to try that with subsequent tours. We got some cool pictures and I got the added bonus of cleansing my wound with some rub that stung like hell so altogether it was an amazing experience. We met up with Simon Lee later that evening and introduced him to another one of our resolutions; if someone isn’t jealous of the dinner we’ve cooked, we haven’t done our job. We got this idea after everyone in the hostel stopped to comment on our homemade pizzas that had mushrooms, spinach, and fresh mozzarella. That 2^nd evening we treated ourselves to hot dogs with onions, beans, pan roasted potatoes and salad. Everyone was jelly again. With our bellies full and our bodies broken we went to bed knowing that the next day we’d be squeezing through tight spaces 27m underground at the Waitomo Caves.

May 3rd - Hahei to Tauranga

As someone with a little more experience in the hosteling universe, I attempted to dissuade Kelsey from choosing the particular hostel in Tauranga she was interested in. Although it has a population similar to that of Red Deer, Tauranga is the 6^th largest city in New Zealand meaning that it would have more of a big city feel than one might expect. After our week of solitude on sparsely populated tracts of beachfront, Kelsey was ready for a night on the town, and I’ll admit I was too. For this reason, she suggested we consider the most centrally located hostel called Loft 109 Backpackers. I had my heart set on a little place 20 minutes from the city centre called ‘Just the Ducks Nuts’; the name alone being a sure sign of an off-beat, welcoming place. Since our arrival in the country we had been blessed with a series of amazing hostels, all of which were clean with spacious, well stocked kitchens.  Their main selling point however had been the amount of privacy for the price we paid. We’ve been paying on average about $25 NZD (under $20 CDN) for a twin room each night, and on those nights where we opted for a share (up to 4 people) or a dorm (4+ people), we’ve been lucky enough to find most of them empty of other travellers. Loft 109 broke our chain of good luck in every way possible. Our hostel guide advertised that it had parking available but upon inquiry the young girl at the desk denied this, taking our money before we could reconsider. A small, handwritten sign behind her head declared that all prices had increased as of May 1^st (yesterday), making our plan to save some cash by sleeping in a dorm irrelevant. Entering the dorm room brought a punch to the face courtesy of a pungent mix of body odour being battled by too much axe. We took the two empty top bunks and escaped immediately, holding our breath. Passing through the common room, we ran into the creatures that had produced the stink, a posse of nerds playing World of Warcraft at the shared computer terminals. Their leader was some short, repugnant German freak who was fond of chasing the female guests around with busy fingers. Easily the greasiest human being I’ve had the displeasure of sharing company with in recent memory. We decided then and there that we’d leave the hostel immediately, returning only to eat and sleep, and that at first light we would hop in the car and switch to another place. This experience brought about our 2^nd resolution; to only stay in hostels with ratings of 80%/4 stars or higher in our trusted hostel bible. We parked the car in an overnight garage which was a tad pricey, though not as bad as some other cities I’ve been to. We wandered the city centre buying toiletries to replace the ones I’d left in a bag sitting on the windowsill of the last hostel. We eventually found ourselves at Mount Maunganui, a coastal suburb dominated by the mountain in question that is in possession of one of the most congenial beaches I’d ever seen. Generous portions of white sand stretch as far as the eye can see in both directions, complimented by interesting rock formations here and there. This place exists on a small strip of land, culminating in an oval whose pinnacle is dotted with luxury lodges and cute coffee shops. We lay on a grassy outcrop that was practically floating in the sea and relaxed, eating mandarin oranges straight from a tree at the last hostel. It was soon time to return for dinner where we were greeted with a kitchen that would be best suited for about 3 people, though at this particular time it was attempting to accommodate about 12. Apparently the nerds were in dire need of sustenance to continue their gaming marathon, so a handful of their minions commandeered the entire kitchen space at the precise time that others were looking to cook dinner such that they could conjure up a variety of sugary desserts. It was impossible for us to use the internet to pass the time as their gaming was taking up all available bandwidth. We were eventually able to secure a hob and make pasta which we devoured hungrily and then proceeded to escape back to the sanctuary of the outdoors. The evening found us in the Crown and Badger pub, right on the waterfront. It turned out that Tuesday’s are game night, so Kelsey and I entered as Team Canada while we sipped some local brews brought to us by a bartender who happened to be from New Brunswick. Despite most of the trivia being very much kiwi-oriented and being on a team that was only a duo whereas most had 5+, we found ourselves leading after 2 rounds. I guess the flabbergasted locals didn’t count on two university degree holding Canadians to waltz in and steal their thunder. Our success was short lived as the later rounds held many questions related to rugby and shitty New Zealand sitcoms, but we did admirably enough and had the host singing O Canada throughout the evening. It turns out that linens, duvets, and towels were all extras that required purchasing so we slept on empty beds out of spite. Kelsey used my hoodie as a quilt, I used my Spoon t-shirt. We were awoken several times by the nerds, often arguing in French, and a cell phone that went off periodically through the night. We were up at first light and got the hell out of there as fast as we could. At checkout, some different employee at the front desk informed us that street parking was indeed free and available after a certain hour. Needless to say, we were not impressed. Rather than risk finding another hellhole of a hostel we decided to continue on the ol’ dusty trail and leave the otherwise beautiful Tauranga behind with hope that the known tourist hot-spot of Rotorua would welcome us with open arms. It did.

