I set my alarm next morning for the hideously early time of 6.45 am (bearing in mind that this is 4.45 am Melbourne time). Dave, the driver, had assured me he would arrive at Keri Keri no later than 7.45 am, so this would give me an hour to get ready. I was there punctually, waiting outside the hostel at the appointed time; Dave, however, was not, and in fact he didn’t turn up until 8.15 am. I suspect his is a ploy to make sure lazy backpackers are waiting on time. Since I’d been waiting on time anyway, I thought resentfully of the coffee I could have been drinking in the 25 minutes I’d spent waiting for Dave (or more accurately, this is what I would have thought had I woken up properly. Having got up at 4.45 am and deprived of my morning intake of caffeine, I wasn’t alert enough at that point to have any such coherent thoughts).
When Dave finally arrived, we set off for Cape Reinga. It was a beautiful day, which made the view all the more amazing when we arrived at the Cape several hours later. Cape Reinga is sacred in Maori legend; according to my guidebook, it is believed to be “‘the place of leaping’, where the spirits of the dead depart”. Just the place to take busloads of noisy tourists, then. But despite all the tourism, the Cape was incredibly peaceful. It’s the place where the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean meet; the Tasman is a light green colour, while the Pacific is deep blue, so there’s an amazing blending of colours, and a line of surf where the ocean and sea flow in different directions. It was such a clear day you could see all the Three Kings Islands. I sat near the edge of the cliff, and gazed out to sea.
A little while later - it seemed about ten minutes, but must have been a lot longer - I looked around me, only to discover I was the only one there under the age of 65. Either the Cape had worked some super-ageing magic on everyone except me, or the other people on my tour were already back at the bus. I hurried back towards the car park, ignoring some blue-haired ladies muttering something about “another backpacker needing a lift home”. At the spot where Dave had parked the bus, there was no bus to be seen. I ran around the many other buses lined up in the car park, and to my relief, there was my bus with Dave sitting in the driving seat. I clambered on, thankful to discover I wasn’t even the last one back. There’s nothing worse than having everybody waiting for you (other, perhaps, than not having everybody waiting for you).
After lunch at a white sandy beach, we drove to the giant sand dunes for the promised sand body boarding. The dunes were a great deal higher than I’d expected (in fact when I first saw them, through the bus window, I thought they were clouds). Trudging all the way to the top would require something of an effort - even more of an effort than climbing up the hill to Auckland YHA. We all jumped off the bus and grabbed a board. The trouble is that sand never stays still. You can climb and climb, and if you’re climbing beneath a certain pace, you’ll never get anywhere. Eventually, though, I did reach the top and found myself near the front of the line of body boarders. I looked on nervously as the person before me span off his board half way down. Then it was my turn - and with barely a thought for my own safety (I was worried if I thought too long I wouldn’t go) I hurtled head first on my stomach down the sand. As I reached the bottom safely (other than severely bruised feet due to me digging my toes into the sand, in the vain hope they’d act as brakes) I wondered if this was an entirely dignified pursuit for a 25 year old. When I was a child, I thought that as soon as you reached 18 you were instantly transformed into a sensible grown-up. Yet here I was sliding head-first down mountains of sand on a bit of plasticky polystyrene type material. Then just as quickly I dismissed the thought. I sincerely hope that even when I’m old enough to be on one of those Old People’s tour, I’ll still enjoy zooming down sand dunes on my stomach.
So at last, and exhausted, we headed for home via Ninety Mile Beach, stopping close to Keri Keri for some fish and chips. It was a pretty good day, but I was glad to get off the bus. I’m not a great fan of these organized tours, anyway - I don’t see the point of spending all your time in another country cocooned in a little bus with other overseas backpackers, shepherded from one tourist attraction to another. Often it seems you’re visiting a place just to take a photo of it - no one seems to have had the radical idea that perhaps just being in a place is an end in itself. Everyone jumps off the bus, takes a photo and gets back on again. But just for a day, it was a good experience - and I’d have missed the giant sand dune surfing if I’d gone on my own. And that could only be a bad thing.
Edited to add: some photos of Cape Reinga and the Ninety Mile Beach, via James.