On the day that I was to board the Kiwi bus, Alice came home from school and picked me up in her little blue car Luna, which she claimed is somewhat haunted by its previous owner, her late Aunt Lynley. I sat back in awe as she expertly executed the tight downhill turns that led to the town centre, feeling fairly ridiculous for whining about ‘tricky’ English roads.

We arrived, having sadly experienced minimal paranormal activity, at the local shopping complex where the hop-on-hop-off bus was waiting and she walked me towards it as I dragged my suitcase like a little evacuee off to the countryside. It was sad to say goodbye, as I felt I had found a true kindred spirit who shared my passion for judging Met gala outfits, all things Harry Potter and Neil Oliver (Neil I’m still waiting on that insta follow), but I consoled myself with the fact that we would probably catch up when I returned to Auckland, ready to fly to the USA.

As I hopped on the bus carrying my ̶g̶a̶s̶ ̶m̶a̶s̶k̶ backpack, I was horrified by the stony silence that greeted me, with most people either listening to music or gazing out the window. I tried to lighten the mood with some small talk and classic Richardson bad jokes, which were met with varying levels of success (no one laughed and I died inside) but the fact my fellow passengers were at least talking to me managed to dispel my fear that I had ended up on a bus full of mimes .

We made the hour and a half’s scenic drive to Hot Water Beach, our first overnight stop. Having checked in to our accommodation, a surprisingly nice holiday park, we hopped on a bus for a short ride to nearby Cathedral Cove. Here we were able to admire the famous natural stone archway and we chilled for an hour or so on the beach, kept entertained by a woman who had got stuck on a rock following an overambitious quest for an Instagram.

Having attracted quite the audience from our bus, she dithered for around half an hour, watched by her boyfriend sporting a lurid pair of shorts, before disappearing down the back into the sea. What we initially thought had been a fleet of rescue kayaks coming to her aid turned out to be the half of our group who had decided to paddle to the cove and after briefly reuniting, our two groups went our separate ways, joining back at the holiday park for the evening.

After dinner we decided to make our way to the beach in the dark to dig the geothermal pools that the beach is renowned for, having figured that going later might mean we could claim an abandoned pool from earlier in the day, avoiding digging our own. What we didn’t plan for was the chilly evening air, or the fact we weren’t one hundred percent sure of where we were going, causing our expedition to go down in the ‘Official Top Seven Coldest Moments of Ben’s Life’* .

When we eventually arrived, the water seeping up from the sand proved more lukewarm than the promised 64 degrees and most of the pools were taken; we also realised we had forgotten a spade. Having decided against begging/bullying some children to lend us theirs, we squeezed in with fellow Kiwi bus passengers who had already bagged a spot or reluctantly made a start on a new pool.

After a brief stint of wallowing in tepid water, gazing up at the amazing sky and trying to rid our swim gear of sand, we decided to call it a night and trudged back to the dorms, a little underwhelmed and still not sure exactly where we were going. While the beach may have been a little disappointing (apparently we weren’t digging in the right place) the hilarious comments made on the way overturned my assumption that mine was a boring bus.

The group, which was predominantly British, had quickly morphed into what I can only imagine a football tour must be like, led by a lively group of boys who were quick with witty remarks and even quicker at downing pints. They were also fans of indecent exposure heralded by the warning chant of ‘INTERNATIONAL COCK OR BALLLLL’, much to the bemusement of other passengers and our driver, dubbed Brad* by the boys.

With his love of punctuality, fear of dairy products on the bus, regular threats of driving off without passengers who were even a minute late and glare icy enough to rival the Fox Glacier, Brad was the underpaid, overworked school teacher to our dysfunctional school trip, not adverse to chasing people down the road who had strayed too far from the bus .

Our next stop after Tepid Water Beach was Waitomo, famed for its glow worm caves and I decided to brave a two hour caving trip, which entailed jumping backwards off underground waterfalls into a rubber ring- or in my case, losing my balance and falling with it still by my side. I was apprehensive, as a clumsy person adverse to small spaces, but it was surprisingly fun as our guides kept the atmosphere jolly (even if they did let slip about the eels in the water) larking around and stopping in the innermost part of the caves to share out Chocolate Fish and tell us fun facts like glow worms are really luminous maggots that serve no ecological purpose and eat each other for fun. A particular highlight was sitting in our rings, holding the foot of the person behind and drifting along the chilly underground river, forming a chain to look up at the glow worms on the cave roof above us.

After a hot shower, soup and bagels, we were dropped off at the backpackers and faced with our next challenge. Having booked an overnight stay at Tamaki Maori Village for the following evening, our driver warned us that we had to prepare a song to perform to our hosts. Suggestions ranged from ‘Barbie Girl’ to ‘Wannabe’ to Man’s Not Hot’, but we struggled to come to a unanimous decision, going to bed praying someone would have a stroke of genius and come up with something appropriate.

