to the Coromandel

The next day I and a French journalist, Ophelie, catch the Magic connection to Whitianga via Hot Water Beach and Cathedral Cove. At Hot Water Beach you can dig yourself a hole in the sand and sit your own private hot pool, due to hot springs in the area - but only if you arrive at low tide! We don't, so instead Ophelie and I sit in the sunshine on the sand and compare the styles of journalism in Britain and France. It turns out that it's a matter of course for public figures in France to read copy before publication, and to demand edits! I find this quite a surprise - it seems like pretty shoddy journalism to let politicians edit their own interview scripts! Still, journalism in the UK isn't exactly the beacon of truth it (never?) was....

From Hot Water Beach we move on to Cathedral Cove, which is a short, undulating thirty-minute walk from the carpark high on the coast. The temperature has risen, the sky is blue, and Cathedral Cove, when we reach it, is picture-postcard-perfect (well, apart from all the people! Damn tourists...ha.). The cathedral-like roof of the cove-passageway is spectacular, the beach is gorgeous and the cliffs around the cove drip with green foliage and small waterfalls. It's a shame we don't have a whole day to spend here, but we have an hour to have lunch here and soak it all in, and then we have to hike back up the track to the bus.

I jump off the bus at Whitianga, where I'm spending two nights, straight into the middle of the annual Whitianga Festival of Speed. The town is buzzing, and the air throbs with the engine noise of cars, motorbikes, planes, helicopters, and, out on the sea just across the road from the hostel, motorboats. Since there's not much else to do here except laze on the beach, or do bone-carving (a popular tourist-offering around NZ), it's a welcome distraction!

That night there's a parade is town, which is preceded by a skateboard race along the main-street, and a drag race. Now, since it's a Festival of Speed, I have to admit I was expecting something slightly more petrol-powered than a bunch of men racing past in make-up and dresses! It's a pretty funny spectacle nonethless!
The parade is pretty good too, a succession of boats on trailers, cars (GTO's, Mustangs...and, erm...some other nice-looking, noisy ones...), motorbikes, and even a motorised toilet! I meet two guys from the area watching the parade (one sporting the interesting fashion choice of leather jacket, very tight shorts, and jandals), and immeadiatly upon voicing a vague interest in cars I get treated to a litany of car-related terms and makes, most of which goes straight over my head.
It's a different evening (particularly the drag-race) !

The next day I catch the Thundercat boat races in front of the hostel, so it's another beach-day, as is the next day, where I have hours to kill till my bus to Coromandel. When Ross the Coromandel connection driver does arrive, it's only about an hour journey over the hills to 'historic Coromandel Town', where I'm spending the night before catching the ferry for a stopover in Auckland tomorrow night. Coromandel Town is historic by NZ standards, and I end up (out of slight boredom/desperation), taking the historic buildings walk, which follows the main street up and out of town, past the interesting town graveyard, and ending at the gold stamper battery.

The ferry over to Auckland seemed like a great idea when I booked it - not only did it cut out having to spend another 'useless' night in Thames, but it was also Not A Bus. After a good two months of buses, anything that is Not A Bus is a definite plus. However, after stepping aboard the ferry ( and meeting a couple of my dorm-mates from Whitianga), and experiencing the quite alarming roughness of the sea, I swiftly change my mind. The ferry is small, foot passengers-only, and the seas are rolling. The vessel feels like it's being tossed about like a cork - it leaps up and bangs downward, and most of the passengers become slightly panicky and/or green within about twenty minutes. The only people who seem unconcerned are a couple who appear to have had a few too many beers from the on-board bar (maybe the rolling of the boat compensated for their corresponding weaving?).
Still, the captain assures us that 'These are only some speed-bumps guys', and eventually it calms down enough so that we're not totally convinced that we're going to capsize and drown imminently. In retrospect, it was exciting, and definitely more interesting than a bus, but... I wouldn't jump at the chance to do it again, let's say. I get onto dry-land at Auckland in one piece, eventually find the bus to my hostel in Ponsonby, and after navigating around the darkened hostel and finding my dorm (in the basement... I'm slightly apprehensive as i descend the stairs and walk along the concrete corridor, but luckily the dorm itself turns out to be brightly painted, light, and to have two very friendly people in it), I collapse into bed.

written by  LizIsHere on April 11, 2010 from Whitianga, New Zealand
from the travel blog: New Zealand & Australia 2010
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