May 2nd (Coromandel Town to Hahei)

We put the ghost town of Coromandel in our rear-view accompanied by, you guessed it, more rain. The weather was slowly turning our post-Auckland quiet time into an indoor only experience and I think it’s fair to say that no one in New Zealand should be confined to the indoors. Even if our plan was merely to relax in quaint, coastal towns for a week before our trip really took off, was it too much to ask for a little beach time? As we traversed the hilly highways at a mind-numbing 30kph towards Hahei, Kelsey and I began discussing the first of many stipulations for the rest of the trip. This first stipulation was that we’d try to summon everything within ourselves to make the most of any situation, regardless of the weather. We were both still in high spirits at the time, remaining mentally stimulated by the ever changing scenery and physical stimulated by our fantastic home cooked meals. This, however, could only carry us so far so we decided to give the rain a big old middle finger and push forward for Hot Water Beach (an area where underground heating allows one to dig their own hot tub). Well the rain retaliated immediately; the windshield wipers on our rental car become overworked and one of them lost its grip to the rubber casing, causing it to come loose and not clear the water away adequately. Within moments I realized that unless the rain calmed down, I couldn’t drive safely. After being reassured by a phone call to the manager of the rental car company that they’d compensate us if we paid for any repairs, we found a service shop in small town along the highway and got the problem fixed for a mere $6.50 NZD. We finally reached the hostel (which we pretty much had to ourselves) and asked to borrow spades to dig holes at Hot Water Beach. We received the same reaction we’d been getting for the past few days; a double take from us, to the rain, and back again, followed by an awkward silence, followed by a reluctant acceptance. Most locals had a hard time understanding our motivation to do some of the things in our Lonely Planet guidebooks given the current conditions. We bit the bullet and sprinted from the car to the beach amongst the downpour only to find a stream of water that had formed, separating us from our destination. I took a first step into the stream and sunk a little, the second step saw me fall a solid foot and a half, bruising my ankle in the process. It was back to the car after that. Dejected, we decided to follow signs to some hot springs, which, in the spirit of the new promise we made to ourselves, we regarded as the lazy man’s Hot Water Beach. After driving to a dead end we concluded that the sign had been lying to us and that some higher power was mocking our attempts at making the most of the day. The saving grace came on the barefoot drive back to the hostel where the rain paused for a moment allowing us time to check out Cathedral Cove, a rock formation at the end of a beautiful 45 minute coastal walk. This was particularly nice for me as it was a precursor to what I imagine some of the multi-day walks I plan to do will be like. Back at the hostel we decided to do the only truly New Zealand-ish thing we could find available; watch Lord of the Rings. It was a rather lovely ending to an otherwise almost entirely lousy day, although even the DVD skipped enough that I once again wondered if we really had done something to upset the gods of New Zealand weather. Before I have everyone worried that this trip is taking a turn for the worst and that we aren’t having as much fun as we should let me assure you that the next blogs concerning Tauranga and Rotorua amount to a return to form for the trip. I’ll put it in plain English; it feels as though I’ve lived and done more here in a week than I otherwise might have done in a year. I love driving from town to town, sleeping in a new bed every night, and meeting new people every night. I feel guilty buying food from a restaurant because I’m having way too much fun cooking exciting dinners in hostel kitchens each evening. I’m excited that this trip has got me thinking about a new lifestyle for myself, but above all I’m most excited by the fact that after all that pre-trip research, most of which went into the early hours of the morning, I’m liking  New Zealand as much as I hoped I would.

