The Whanganui River is the most remote of all New Zealand’s national parks. It doesn’t even have a name, the signs just say “National Park”. The DOC campsite Whakohoro lies in the middle of it, behind 42 kilometres of gravel road to the next village. In between there are only sheep, rainforest and “No mobile coverage” warning signs.

We are at the end of the most beautiful end of the world. The meadow is richly garnished with sheep, horse, goose and rabbit dung – offering much more variety than Hobbiton. Stepping in it barefoot is unavoidable, but not too bad. The weather forecast is finally right today. It rains heavily all day, followed by sunshine every half hour. (more…)

In the middle of the high season in 2012, New Zealand is pretty empty. You practically never have to pre-book hostels, they are rarely full. Instead, they treat themselves to masses of globetrotting day labourers. The work that once made a travel slave rotate is now comfortably shared by four young travellers. Some hostels accommodate more helpers than paying guests. The towns are also deserted, restaurants and pubs deserted.

There seem to be only two types of traveller left. One type takes an indefinite break after school before starting work, lasting a year or more. The other type arrives at the hostel late on Christmas Eve, then spends 3 hours organising the equipment worthy of a Mars expedition in the room and climbs Tongariro the next morning after 4 hours of sleep. (more…)

Rotorua is the volcanic centre of New Zealand. It lies in the centre of the fissure that stretches from White Island in the north to Mount Taranaki in the east of the North Island. We walk through a Maori settlement right by the lake. Nobody needs heating or a cooker here. Small geysers steam in the front gardens.

Geysers, mud pools and hot sulphur springs have been attracting travellers from all over the world for over 150 years. Even today, steam and the omnipresent smell of sulphur propel Rotorua into third place alongside Auckland and Queenstown as one of the most popular tourist destinations. Greepeace awards medals of honour for farting, as this improves the smell locally to a greater or lesser extent. (more…)

Raglan is the surfing capital of New Zealand. Located just two hours south of Auckland, it is a completely different world. Our accommodation is an old railway carriage in the eco-backpacker camp at www.solscape.co.nz. Situated on the slopes of the extinct volcano Mount Karioi, it overlooks the surf beach.

The legendary surfer film “Endless Summer” was shot here sometime in the 1960s. However, nobody here has seen it, and the local branch of United Video doesn’t have it on offer either. First evening, reggae party in the only pub in the village. Everyone has bleached blonde curls, blue eyes, flip-flops and board shorts. Even Smurfs come in more varieties. (more…)

Tane Mahuta split apart heaven and earth, creating space for all life. The Maoris worship the presumably 2000 year old largest of all kauri trees, in front of which we now stand marvelling in Waipoua Forest, as the creator of all life. The legends of the Maori are elemental epics: plausible to self-evident, clear and imaginative. Our fairy tales, on the other hand, are the purest penny dreadfuls.

I love this simple directness. It is also evident in many other things in New Zealand: We: Franz Josef Strauss Airport. Kiwi: Auckland International Airport. Us: Hildegard von Bingen Avenue. Kiwi: Ocean View Road. Us: Are you insured? Kiwi: No worries, I help ya. (more…)

I have often driven off-road. Especially in New Zealand with its approx. 40 % gravel roads, it is often unavoidable. Even on sand you are not insured according to your hire car contract. The day before, kite instructor Leslie said that the tides would allow us to drive on 90 Mile Beach between 8am and 6pm. We pack up our camp and set off at 10am.

The tide is quite high and the beach is only 20 metres wide. Unfortunately, I only realise that these 20 metres are already completely filled with water when we get stuck. We get out and immediately realise from the 20 cm deep tyres sunk into the very muddy sand that there is no way forward for the time being. Lesson learnt today: never trust a kite instructor with the tides! (more…)

On the other side of the Bay of Islands opposite Paihia lies Russel. The whaling town was once notorious as the hellhole of the Pacific: whores, alcohol, gambling and murder. Today it is exactly the opposite: old Victorian wooden villas, renovated to the highest standard, quiet, safe, clean. A small ferry takes us across the Bay of Islands on bicycles.

Back at the hostel, there’s still some work to do that I didn’t manage to finish before leaving. A lot of hostels here now have Zenbu routers. As a guest, you usually only get 50MB free per day, which makes working in shops with 5GB of data a bit more difficult. After two days of work and rest, we are ready for the Northland.

A dear Belgian joins us for the journey to the Northland. We drive through the Waiketere Ranges to Piha Beach and Karekare. Unfortunately, neither of these fit in with our plan to camp “Into The Wild”. Prohibition signs everywhere and lots of tourists. We decide to switch to the east coast north of Auckland.

On the way we stop in Puhoi, famous for its cheese and the smallest library in the world. We save the goat’s cheese at €8 for 100 grams. A few ducks waddle across the road. Lots of Ferraris, Porsches and hotrods slow down, only the one really bad one among the numerous Harley Davidson bikers drives on. There are now more luxury cars in New Zealand than on Lake Geneva. (more…)

We were actually just looking for a suitable kite spot east of Auckland in the last foothills of the three-day storm. But today, summer has arrived in New Zealand with a vengeance. The sun is blazing, the wind is dying down. Endorphins are dancing in my head, triggered solely by the beauty of this place.

The wild Tasman Sea lies before me. Seagulls circle in the sky, a few anglers stand on rocks in the hard surf. A cool stream meanders across the black lava sand beach of Whatipu, shimmering in the heat. The sun flashes in 1000 crystals. Behind me, the Waikere Ranges with their fern-covered jungle slopes. (more…)

The old Asian lady of the house has put up signs throughout the property. At the entrance, it says that short-term guests are no longer welcome. In the kitchen there is a cleaning order with comments of refusal underneath. The highlight, however, is a sign with the charming Chinese-English inscription “Must wash your hands! Everytime!”.

It hangs everywhere: on the oven, in the living room, in the shower and on the loo. I comply and wash my hands. Strange. There’s no sign here. Lulled into an almost psycho-like stupor, I turn round – and scream out loud. Fixdreck! There it is again. The first sign that startled me. (more…)