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…)
Merry Christmas Kite!
12 days in the doldrums and some dream spots not kited as a result can be damn hard. But today is Christmas, and my wish comes true: the tail of a cyclone is pushing a lot of wind onto Lake Taupo. It’s blowing from the north-east at a nice 15-30 knots. The only kiteable beach in the wide area is 5 kilometres south of Taupo on the eastern shore.
The beach is full of people. But because of the shape of the bay, it is the only safe launch zone, even for me. Beyond a 200 metre long headland there are only 20 kilometres of open sea with uninhabitable and uninhabited coasts to the east and west. The 13er is far too big, the 9er a little too small in places. Only on the second start do I catch a good gust that takes me away from the beach. (more…)
Christmas in Taupo
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…)
Rockin Rotorua
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…)
75$ Sheep Poo
Mea culpa. I’m still German, and in the year seven after “Geiz ist geil” we’re all finally the new Scotsmen of Europe thanks to Saturn. Lederhosen and laptops are a thing of the past; after the end of the world tomorrow, it’s all plaid skirts and energy-saving Ipads. So I can joke one last time about the lunacy of New Zealand pricing.
500 for a 4-hour ferry? Fine! 13$ for a muesli? Exemplary! 15$ for a “bag horsepoo” offered for sale in writing next to the road? Fertilises well according to Uli, great! 45 for old books with no historical value? Astrein! 50$ for geyser vultures? Awesome! But what we’re seeing today is the bottom of the barrel between megalomania and unquestioning obedience. (more…)
Rain And Reggae In Raglan
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…)
Lost In The Realm Of The Kauri Giants
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…)
Carwash, Northland & A Surferparty
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…)
Travel Kite @ 90 Mile Beach
One of my big plans for this trip was to kite 90 Mile Beach in the north of New Zealand. But the wind forecast had been more than poor for days and for our entire time travelling in the Northland. In Kaitaia, the last major town before the wilderness in the north, we fill up with food and petrol. Then it’s off to the beach in Ahipara by car.
The 90 Mile Beaach is marked as an official highway on all New Zealand road maps. Last time we managed 153km/h without any problems. This time we don’t make it that far. After two small river crossings, I spot a kite on the beach. Kite instructor Leslie says the wind here is always stronger than forecast when it’s sunny. He’s right. (more…)
Bay of islands
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.
Into The Wild … Fence
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…)
Speechless Beauty…
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…)
Must Wash Hands! Everytime!
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…)
Living Like God In France?
Some wisdom is easy to grasp. Others you have to survive in order to begin to understand them. “Living like God in France” is one of the latter. The destination: Provence. The time: peak season, start of the summer holidays in Bavaria and France.
In the face of the economic crisis, President Hollande called on his people to go on holiday in their own country. They obeyed en masse. I’m still amazed that we make it to Mulhouse, France, in just 3.5 hours in the evening. The traffic jam only comes after driving through the night before leaving for the Rhone Valley near Montélimar. From then on everything goes very slowly. Every 10 kilometres, the French set up altars for Mercurius. They flash in the night. (more…)
Salamat! Danke!
My kite odyssey across the Philippines offered everything that makes travelling good: good people, good places and good ways. Many thanks to everyone who was there: Uli, Dave, Miri, Max, Chris, Jules, Joanna, Maou, Bente, Davide, Marc, Cynthia, Michael, Marina, Charlhs, Harold, Goran, Vanisi, Björn. Salamat to all the good Philippinos along the way, who always helped wherever they could.
On the last day we take the bus back from Batangas to Manila to watch Metzel movies. The hostel has forgotten my reservation. No matter. I buy six pairs of lost sunglasses at the market. What remains? Heavy arms, lots of blisters, 10,000 pictures and good stories. My old shoes are labelled “Frank faster”. These are the best of almost 100 stories: (more…)
Puerto Galeras Permanent Fuckers
We hop into the minivan to Roxas and say goodbye at the pier. Max ships back to Boracay. I drive on towards Manila. In Calapan, the second minivan kicks me out. Trike to the market and take the jeepney to Puerto Galera. There, a trike pirate rips me off for the last time. Five euros for five kilometres. I say goodbye to him with the words “Thanks for ripping me off, fucker.” He looks stupid, I’m fine.
I only need three trikes, two minivans, a jeepney and seven hours to cover the 210 kilometres from Bulalacao to Sabang / Puerto Galera. The waiting time was never more than ten minutes. The entire board of Deutsche Bahn should be sent here on an educational holiday. They could learn a lot about coordination. Less so when it comes to speed. (more…)
Religion And Videoke
If religion is opium for the people, then videoke is crack for the Filipinos. No drug is more addictive, has a stronger effect and produces more blatant films. You shall have no other gods beside me? Pah! Even the deep faith of the Filipinos knows its limits. It’s called Videoke. They will drop everything for it.
In every good Filipino household, the videoke system is more important than the toilet or cooker; it is roughly equivalent to the Indian household altar. I saw the most primitive bamboo huts in the middle of the jungle – with the thickest videoke systems. People often sing very well in such places. As soon as the system is in a public place, the level usually drops three metres below ground level. (more…)
Kitesurf Final Philippines
In the last three months, I’ve kited at ten different spots in the Philippines. Doesn’t sound like much at first. But every Filipino said “This year the weather is crazy. La nina.”. The north-easterly wind Amihad, which usually starts in mid-November, arrived for the first time on 30 December. Until then, apart from a short session in El Nido on Palawan, I had been in the doldrums for seven weeks.
