Hoist Me Down The North Island: Chapter One

And so the Stray bus tour of the North and South Island begins. Barely awake at dawn and finding introductions difficult to muster under a canyon of yawns I jumped aboard the orange coach (called Leslie, oddly) that would, for the next week or so, pass through motorways and farmland with the casual verve of the ricochets of a pinball. As is my want, I avoided tiring in the transparent early patter of customary small talk between the excitable passengers for the warm cotton comfort of my window seat, allowing my rucksack to sit nobly beside me to ensure that no one would be tempted to cross the barrier and detract my gaze out beyond the custard coloured curtains and on to the running tarmac. Once the sun arced slightly higher, my person began to thaw, and with a shrug I began to speak to the group. This took more vigor than I had anticipated and so I quickly retreated to the icy solace of my headphones.

The vehicle glowed cheaply in the daylight and after a few hours of passing smooth curved green hills, the first of many flocks of docile cream sheep and a few organic fruit and vegetable markets we arrived in Hahei, on the eastern side of the Coromandel Peninsula, located in close proximity to the grandeur of Cathedral Cove, where we flicked on our jandals and walked across the pearly beach just after our lunch. Our guide explained to us that towards Hahei, the conditions are such that growing the marijuana plant in abundance is of relative ease. Those with criminal tendencies, who do farm this scented herb, contribute purposefully to the large portion of possums who feast upon the drug unknowingly and in their light headed daze lurch like lemmings on to the moderate heat of the roads where on a daily basis they crush under the weight of passing Michelin tyres. We must have passed dozens of corpses of the now bloodied Cheech and Chong Marsupials on the tracks.

Attending Rabbit Shearing (i.e. Bond Villain-esque Torture)

At low tide, around six o'clock, we ventured forth to the infamous Hot Water Beach where we carried with us a small green plastic spade as well as a bucket of enthusiasm and awe at the natural phenomenon of geothermal activity where magma is found close to the earth's surface and thus heating the rocks and sand. After digging a small hovel, the water that plunged into it created a man made hot pool where we sat back and watched the fighting tide before us. A leisurely elderly couple nearby sat in their custom made jacuzzi complete with picnic basket and bottle of red wine. They didn't care to share this with anyone else though the selfish harpy's.


Excavation work on vacation

In booking my Stray tour in March, I had the satisfaction of being presented with a large discount on the package as well as a commendable bottle of white wine, named entertainingly as 'Stray Dog Piss'. As most of the group qualified for this wonderful perk, dusk passed with a barbecue which included a lavender coloured sweet potato mash along with copious swills of the hideous Stray vintage, that we had no other option but to feast upon. Florian, an erratically permed German, fell foul to the intoxication during an arduous game of cards, where he continued to lose, quite briskly, as soon as his unfortunate hand was dealt.


Stray bunch at a 'secret' hot water pool

The second day of the tour leaned towards more relaxation, this time within the quaintly painted walls of the surfing town Raglan. Any street where the al fresco diners bathe in warm sea air whilst consuming the sharp delights of an eggs benedict is fine by me. Our accommodation was a surprise, high up in the hills a bush lodge where a winding trail hung loosely around the enclosure like an aged leather belt, was to be our home for the night. From the terrace you could lose time in watching the surf boards trace the cool blue waves as the surrounding forest stirred gently or, like me, you could simply head down to the communal room to lay on an impotent beanbag and watch S.W.A.T. with Colin Farrell. The group were led to an astonishing observatory at twilight a few yards from the lodge. We were treated to a canopy of silver stars, the like never witnessed by myself before, flickering and burning with a certain knowing charm. Far in the distance you could make out the haze surrounding Auckland, a gentle reminder of the corruption of industry in such an unspoilt land.

Boiling Mud Pool

The clear environment enabled us to have plenty of rest, and the conserved energy was utilised the next morning during an abseiling and caving exploration of St Benedict's Cave in Waitomo. The abseil, 80 feet into total darkness was a treat, considering that I had never abseiled (nor wished to) before and as it was not even advertised on the pamphlet I had browsed. However, it's an easy enough activity for one as familiar with Ethan Hunt's nimble work in the Grand Canyon in Mission Impossible: 3. The cave itself was very enticing, the pink rock formations and army of silent stalactites and stalagmites stretching my Geography A Level considerations. The real highlight though was gripping on to a Flying Fox and swinging haphazardly across the cave, at speed, reminiscent of the talented and ingenious Data in The Goonies. On completing the circuit we were treated by our impish and comedic guides to a plethora of chocolate bars, where handfuls of Cadbury's Fish - a flagship candy bar on these shores - were shoved greedily into my pockets when not in view.

Once I had taken off my fetching blue overalls and hardhat, it was time to drive over to Maketu, a small coastal town on the Bay of Plenty, named by the Maori's after an ancient kumara pit. This was to be the ensemble's cultural exchange stop, and for me an important realisation of understanding and embracing the values and traditions of the Maori people. Our host for the evening was a kind and diabetic Maori called Uncle Boy, who created this cultural night to honour his Father and Mother and to harvest the importance of his heritage. We were given strict instructions to acknowledge the family with a hongi (nose to nose greeting) and a cry of Kia Ora! (it's too orangey for crows). The Tribe demonstrated a traditional Poi dance, where the females sang a lilting folk song with only the strumming of a guitar to guide the melody.

The climax of the show was the young men performing the Haka war dance, their eyes wide with hate and tongues protruding like daggers from the mouth to intimidate. We were not prepared for the next scene, which was the astonishing revelation that the tribe, fresh from scaring us with their thunderous rendition, were to teach the men from the tour group to complete the Haka in front of the girls and in the looming shadow of Uncle Boy. The eldest male was appointed as The Chief (no, not me, but an American chap named Tyler, though as he had just joined this leg of the trip an hour before, we had never been introduced to him formally and so we all delighted in calling him The Chief, for ease and to settle any possible confusion).

I had not envisioned taking off my shirt and shorts to wear a skimpy skirt whilst attempting to scare an audience with the moves that Richie McCaw could pull off but I could certainly not. After a performance that can only be described as ritual humiliation, our hosts were kind enough of heart to give us a score of 11 out of 10.
For the funniest Haka they had ever witnessed.
To be fair, The Chief did all he could to gee up his cowardly entourage, but with little success.

What? You're not petrified of these warriors?

When the time came to sheepishly put on our shirts and re-trace our lost pride, we all headed down to the neighbouring beach for a nighttime campfire. Luckily, no one had bought with them their rusty acoustic guitar and so I got away with listening to a chorus of fools, and instead could only repeat the echo of the Haka and how I had failed it with my jazz hands and tepid voice.