April 30th/May 1st (Piha to the Coromandel Peninsula)

Kelsey and I met two Swedish girls in Piha who had just graduated from high school and were nearing the end of a trip eerily similar to ours. Sometime in the middle of our conversation I excused myself to check on the raspberry Jello we had placed in the fridge a couple hours earlier. Undoubtedly intrigued by the exquisite dinner they had just seen us devour, one of the girls inquired into what we had for dessert. As I brought it over it became clear that they had either don’t have Jello in Sweden or it exists in some other form under some other name because they regarded it with caution bordering on unease. I relate this to you as a preface in explaining our one and only in-joke of the trip so far. Kelsey and I have constantly been either boasting over our possessions or jokingly attempting to one-up one another for one miniscule reason or another ever since I asked her if she was ‘jelly’ (read: jealous) of some sushi I had bought in Auckland. The phrase ‘you jelly?’ has become something of a contest whereby we try to evoke jealously, all in good fun of course, towards a cause that is ultimately pointless. If I’ve lost some of you, here’s an example. Kelsey bought a fairly large chocolate muffin so, naturally, I needed to buy a massive chocolate frosted cookie with macadamia nuts generously embedded within. Kelsey takes a bite thinking I will be jealous of its tastiness and says ‘you jelly, Colin?’ My response being to produce my oversize cookie, take an inappropriately large bite and reply ‘YOU jelly, Kelsey?’ while I smile with chocolate stuck in my teeth and crumbs falling all over my lap. I figured this explanation would be important so you could appreciate my amusement in asking Kelsey if she was ‘jelly of my jelly’ in reference to the raspberry Jello, to which the Swedish girls became infinitely confused but Kelsey did not shy away from trying to explain our stupid joke. We started out the next day with the intention of going to the town of Thames on the west coast of the Coromandel Peninsula, hoping to either do a bush walk or rent some kayaks. Being a gentleman I manned the wheel for the 3 hour drive only to discover that Thames was kind of a dive. This judgment was probably compounded by the torrential downpour that tormented us the entire way so we decided to buy some groceries for dinner and push on to the next big town on the map, appropriately named Coromandel Town. Despite it being a sublimely gorgeous drive, akin to what driving along the fjords of Norway must feel like, I was not jelly of Kelsey who had taken over command of the wheel. The highway, if one can call it that while keeping a straight face, was nothing short of a deathtrap. In fact we did end up having to stop the next day to receive instruction from a police officer in how to bypass the queue of police vehicles present to deal with a van that had plopped off the side of the road. In the end we were quick to realize that some small towns could exist anywhere and no one would be able to distinguish them. Although it wasn’t quite yet the off season, the town was still completely dead. Our hostel guide certainly had no reservations about hyping up the hostel we ended up staying at as a hip, happening place. What we found was an empty dorm room and a common room populated with five morose-looking people outside the backpacker age demographic reading bad fiction. Luckily Kelsey had planned ahead for this sort of thing and picked up a 6 pack of kiwi beer at the supermarket. We almost felt guilty making noise as we fried up our mushroom cheddar burgers for dinner in the kitchen attached to the common room. Our escape plan was to head down to the local pub and see what was going down but we bumped into a woman from London, Ontario who managed to keep us occupied with conversation until about 8pm. By this point it had been pitch black outside for a couple of hours. Feeling adventurous, possibly due to the brews we’d put back, we ventured into town only to find that everything was shuttered up and it resembled a horror film set in a sleepy western town in the late 19^th century. Store signs creaked in the wind and the few streetlamps on the main drag cast an eerie glow, emphasizing the emptiness in the immediate surroundings. We returned to the hostel a little dejected but glad to have burned off a little of the beer and beef. The bathroom attached to the dorm we had to ourselves had the delightful quirk of having no shades on its windows. Had the hostel been anywhere else but the middle of nowhere, some lucky passerby would’ve been treated to a show of our naughty bits as we took our showers. The rains intensified overnight with the wind being so powerful that it pushed open the door that I had purposefully shut. I know now that I’m never going to be cut out for small town living. Seclusion within reason, yes, but I’ll always need a little action to compliment my remoteness, in other words, it’s all relative. To sum this up succinctly with everything I’ve just written, let’s just say that I’m not jelly of anyone who lives there.

