Lisa is looking for a job in a vineyard on a nearby island. Meanwhile, Marc and I go into town. We wander through the huge Domain Park. Visit the Auckland Museum. Stand in amazement in front of a 25 metre long Maori war canoe. Sniffing flowers in the greenhouse and wandering through forests of trees that look like they’ve exploded straight from the seed.
Auckland City resembles San Francisco. Quite small, but never cramped. Old and new make a colourful mix. After a portion of sushi, we buy food for the evening. A scoop of mozzarella costs €10. We spend the whole day meeting people from all over the world who live here. I wonder what they eat here.
Marc wants to go dancing. But in the evening he’s quite exhausted from walking and sleeps. Nothing can wake him up, no calling, shaking, tickling. In the end, he sleeps for 15 minutes next to my switched-on alarm clock. Only when I switch it off in recognition does he suddenly stand upright in bed: “Let’s go”.
A taxi takes us into town for €20. First club: Volcano. Electro and house with an open veranda in the centre of the old town. The beer is over half a litre. We realise that each of us prefers different music. Nevertheless, we stay together for most of the evening.
We treat ourselves to the next drinks in a dark cellar bar. Nobody dances, and we’re not going to start here either. A hip-hop club, Lisa’s Resort. Completely empty, it still doesn’t seem very stimulating. I finally want some decent music.
We are told that there is no indie disco in the entire city centre. But there is a very nice live club, as we discover shortly afterwards. The acoustic guitars are playing Stadium Arcadium, Oasis, James Blunt. Now we start singing and drink a pitcher in Fijian: Taki. My music.
If it’s good, move on. We take a taxi up Queen Street to K-Road. Gay Road would have been more appropriate. Marc protests when we drag him into a gay club. Seconds later he’s dancing with fresh beer. I like the weird birds here. Nobody knows exactly what he or she is, and I like that.
The music is colourful and, as always in bars like this, quite danceable. After another hour, Lisa and Marc move a few doors down to a hip-hop club. I stay with the birds of paradise. A gay man sucks my finger. He then tells me on the head that I must be a pikey. Must be the flavour. We all fall into bed at five in the morning. I almost miss it. It was really long and a lot.
In the morning I find the minced meat in my rucksack instead of in the fridge. That means a one-hour walk to the nearest supermarket. After halfway successful surface decontamination, I cook the most expensive spaghetti bolognese of all time for my two hiking buddies. Must have been around €25 for 4 portions. We swear off a detox day. Paolo Conte and spaghetti stupidly require wine for lunch.
I do a bit of work while the Wandervögel destroy a bottle of tequila and rum within two hours. Right now they’re buying more. Marc wants to go to the casino tonight. Please add prayers for my salvation below, I’m sure I’ll need it tonight.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.