The next day we made our way to Rotorua via Hobbtion, the set built for the Hobbit films and the Lord of The Rings. It was a really impressive sight to behold, with loads of little houses with round doors built into the valley. I was surprised by how little CGI must have been used, as it really did look as idyllic as it does in the films and I was amazed by how much thought had gone into little details such as the adverts on the town noticeboard or clothes on the washing line.

After many a shameless tourist photo opportunity, we headed down the path where Martin Freeman screeches ‘I’m going on an adventure!!’ to the Green Dragon to claim our ‘free’ pint of Hobbiton beer/cider/ginger beer, the homely Hobbitty atmosphere shattered by interesting musings from the boys such as ‘Let’s go to the Czech Republic, you can pay to bazooka cows there’ and ‘Do you think we could bazooka THOSE cows over there?’.

After a pint (or several in the case of some people who had cleverly managed to hack the system) our tour came to an end and we were picked up by an official Hobbiton shuttle to Rotorua. It was here that Brad would be waiting for us with his lime green bus, probably polishing his watch or developing an airport-style X-Ray system to catch coffee/milk/cheese/milkshake/tea smugglers hoping to sneak their goods onto his bus.

Once he had scooped us up in Rotorua, Brad quickly conveyed us to the Maori village, our home for the night. Having been greeted by our host, we listened for the welcoming call before following our self-elected chief Ben, the bravest, and perhaps daftest of all our tracksuit wearing, genitalia baring warriors into the fortified village.*** We were shown our beds for the night in two traditional rectangular sleeping houses adorned with carvings, then treated to a delicious afternoon tea, where we were invited to perform our chosen song. We had decided on ‘Wonderwall’ which amazingly we managed to sing predominantly in tune with the words sort of in the right order. In return they taught us a song used by children to learn Maori phonics complete with actions, springing on us that we would later be performing it to a public audience, and a game that involved passing large wooden staffs around a circle that came with the thrill of being concussed should you be looking the wrong way.

In the evening, we were brought into the village for a cultural display and workshops run and performed by Maori descendants keen to keep their culture and traditions alive. The display began with the fearsome sight of several warriors in full dress paddling down the river in a canoe, landing then performing the famous haka to intimidate the visiting ‘chiefs’. We then went to various stations where we learnt about maori dance, weaponry and body art, with our boys giving an interesting rendition of a haka they had been taught.

After a brilliant song and dance show case, we tucked into a delicious dinner cooked in the ground in a hangi- the buffet overflowing with smoky roast chicken, lamb and vegetables, a welcome sight to our band of hungry backpackers. Once the meal had concluded, we were called up to inflict our phonics song on the paying public, perhaps in a tactical move to drive them home and surely enough they swiftly headed for their coaches and cars.

With that ordeal over, we were allowed to make the most of the bar and hot tubs available for overnight guests. We were really lucky to have the place to ourselves and we stayed put, crammed in despite the rain, sampling the wine on offer, trying to identify who’s foot was who’s and executing a rendition of ‘500 Miles’ with the ‘Da-DA-Da’s as a call and response between two hot tubs.

Reflecting on our time in the North Island, the Maori village for most people on the bus seemed to be the highlight, as not only did we come out with a much wider understanding of Maori culture, but we had also had a lot of fun doing so in such a relaxed and welcoming environment, where our hosts did an amazing job of fielding our questions and looking after us.

Our time at our next stop, Taupo was fairly uneventful and after two nights there, we went via the impressive Tongariro National Park, home to the volcano used to portray Mount Doom, to our next stop of note, River Valley. Staying in a cosy wooden lodge nestled in the midst of undulating valleys in a deep gorge, there was little in the way of activities with the exception of a white water rafting trip the next morning for some, and we spent the evening enjoying the comfort of the rustic setting, quaffing Kiwi wine and playing Cards Against Humanity. Having sampled more than enough to conclude that Kiwi wine is very good, we piled into the two giant bunks that would be our bed for the night, only to be kept awake by a pack of drunk girls chasing a very panicked Chris, our resident Daniel Radcliffe lookalike, chanting ‘HARRY GET YOUR WAND OUT’ as he ran away, probably wishing he could apparate.

Feeling a little worse for wear, we hunkered down the next day for our longest journey so far as we made our way to Wellington, arriving after a full day spent on the bus just as the sun was setting on the sea. For several members of our group, this was either their last stop or where they would be changing buses, so having initially opted for a ‘quiet one’ that evening, we were easily lured out by hostel staff on a bar crawl to sample some of Wellington’s artsy watering holes, justifying it by using it as a way to mark their departure. While I’m yet to see a wild kiwi or a volcanic eruption, I have regrettably witnessed New Zealand’s newest attraction of three British guys exposing their white backsides to the good people of Wellington and shrieking ‘INTERNATIONAL COCK OR BALL’ as they ran down the street.

Praying the sights might be a bit more…savoury…on the South Island, I readied myself for the immanent ferry crossing- find out in the next post if my pleas were answered!

*why specifically seven we will never know

** his name wasn’t Brad

*** ALL HAIL CHIEF BEN

Photo credits- Hot Water Beach & Cathedral Cove- Bethany Goodfellow

Tamaki Maori stay- Russell Chesterton