April 30th (Ahipara to Piha)

Unable to reach the northern tip of the country due to flooding, Kelsey and I were faced with what might be the longest drive of our stay here. A few hours into the journey down the west coast of Northland and I had officially confirmed that the highway system of New Zealand is one punchline after another. In short bursts, the single lanes, endless curves, and fluctuating altitudes are heaps of fun making you feel like the world’s slowest performance driver. In the long term you begin to notice how fundamentally flawed the position of posted signs are as constant reminders of the 100 kph speed limit are sandwiched between turns so close to cliff edges that you’d be foolish to round them doing more than 35. Kelsey and I made a pact to never drive more than 4 hours in a day and never at night, if we can help it. Even with riding a car ferry to cut out a substantial portion of the road, the drive from Ahipara up near the southern tip of 90 mile beach to the coastal town of Piha, 45 minutes west of Auckland in the Waitekere Ranges took about 7 hours. I can imagine the distance between them ranges somewhere between 350 and 400km, in other words it was excruciatingly slow going. The drive itself was punctuated with highs and lows. The tallest kauri tree in New Zealand, Tane Mahuta (aka Lord of the Forest), greeted us in the Waipoua forest. We stopped for lunch in Dargaville, the sweet potato capital of New Zealand (yahoo!). While shopping for the evening’s dinner Kelsey was overcome with a craving for a hot dog and I thought to myself, who am I to deny such a request on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday? We poked into a tiny takeaway down the road and Kelsey inquired after one despite it not appearing on the menu. 10 minutes later she was issued a lukewarm corndog complete with a frozen core, possibly a kiwi delicacy, I’m not certain on that though. With our spirits dejected we pushed forward; luckily New Zealand is so damn pretty otherwise the grind of the drive may have driven us to start singing 90s pop tunes or playing I spy. A scenic lookout here and there eased us along and despite not having a phone number for the brand new hostel in Piha we decided to attempt it anyway, knowing full well that a lack of vacancy meant we would probably be sleeping in the car or on the beach. The road into Piha was the worst of all, with 30 minutes of signs politely asking you to accommodate bicycles while doing 70 down near vertical cliffs. Being in the southern hemisphere it turns pitch black just after 6 so we rolled into Jandal Palace in the dark. The owner, Geoff, was born in Toronto, raised as a child in Banff, but a kiwi at heart as he lived the majority of his childhood here. While probably only in the dying stages of his 20s his brain appeared to have succumbed entirely to the beach lifestyle. He spoke slow and childlike, and was nowhere to be found around 8 when the power went out as he had driven himself to the local pub, a 10 minute walk away. We were a little wary as this was the most we’d paid for a place yet, and for the $30 we were only getting a bunk in a dorm room, however this was easily the nicest hostel we’ve stayed at yet. It would be the equivalent of a $150 stay in some larger tourist trap but we were treated to a glorious, modern villa with spectacular views of the hills with a roaring fire by its spacious kitchen. Never again will I pay more than $30 for a room if I can find places like this all over New Zealand. We’ve been cooking in every night, half to save money and half because we enjoy the process. Kelsey makes a mean chicken fajita and I dabble in the breakfast process. After the immediate thrills of the bungee jump I am very much in love with the relaxed pace we’ve settled into these past few days. Early to bed, early to rise, while good homemade food, great views, and interesting company greet us every night. I should have no trouble settling into a carefree lifestyle in a single place once this holiday is over.

