After only one full day's riding in this country, I am already a convert to the popularly held belief that New Zealand is a cyclist's paradise. This morning we thought we'd train out to the end of the suburban line, as recommended in our guidebook. But a consultation of the train schedule and a couple of phone calls revealed that no trains run on Sunday. We'd have to pedal our butts all the way out of this hilly, sprawling town. Not exactly cycling bliss, but it was tolerable. The drivers were the worst part, of course. One trait they all seemed to share was a tendency to pull into the shoulder in front of us and fling their doors open.
With heightened awareness, we picked our way along the Great South Road, which winds through industrial parks, cow pastures and the rundown centers of suburban towns with names like Otahuhu and Papatoetoe. After about thirty kilometers on the misnamed Great South Road, we turned off towards Clevedon, where we stopped at a supermarket \"takeaway\" for a kind of lunch. Kiwis apparently like their food deep-fried beyond recognition, as this was all that was available. The town --like all the others we had passed through---looked straight out of the '30's or '40's. Completing this illusion was a string of old-time roadsters passing by, presumably on a rally.
From here the road became hillier and treacherously narrow. Apart from the occasional tree resembling something drawn by Dr. Seuss, the countryside bore an astonishing resemblance to Northern California, full of brown hills crested with pine. In Kawakawa Bay, we rode along a beach filled with Maoris affecting a Hell's Angels look: beards, bandanas, dark glasses, beer guts and lots and lots of tattoos. A little further we stopped at a busy general store, where I observed once again the Kiwi custom of barefootedness. The place was full of people shopping, but Fred and I were the only ones wearing any kind of footwear.
I had noticed in Auckland, too, a surprising number of barefoot people walking in the street. And at Penguinland yesterday, I saw a placard explaining how to board and exit the conveyor belt without shoes. A signpost informed us that 31 kilometers lay between our exhausted, jetlagged butts and our intended destination. And it pointed straight into a seemingly impenetrable wall of mountains. Wearily, we climbed back into our saddles for the long pump up. The scenery more than made up for what was easily the toughest climb of the day. The road --suddenly bereft of cars---twisted its way up a lush, jungle-y gorge, full of the sounds of raucous, unfamiliar birds and the buzzing and crackling of giant cicadas.
Huge treelike ferns brought to mind images of happily munching brontosauri. A couple of ups and downs later brought us into more open countryside: rugged brown hills full of grazing sheep and dappled with groves of trees. Following a babbling brook and under a dramatic sky, it was intensely beautiful, like a dream or a hallucination. I felt exhausted but happy, lucky to find myself in such enchanting surroundings. Eventually our road deposited us on the coast again, this time beside the Firth of Thames, across from the towering hills of the Coromandel Peninsula. We followed its narrow and buckled course in a blissful yet physically drained state all the way into Kaiaua.
Our only choice for accommodation in this tiny town was behind the village bar and social center. After some necessary ablutions, we went inside and met a whole host of friendly Kiwis. The main hall of the place was packed with rowdy old folks drinking and dancing to a hilarious live band. A woman at the bar explained that we were witnessing a private affair for the local \"Golden Oldies Club.\" She said that their chief *raison d'etre* was taking group trips abroad. She also told us about \"Handle Club,\" a weekly raffle for customers who kept their \"handles\" (kiwi barspeak for mugs) hung up on hooks on a big board behind the bar.
Bill, the friendly red-haired proprietor of the place (the Bayview Hotel, if you're ever in the neighborhood), showed us photos of other events hosted there, like the annual hunt for wild pigs in the forest and a boating competition on the bay. It became increasingly difficult to tear ourselves away from the bar; a spirited argument erupted between several of the patrons as to which route would be the best for us to follow south. Just after bidding farewell to all our new friends, a toothless and obviously inebriated fellow chimed in that he wanted to buy us a round. Pleading jetlag, we beat a hasty retreat back to our room --a narrow escape.