I discovered on this route that I really didn't understand the whole Kiwi "give way to the right" driving rule, so I decided to simply play it safe and always give way when unsure, frustrating more than one of my fellow drivers along the way. I also discovered the reason my rental car looked like someone had thrown bags of coins against it. PEBBLES! Apparently every stretch of road south of Auckland is strewn with them. When I had picked up the car, the agent had told me to note any scratches on the agreement's illustration. "Are you kidding me?", I asked, to which he responded by grabbing the pen out of my hand and jabbing the page repeatedly, until the car in the drawing looked as covered in freckles as I am.
The trip would have been entirely pleasant were it not for the bizarrely out-of-character aggression of New Zealand drivers. I swear, Kiwis are the nicest people in the world until you put them behind the wheel; then they transform into Mad Max. I considered 5 kphs over the speed limit to be an acceptable pace; you would have thought I was a blue hair going 20 kphs under, the way those behind me would whip around to pass me when the opportunity arose, honking irritably as they went. (Most roads in NZ have only one lane in each direction, with passing lanes every 5 kilometers or so.) I grant that Irwin-- we named the car after my sloth-like landlord back in Jersey-- had some trouble with hills, and when faced with them, we DID sometimes fall to 20 kphs under as I tapped the dashboard encouragingly, willing Irwin to make it to the crest. But given the sheer number of clunkers puttering about the NZ roadways, I would have thought other drivers were used to this phenomenon by now.
After a long slog up and down any number of twists and turns, my steerage of which prompted Noelle to utter a phrase never before spoken: "Lin, you're a really good driver, we pulled into the town of Matarangi around 4pm. A local CouchSurfer I had contacted ages ago had kindly agreed to host all three of us for the night. He'd left the door open for us, so we dropped our stuff off in the room he had set up for us, and we took a walk on the beach.
Scott had gotten home while we were out, and his friend Neville arrived from a 26-mile bike ride shortly thereafter so we watched the sunset and got to know each other over the first of many bottles of wine we'd share over the next few nights.
The guys grilled and Noelle put together a big ol' salad, and we chowed down. Franca complimented Scott on his cooking, saying that she didn't normally care for lamb. "That's because it's steak." The laughs kept coming as the wine flowed. Franca and I danced and sang along with one of Scott's many excellent playlists as we did the dishes, and looked up to find the other three laughing hysterically at us through the window. Eventually everyone slunk off to bed, but I think I can safely say that everyone had had a damn good night.
The next morning, Scott headed off to work, Neville to another bike ride, and the girls and I to see the sites, starting with the stunning Cathedral Cove.
A picturesque walk across a lush green bluff took us down to two small beaches connected by a natural tunnel.
We went through to the far side.
Scott had lent us a beach umbrella, so we laid out like spokes on a wheel with our heads under the shade and our bodies in the sun.
While Noelle and Franca slumbered, I wandered down the beach to take in the view of the astounding sandstone formations jutting out of the water.
I ducked back through the tunnel to the other side to explore and found a seagull perched atop yet another massive monolith at the water's edge.
I climbed up onto the rock wall along one side and watched the waves roll onto shore for a good half an hour, totally at peace.
When I got back to the girls, we decided to pack it up and head to Hot Water Beach. On the ride back, the girls laughed heartily at me for mooing out the window at what turned out to be a buffalo.
We got to Hot Water Beach a bit late and found it crowded with both tourists and locals digging pits into which piping hot water would bubble from below.
We found a spot, went to work with our rented shovels, and settled in. We only lasted half an hour, since our little nook was right next to the absolute hottest spot and every few minutes the heat would overpower us.
As we left the beach, we watched a lifeguard rescue a couple who had been taken out too far by the rip tide. Once we felt sure they were safe, Franca used the opportunity to get her BayWatch on.
That night, we picked up a few more bottles of wine to share with our host, and we started cooking again.
Dinner flew by and soon Franca and I were getting funky in the kitchen again.
Noelle and the guys threw darts while we washed the dishes. When Franca and I emerged, we joined the game, and, on an absolute fluke, I hit the best shot of the game.
One of Scott's fellow volunteer fireman had convinced Franca and Noelle to get up before dawn the next morning to go out on his boat for their fishing competition. I vehemently declined the offer and slept in, woke up, did some yoga, and watched Scott gut and clean his winning catch for our dinner that night.
Noelle took a nap while Franca and I had beers with Scott and his buddy's at the firehouse across the street. They entertained us with bawdy jokes and travel stories and had us rolling when they told us Scott's nickname: "Elephant Trunk."
And then Scott took us to a wake. That's not a typo. He took us to a wake. A traditional Swiss wake for a neighbor. It was largely a celebratory affair, leavened by some tears, and scored by those gigantic horns they use in the Ricola commercials. After that bizarre interlude, we enjoyed yet more wine, music, and our last dinner with Scotty.
The next morning we cleaned the kitchen and slipped out while he still slept, leaving a note thanking him for the amazing time we'd had at his place.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Maratangi, Coromandel, New Zealand
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