April 27th to 29th, Northland (Auckland to Ahipara)

I'd read a million times that the weather here is unpredictable but I'm inclined to disagree as I have already come up with a little trick to figure it out in advance. Simply take whatever you have planned for the day and imagine the ideal weather, now take that image and toss it into the trash. That won't be the weather for the day. This may sound like a complaint against New Zealand however it is rather the opposite as I've come to find that changing your plans accordingly often results in unexpected delights. We had planned to spend day three on Waiheke Island and rent scooters because, let’s be honest, who doesn't want to scoot around on a tropical island with no real destination all day? We decided to move this plan up to day two to capitalize on the decent amount of sunshine we were getting and expedite the beginning of our road trip but the off-and-on rain decided to intensify just as we were boarding the ferry from Auckland, quashing our plans. As a last minute plan B we chose to rent a car instead which happened to lead to two positives; firstly, I got in some much needed practice driving on the left and secondly, we were able to go much further than the scooters were allowed which amounted in access to some spectacular, secluded bays. I've decided that over the next 6 weeks I'm going to make a list of 10 places which I could see myself returning to for work after Kelsey goes home, eventually narrowing it down to a single winner. Waiheke Island is the first on the list; it is only 30 minutes by ferry from the Auckland CBD, it is a full degree or two hotter on average than the city, and it still falls under the city's jurisdiction meaning that it has all the public services and amenities (trash pickup, post, etc) that distinguish it from some of the other inhabited islands. It could be called a suburb of Auckland, one that has managed to retain its do-it-yourself aesthetic, complete with non-linear streets that service tiered houses built to maximize sea views. Far enough away for one to feel solitude but close enough to the city to avoid isolation. Keeping with the wacky weather motif, our first day with the rental car saw a downpour of rain which seemed a tad cruel considering I was already nervous about getting through the major city motorways alive. Auckland's seemingly inept traffic patterns were a blessing in disguise as their extended red lights gave me ample time to remind myself the proper protocol for turning into the left lane. We stocked up on groceries at a local supermarket, plugged in the i-trip and set off north aiming to be in Paihia for the late afternoon. About 5 minutes out of Auckland the highway cuts down to only one lane and it remains that way for as far north as you can go. The speed limit remains 100 kph and this made for a few nail-biters as I was unaccustomed to judging the distance between the left side of our vehicle and the ditch. We decided to stop at as many points of interest on the map as possible which had a success rate of about 50%. One detour led to a refinery tour which we decided was a bit too dry for our tastes while another led to the Hundertwasser Public toilets, an Austrian artist's brainchild which sees unique design choices go towards building a room in which many people relieve themselves daily. Paihia turned out to be about as tourist-y as can be with advertisements for overpriced cruises everywhere you turn. The surrounding bay was undeniably pretty but the boutique shops mixed with the pouring rain have me deciding not to add it to the top 10 list. We were only there for the one night, the highlights of which include biking along the beach in the pouring rain and watching what appeared to be the town's entire police force hop the fence at the neighboring hostel to apprehend someone who had probably  just forgotten to pay and was a victim of the cops off season boredom. This morning we drove inland to the west eventually crossing from the Pacific Ocean to a small town called Ahipara on the Tasman Sea. We took what we were told would be an 8km detour to see the 8th largest kauri tree in New Zealand which turned into an hour long grind up an unpaved mountain road. At one point I thought that we'd reach the top only to find a sign that read ''gotchya you stupid tourists'', but it turned out to be worth it, even if Kelsey nearly got us into three accidents. Speaking of which, I hope the rental car company doesn't inspect the bottom of our car because It's more than likely riddled with dents and scrapes. Our second night post-Auckland added another place to my top 10. Ahipara, how I love thee. No shops or anything in sight, just 1800s villas that dot the beachfront and the surrounding hills. Our hostel had dogs, cats, hammocks, a herb garden, and an acoustic guitar to play, just to name a few of the cooler aspects. We were told by the proprietor that most people who stayed one night decided to stay a second, and we were inclined to agree. However flooding on the road to the northernmost point in New Zealand (Cape Reinga) has forced us to ask for a refund for our second night and we now sit, scanning our maps for adventure along the west coast of Northland, back towards Auckland and beyond.