Aotearoa (New Zealand) 2012

Plane Boy (+ Pierre)

Well, that was one great holiday.

New Years Eve 2011 saw us boarding a big ole jet airliner and taking us too far away - well, not all that far away really - across the ditch/Tasman to New Zealand, or Aotearoa as the Maori called it. (Someone told me that Ao = big, tea = white, roa = cloud, but then they might have been pulling my proverbial - comments welcome.)

The plan for the two week stay was largely based around, well, no plan. Except to go camping for five days. And I had no idea where that camping was going to be... (Only realised this when I arrived and the taxi man said "where ya going" and i said... "Err... no idea - somewhere in a tent - wife's plan..." Pathetic really.)

The night of our arrival coincided with our hosts - Pandora's sister Finda and hubby Steve - holding a NYE party/barbie, and hence we met a few others as well. Apart from saying "the WHAT?" when told the beers were in the "chully-bun" (a.k.a 'chilly-bin' = esky), everything went great guns, arguably aided by the fact that timezones were on our side and hence midnight really did equal 10pm for us Aussies. Oh, and the fact they'd beaten us in a recent test match for the first time since pussy was a cat.

Eastern Beach fish and chips picnic, Auckland

After settling into our UnZud-HQ in Otahuhu (myself and Steve being the only middle class white guys in a 5km radius - which was tre' cool, cos so were the  Pacific Islander locals), the first cupla days were spent celebrating Katrina's (our hosts mum, and our kids 'third grandma') birthday, travelling to the museum to soak in a little Maori culture, travelling up to Wenderholm Regional Park for a brilliant picnic and a bushwalk through the forest in thongs (woohoo -- no snakes!!), a trip to the Weiwera Hot Springs water park (water ranging from 30degC [kiddies pool] to 48degC [lava pool - you dared only touch a hand in] where the kids had a goddamn hoot on slides and tubes and even watching a movie in the movie pool; we all ended up like shrivelled prunes), and catching up with 'Grandad Jack', who in actual fact is the kids great-grandad - kinda weird if you think about the fact that they don't have any genetic grandfathers left but do a great-grandad... Grandad Jack is pushing on for the ton, but still swimming at Bucklands Beach daily (when the chop doesn't get too high) and walking the 1km through the golf course to Musick Point. Dude...
Respect.

Grandad Jack, Tanya, Mike, Pandora, Sarah; Musick Point

Then it was pack the kids in the people mover and off to the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days. The Coromandel is a place of high hills, lush forest, huge Kauri trees, pockets of actual kiwi birds (we didn't see or hear one) and magnificent NZ beaches.

One we visited was 'Hot Water Beach' which, as the name implies, has hot (i.e., geothermal) water flowing underneath. 'Bring a shovel and dig out your own hot tub' they say. Pity we arrived at high tide, so just had to imagine it... but it was a stunning spot regardless. We crossed from Whitianga to Coromandel Towne via the 309 Rd, so named because it used to take the old horse and carts 3hours 9minutes to do the trip. The GPS reckoned it'd take us an hour fifty, which seemed ridiculous for a 30km gravel road in the home of Possum Bourne, and while we did cut that down to around the one hour mark, it wasn't surprising given how narrow the road was (a constant fear was coming across one of those goddamn Britz campers on a blind corner), the scenery you wanted to see - absolutely magnificent with sheer mountains and lush forest and ferns - and the one way bridges that seem to dot rural UnZud and which took me several goes to understand what the hell the 'big arrow/small arrow' sign meant; "Pandora - is it me or him?!?!?!"

Walking to the Kauri Trees, 309 Rd

We only had to reverse out once...
To a bit of staring.

Near the end of the road we visited the Waterworks, which can best be described as the Heath Robinson-like creations of a mad plumber. If it could shoot water or involve a pump, they had it. Drenching other people was fair game, as were a plethora of 'Dad jokes'.
You know what I mean...
Kids were like pigs in poo.

Several kilometres down the same road the kids were liking pigs in poo. A somewhat bizarre gentleman (sans shoes but strangely wearing a very muddied Pierre Cardin jacket) was looking after his pigs and chickens on the side of the road. We stopped, he let our kids cuddle piglets, dad swatted a tick off his own arm, we spent the rest of the day paranoidily and periodically checking every inch of the kids skin. I asked him about all these pigs and he delightedly told me that he wasn't farming them but they were all his pets. Which took him from kindly man tending the land to feed his fellow countryman to 'crazed lady with cats'-equivalent status in my mind.

Pigs to you young Sarah

Still 'Stuart' is enough of a local celebrity to be in the local "highlights of the 309", possibly only to keep the local GP in profitable business to remove parasites.

