No Planning Needed: I am leaving for New Zealand. I have no plans for Kiwiland. I really wanted to visit South Island, but there aren't enough days. All I know is that the plane is bound for Auckland, which I covered rather thoroughly on a previous trip. Right now, I am ready to proclaim myself to be tired of cities and looking for something more pastoral. All day I have been in a totally indecisive state, which has only been heightened by the entry card we got on the plane; it asked what my address was going to be in New Zealand. I had made no arrangements to stay anywhere, but I knew from past experience that leaving the space blank means you get put in the suspicious category; and, you get tagged as doubly suspicious if you are my age and are traveling with only a backpack. On the card, I put down the Auckland Hostel; that would satisfy the border agents. When I cleared immigration, though, I was still trying to decide on a plan of action. Into the airport entry hall I strode, and there in front of me was a rack of tourist brochures. I picked one up, found a map of the country, and asked myself where I could go by bus before day’s end. Since I had traveled south of Auckland on my last trip, I looked north and found the town of Whangarei. After a little searching, I located the visitor desk (and an ATM) and asked whether there were any bus connections to Whangarei (Wh is pronounced as F). Not from the airport, but from the central bus station. A bus left at 4 pm. I had an hour to get into town, not quite enough according to the shuttle driver, but I had already purchased the ticket (yes, right at the airport). I told him to try and off we headed into the city (me and a vanload of others). He made the bus station the second stop, and I boarded my northbound coach with only 4 minutes to spare. It was nerve wracking, but fun.
A bit less than 3 hours later I was in Whangarei. I arrived after nightfall and the rain had started. Actually, it rains on and off in New Zealand all the time. No bus station in this town, just a halt on the city street next to a ticket counter that would open in the morning. The closest illuminated strorefront was a pizza parlor, so I popped in. Not to eat (though I was famished), but to ask how to get to the hostel. The directions seemed pretty clear and the route seemed pretty direct, so I hoofed it across town and over the river until I found the correct left turn. The sidewalk took me up (and up and up) a switch-back road into the residential neighborhood that overlooks town. It did not look like a place for a hostel, and I had numerous second thoughts, but there did not seem to be other options in this town which had basically shut down for the night. Finally, I found it. It was going to be fun to wake up and see what kind of views the hostel offered in the morning. I ended up spending two nights. This night, I headed right back into town, knowing that a down-hill slide in meant a second up-hill climb back. I was feeling energetic and hungry, however, and it was only a bit past 8 pm. Whangarei at night seemed like a movie set: lots of vibe but no actors. I kept walking until I heard music, what sounded like live music coming from a back-lit storefront in the distance. Sure enough, Frang’s bar was open and a live performance was in progress on the patio. My Frang’s Burger was the best hamburger I have had on my entire trip, and maybe the best meal (sorry to say that about a hamburger, but I am just being truthful). Switch-back roads always have vertical short cuts, and I found one back to the hostel; it was steeper but shorter, and it made me feel virtuous for packing my ‘torch,’ which is what they call a flashlight in these realms.
When I got back, I understood why there were no characters on Whangarei’s streets; they were all here at the hostel. With these characters I would share an evening or two: a sociopathic South African who had escaped his home country with his masonry skills and had found temporary employment, a bright-eyed German lad who was doing some solo traveling before beginning his university years, an older woman from Australia who had come to visit her brother in town (only to be kicked out of his house), a Canadian dude from Halifax who cooked for himself and reported that he had twice been denied entry into the U.S. because drug sniffing dogs had detected the ‘past’ presence of weed in his van, and two sisters (one communicative and one not) who had wheels and were traveling together. When I got back from Frang’s I got everyone all riled up because I thought I had seen the Southern Cross in the sky. The rain had stopped. I asked anyone who made an appearance in the common room (except the sociopath) to come outside and see it too. I am convinced that it was exactly what appears on the New Zealand flag, but one of the sisters said she didn’t think so. By sister, I mean sibling, not nun. Still, I am going to say that I saw the Southern Hemisphere’s signature constellation, a discovery that put a smile on my face.
After a long conversation with Karsten, the German lad, off to bed I went: top bunk in a room that slept six, though not all the bunks were occupied. The sociopath kept appearing and disappearing (with his blanket); I think he found different places to sleep, maybe even outside. Toilet and shower were on the other side of the hostel; washer and dryer (which I would use tomorrow) around back; kitchen and great room, a few steps away.
The process of traveling can be so much fun if it is not planned out in advance. Today, it all worked out well; that’s not always the case. But, when it’s not the case, you have more interesting stories to tell.
Geographically yours,
D.J.Z.
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