We rented a car from Europcar in downtown Auckland with the return set up for the airport at the end of our road trip. There were, of course, a few hitches as invariably happens when you book a rental car in a foreign land several months in advance.
The fun and games started with the friendly young manager saying, “Now, you know you have booked an electric vehicle, right?”
Even he couldn’t say that with a straight face.
We might be able to explore the Auckland suburbs in an electric car, but not around the hinterlands of the entire North Island, traveling many miles a day with limited charging stations, god only knows where. So, we needed to get a gas hybrid, which doubled the cost. Then we opted for GPS navigation because we heard WiFi was often sketchy. And that was another $20 a day.
To be honest, we didn’t care about the cost. We just wanted a nice, dependable Japanese car with plenty of room and GPS. And that’s exactly what we got, a 2024 Toyota RAV4.
I have driven on the “wrong” side of the road many times in Britain, Ireland, and Scotland, so it’s like riding a bicycle for me. Driving around busy Auckland was a breeze. I just went slow until I felt comfortable at the wheel, which was when we arrived back at the Park Hyatt to pick up our luggage.
There are three toll roads in New Zealand, and we would be on one of them, driving north and then returning south. So, we had to pay online in advance, and it came out to $5.20.
By 1 PM, we were heading north on Highway 1, New Zealand’s I-95, which runs from the top of the North Island to the bottom of the South Island. It was all good until the three-lane motorway suddenly ended at a roundabout about thirty miles north of Auckland, and Route 1 morphed into a twisting, turning, undivided speed burner of a road with tight blind corners and a speed limit of 100 kilometers an hour (62 mph). It was pretty intense.
The scenery went from urban to farmland in the course of about five miles, and it resembled a rougher version of the lush farm valleys of the Blue Ridge, but with the occasional clump of palm trees thrown in to give it a little spice and mystery. At times, it got more mountainous and reminded us of Colorado or Utah, maybe in the Uintas, but without the majestic peaks and snow.
There were huge herds of dairy cows and lots of short, bushy corn. Dairies are the biggest cash cow in New Zealand. Which begs the question, why have I never heard of New Zealand cheese?
Top export destinations of “Cheese and curd” from New Zealand in 2023 were China with a share of 29% ($522M), Japan at 15.7% ($281M), and Australia with a share of 12.5% ($224M). So, the Kwis make a lot of excellent cheese—cheddar and brie being the favorites—but most of it gets shipped to Asia, not the U.S.
In 2024, the main origins of the United States’ Cheese imports were: Italy ($515M), France ($240M), Spain ($163M), Netherlands ($140M), and Switzerland ($130M).
The scattered farm houses were plain little boxes with no character or style—they all looked the same, really—but were well tended. We never saw anything that looked fancy or like there were any wealthy people around.
Just past the settlement of Brynderwyn we turned onto Route 12 and headed west toward Maungaturoto Bay. We were now entering the traditional land of the Māori.
Our first stop was in the small historic boat-building village of Paparoa, a weird oasis town that made little sense. There wasn’t any water to speak of, so why would they have built boats there? Well, it turns out that The Paparoa Stream flows from the east, through the settlement, and into the Paparoa Creek to the south, which joins the Arapaoa River, which is part of the Kaipara Harbor. That said, we saw no boats or water deep enough to float even a canoe.
We had hoped to grab some lunch in Paparoa but “The Haven” had closed at 2, leaving only “The Dairy”, which had four stars on Yelp but turned out to be just a small dilapidated convenience store with some candy, ice cream, soda, chips, and an odd assortment of household items like bars of soap and scrub brushes in very limited amounts. It resembled a forlorn trading post on an American Indian reservation. And that’s essentially what it was.
The landscape soon got drier and dustier, and there were a lot of farm vehicles. It could have been northern Oklahoma, but with more trees. Everything, including the people, looked a bit parched.
At Ruawai, we came to the muddy Wairoa River and the road swung due north toward the regional farming hub of Dargaville, where we stopped at a 4Square grocery store for some meat pies and fresh fruit. 4Squares are small and expensive with a limited selection of fresh food, but they are in every town, large and small. And they always have fresh, warm meat pies!
After Kaihu, an abandoned tavern in the middle of nowhere, the road began climbing into the mountains, and as we got higher, we started to catch distant glimpses of the turquoise Tasman Sea to the west. We were now entering one of the most sacred lands of the Māori, the Waipoua Forest.
Our goal was the Waipoua Forest Visitor Center, but for some inexplicable reason, it was closed. So we continued climbing up into the primordial mountain forest where 50-foot ferns hung in the air like giant green wings. The road reminded us of the hairpin turns on the Road to Hana on the Island of Maui. Luckily, there were virtually no other cars on the road other than us, and I was driving slowly with my hands at ten and two.
At 4:30, we came to the pullout for the trail to Tane Mahuta (meaning Lord of the Forest), New Zealand’s largest known living kauri tree. At a height of 168 feet and with a trunk girth of 45 feet, this silent giant, with ancient limbs, is a star grabber.
At least that’s what we were told. We never actually got to see it because the gate was locked at 4, and the trail was closed.
Apparently, the Māori weren’t highly motivated to share their magnificent forest with the rest of the world. And that’s their right, of course. We can always check it out on YouTube. But the whole place was a bit of a letdown.
Route 12 soon began dropping out of the clinging, monolithic forest as we approached the coast, and a few miles later we came around a corner and SHAZAM! There was the South Pacific Ocean in all of its sparkling glory. The road led down to the coastal settlement of Opononi, a harbor town made famous in the mid-1950s by the tame dolphin, Opo. And across from Hokianga Harbour rose a giant sand dune mountain on the southern end of Mitimiti Island, where shiny white ocean breakers rolled ashore from faraway Melanesia.
It had been a slightly maddening day and a somewhat discouraging 4-hour drive from Auckland, after our forest destination proved elusive, but our charming cabana-style room at The Sands Hotel, standing a mere 50 feet from the ocean, made it all worthwhile.
After a swim in the placid blue ocean, followed by a brief tropical rain shower, we followed the sound of some very curious music to a popular hangout called the House Bar Bistro on the edge of Opononi Beach.
Friendly locals were socializing inside and outside of the odd little eatery that was more airy living room than a restaurant. Two happy ladies were making crepes for the strange crew, and there was no alcohol in sight. It looked and felt like an Alcoholics Anonymous impromptu party at the end of the line.
A super strange musical ensemble consisting of a very young space cadet playing drums, a laughing Māori guy on acoustic guitar, a nerdy mustachioed fellow in his sixties who sat on a stool playing a battered green electric bass, a fit young woman with wing tattoos on her shoulders fingering a battered electric guitar from a comfy chair, and an older guy with long grey hair who went back and forth between a trombone, trumpet, and saxophone. They all played impromptu pickup tunes with a happy-go-lucky style that defied description. It was like the house band at the insane asylum in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”.
And then up stepped this tattooed white lady in her sixties with wild grey hair, wearing a multi-colored baseball cap like the lead guitar player in AC DC and a knee-length, purple, button-down, checkered smock with a white homemade patch that read “YOU’RE STANDING ON MAORI LAND”. She urgently grabbed the microphone like an evangelist on a mission and then sort of growled and barked out the most amazing Captain Beefheart version of Eric Clapton’s “Layla” that I have ever heard—or even imagined. It was one for the ages and totally unexpected.
https://photos.app.goo.gl/oaMnsFybSXP3oUxA9
And that, my friends, is why we travel.