The following day was spent tootling back to Auckland via the Coromandel Coast Rd, which arguably is the carsick capital of the free world (we did actually see a person prone on a blanket by the side of the road surrounded by family waiting patiently...), but at least that meant we had a couple of impromptu stops which allowed us to fully soak in the amazing scenery that we would have otherwise missed.
Dad's daydreaming as others tummy churned did mean he devised a measure of Coromandel driving skill;
Drive Skill Score = {time to drive from Coromandel to Thames} + {30/(1+number of passenger spews)}
The faster you go, the more you risk have a time penalty through passenger vomits.
Lowest score wins.

Coromandel Coast

After a brief overnight stop in Auckland to collect our rented camping gear (absolutely brilliant tent, completely crap chairs) we were headed off to Awhitu Regional Park. 
In the rain.
Which got heavier as we headed closer.
We arrived to find Finda and Steve already set up but about to mop the water out of their tent.
We sat and waited for the rain to clear.
It got heavier.
We waited some more.
It got more piss-istant.
We waited some more.
Till one of us genius meteorologists said "come on, you know this is eight-eighths anti-cyclonic nimbostratus" (translation -- we both knew full well it wasn't going away any time soon), so we set up the tent.
Apparently to the great amusement of some fellow (under cover and hence dry) campers from across the way, who even cracked a beer to kick back and watch the show.

Kiddies being minded by the commune, obviously...

Four seemingly intelligent people (inc. at least two PhDs) vs Mother Nature, a tent no-one had even seen or knew existed less than 24 hours before, and a set of instructions about blue, grey and black poles, but no mention of the yellow ones that (also) emerged from the packet.
Oh goodie.
Somewhat amazingly, no ANZACs were drowned in the making of the camping taj mahal, and all slept dry that night.
To the sound of even heavier rain.
By the end of the first 24 hours of piss-ipitation we'd all started to get the irrits with the rain gods, not to mention that being a summer beach holiday none of us skippies had packed gumboots. The locals, however, were all happily trotting about in shorts and boots a-la Wal from Footrot Flats. We had to contend with thongs (no, I will not call them 'jandals') until the mud became too thick and sticky and hence we risked pulling a thong plug [i.e., thong death], in which case footwear was abandoned altogether and hence for the first three days we pretty much went barefoot.
I'm sure there are Toorak ladies who pay shedloads for a 30minute foot mud massage.
For us a 72hour footjob was just $NZ10 per night.

Manukau Heads

Still, 'Brookes' campsite proved to be the clear highlight of the entire trip. The mob included the four of us, Mistress P's sister Shoni and sig.other Pierre, our hosts Finda and Steve, Finda's mum Katrina, Steve's sister Kim and hubby Chris plus their kids Sinead and Liam, and Gordon the Scotsman, his wife Tracey and kids Jamie and Cameron, the latter who was a minor UnZud TV celebrity after falling off a cliff and appearing on a reality program about people who fell off stuff and were subsequently rescued by chopper.
"It meant I didn't have to go to school for weeks!"
Also meant he had multiple fractures, has permanently more bend in his elbow than Muttiah Muralitharan, and was freakishly lucky he didn't shuffle off this mortal coil altogether.
But ya gotta love the glass half full attitude...

The Dining Tent

[If not his amazing culinary ability - watch out next time there is a junior masterchef tryouts - and hence his fascination with everything put near a stove. I felt somewhat pathetic plonking in my Alfredo packet pasta and adding a few mushies/capsicum/tinned tuna, but he watched every action like a hawk...]

The rain and mud all meant we were confined for long periods in Steve and Finda's "Kathmandu Compass Retreat" dining tent, as well as the gazebo which Steve rushed off and bought to pop over the cooking and cleaning area. (It vaguely amused me that some stuff I read about area said it was remote. He drove off, bought a gazebo, got slightly lost, and returned in 90 minutes...)This idea - of communal tents to shelter under - seemed quite popular/common with the NZ campers all around us, and indeed for us it meant many a tall story, bongo/guitar playing, newspaper reading, slap up feed and even the odd 9am (yes, sorry mum; AM) shot of Glenfiddich 12 yo Scotch, was had in complete dryness.
Brilliant.

Still in the breaks in the weather gave us plenty of time to explore near and far.