If you can’t survive lulls in the Philippines, you must hate travelling. The Philippines offer much more than just wind: incredibly friendly and interested people, magnificent landscapes, good food, tough trekking, relaxed island hopping and good rum. I deliberately leave Videoke out of the equation. Even if you laugh, at some point it’s no longer funny. (more…)
An Almost Fatal Kite Safari
Bipin comes by in the morning. He has organised a bangka for a kite safari to the islands in the far south-east of Mindoro. The crossing takes almost an hour and a half and is very rough. We are expecting strong and steady winds coming in over the open sea at deserted tropical dream spots where no one has ever kitesurfed before. Our first stop is the outermost island of Masin.
On the west side is a fishing village on a coral beach, with seagrass plantations in front of it. The people are friendly. They have never seen longnoses before. The north-east wind is blocked by the island. We go to the other side. The wind picks up. Shorebreak a good metre onto large pointed rocks. There are kiters who go out at spots like this. Not us. (more…)
“I Like It A Bit Overpowered”
That’s the sentence of the day. Max recites it with a subtle swagger. We’re standing on the pier. Measuring the wind. 15-25 knots. Last night was long and good again, as was the hangover. Around midnight I played a round of chess against a Filipino. Suddenly he bends over the bench and vomits like a gargoyle. Until then I thought I’d played well.
My condition says nine kite, but I leave even that on the beach for an hour. Max is immediately out with the seven. Then he comes back with the set of the day and sets up the twelve. I get to the third floor with 20kg more weight and the nine, I’m well in the juice. It’s never enough for him. (more…)
Bulalacao Big Air
We wake up quite groggy. A bucket of water. Awake. We have grilled tuna with fried eggs for breakfast. The lovely Tucke takes good care of us – even though she’s well stricken herself. The wind hasn’t arrived yet. But the forecast on Windguru has almost always been right so far. For Bulalacao, it has been predicting choppy winds for today and the next few days for a week now.
I lose a game of chess against Max. A small rain shower passes through. Then the wind picks up. At Felipa Lodge II, you hardly feel a thing. I walk a little to the north. A deserted pier. The water in the two by four kilometre bay of Bulalacao is low – but crowned by white waves. The wind is now chopping at a brutal 10-30 knots. (more…)
The Last Passage
Our last passage together in the Philippines is like travelling here has always been: exhausting and adventurous. Early in the morning, we travel by trike through pouring rain to Magdiwan Pier. The 50 metre long RoRo ferry of Montenegro Lines is shaken by large breakers in heavy seas. The spray splashes up to the promenade deck at a height of five metres. The going is reminiscent of Oktoberfest after four measures.
Max hasn’t eaten properly for two days at Guting-Guiting. He orders two 45cm pizzas at the Romblon Deli. Then a cheap room and a good night’s sleep. We can’t go any further today. In the evening, we finish the rest of the pizza and sip the last gin and tonic in Romblon. We haven’t seen a single traveller for days, not tourists anyway. (more…)
Mount Guiting-Guiting
by Mad Max. Mt Guiting-Guiting, the toughest mountain of the Philippines – this mountain has fascinated me since I first saw it on Boracay in good weather over a week ago, and that’s over 100 kilometres away. The tour takes three days, I want to do it all in two days.
A tough schedule and perhaps a little overconfidence? We’ll see. Guiting-Guiting means something like scissors. The peak, which juts out of the surrounding countryside into the sky like a pair of scissors, hangs in the fog. After our sunny moped tour over the last few days, we might be lucky with the weather. I gladly accept Frank’s offer and write the report on the mountain after we have parted ways for two days. (more…)
About Small Villages
I grew up in a small village. My childhood there was something between boring and cruel. Life only got better when I moved to the big city. Now I’m happy there. And yet: on all my travels, the small villages are always heaven on earth for me. Magdivan is one such small village.
The boys play basketball in front of the school. A large sign adorns the entrance: “Elementary School”. Directly behind it is a wall: “You are entering a drug-free zone”. The marketplace. There is little to buy, but perhaps that is precisely why there is enough. The trike riders doze in the sun. I stock up on my sunglasses. The wind is blowing today. It doesn’t bother me. Quiet in the village. (more…)
The Tree House On Magdiwan Beach
Good always grows out of bad. Firstly, biting texts about stupid people, followed immediately by something good. At first I doubt this rule. I had to have Soder-Schedl’s bike repaired yesterday. But: an Australian Filippina overheard me complaining to the landlord. She offers me the tree house of her summer residence, right on the beach in Magdiwan.
Her staff are nice to a fault. The tree house is a dream and costs next to nothing. The shower is outdoors on the north-facing beach. As I had to cross or cycle along a few rivers in heavy downpours on my return journey from Sa Agoho that morning, it’s clear what’s coming next, isn’t it? After rain always comes good wind here! (more…)
The Author
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.