The (Octonaut) Island

Nearby was "The Island" - a dot of rock with a little dirt on top on which a Norfolk pine, a few shrubs and a bit of grass clung ferociously, if not precariously - about 300 metres offshore. At low tide you could walk out to it, dodging the razor sharp oyster shells as you go (I didn't do this successfully for all the days, and hence sport a slashed  first toe for my efforts). Unfortunately in an attempt to coax the Boy away from my mobile phone and its downloaded movies (hell, it was wet - can't blame him) we told him it was Octonaut Island.
He didn't believe me.
Someone else told him it was.
About half a day later he abandoned camp and took dad on a mission... to find the Octonauts; which I only realised about halfway out to The Island as he started to get a bit concerned he been told a load of bollocks.
"Errr... they may be under the sea octonauting..."
Geez - how are we going to feel when he realises Santa is a dud?
[As an aside, The Island was also one of the last landmarks of NZ we saw as we flew off home - bizarrely appearing through a break in the clouds almost directly under our flightpath - magic sendoff; must have cost a bit to organise that one guys.]

Away from camp we visited the lighthouse which guards the entrance to Manukau Harbour, high on the southern headland of (in)famous Manukau Heads.

Cuppas in the rain and the famous gazebo; Finda, Pandora

"Geez, what a pathetically short lighthouse... its in danger of being trod on by a dwarf" {a Spinal Tap reference there if you don't know it} I moaned at first, until we arrived at the top of the short hill and looked over the other side to a near 240 metre sheer drop to the water below.
Wow.
What a view.
Sadly, this was also where the boy started to wail.
Inconsolably.
Dad got shitty. Mum showed teeth gritted patience. Katrina was a saint.
In the end we drove down to Waiuku (about 30km away) and forked out the "$70 non-NZ'ers" fee to see a doctor.
Tonsil infection, prolly viral.

Hamiltons Gap black sand beach

Take some kiddies panadol and iboprofen if needed and plonk him on the anti-biotics if he doesnt improve by day-after-tomorrow morning.
Meant a couple of semi-difficult nights, added to a truckload of snot and goober-related nose blowing.
And lots more video watching in the tent.
Poor sod.

The other great adventure was to the incredibly black sands beaches (even the white bits were black) of the wild west coast. We spent an hour or two at Hamiltons Gap, where a stream enters the ocean, rolling green terraced (some by stock, but most by ancient Maori farming) hills surround the inland views, and steep sand-dunes rising about 150m up from the sands below. Both dad and mum climbed the dunes in lieu of having to go on a run, while Little Miss Sarah ran around screaming in horror at the black of the sand on the soles of her feet.
Seriously. Freaked. Out.
(Though she seemed quite happy to wade back up the stream despite the very same black sand being under the water.)

Sarah, flowers, Auckland

Before we knew it our six days in a leaky tent (ok, five days and the tent didn't leak a drop, but I had to get a [vague] Split Enz reference in this blog  somehow) were over and it was time to leave the campsite, cars packed to the rafters (two cars had left the scene in search of greener, or at least less muddy, pastures earlier) but about 30 kg lighter in terms of food, somewhat discounted by the extra kilos on peoples torsos.

Drive home highlight was a real live (and wild) pheasant trying to embed itself in our bumper.
Half expected some beaters and English gentry to emerge directly behind him.

The final full day was a bit more catchin' up and checkin' out the sites, including the summit of Mt Eden whose distance marker almost brought Pierre to tears (Paris: 18500km away; or maybe it was looking down on Eden Park, where France lost the Rugby World Cup by a solitary point to the All Blacks - either way he got all misty eyed...), lots of packing and washing (both clothes and seemingly permanently muddied feet), getting our dose of UnZud culture watching Bro Town epsiodes and finally a big slap up traditional NZ feed of... burritos! (Brilliant by the way - thanks Finda.) Little Miss Sarah supplied the entertainment with renditions of Baa Baa Black Sheep with backup singing from her Aunty Shoni and accompanied by Steve on the guitar (see video below) who'd even googled the chords for the occasion, followed up with the freakshow of Master Mike and Finda having a nostril licking competition - a clear genetic link to the Hope clan. (He'll make someone a very happy girl.)

Pandora, Steve, Shoni, Pierre. Andrew, Mike, Finda, Katrina, Aaron, Sarah

Next day it was back on the plane, after two very tired kids (going to sleep on Australian time for the entire trip, which would  be fine, only they were still waking with the sun, i.e., NZ time) created an embarrassingly large detritus heap in the QANTAS club.

All up - what a trip. Nearly 1200km of driving despite only travelling 180km from Auckland at the most (we wont mention the swinging gate hitting the hire car if you dont...)
A new set of friends to keep in touch with and welcome when they head over the ditch.

And a most wonderful set of people who took our kids into their hearts which meant that mum and dad managed an awful lot of easy and (almost) guilt-free parenting. Special mention to "Uncle Steve", "Aunty Finda" and Katrina, who all have the patience of saints and the open arms of nuns (sorry Steve - but you know what we mean; though I am sure there's a fetish website for habit-wearing big bearded men...).

And we were only bagged about the underarm incident once.
(Oh ok; twice...)


 [*More pics on facebook]