Humour in New Zealand- Bay of Islands: Sun Hats, Stealthy Footpaths, and the Great Pie Conspiracy

 

Photos will arrive once internet is stronger

Mount Maunganui: Where Octogenarians Out-Paddle Tankers & Selfies Reign Supreme

24th February – Tauranga, NZ: A Sunburn Avoidance Masterclass

G’day from Tauranga, where the sun shines like it’s got a personal vendetta against vampires, and the locals have mastered the art of looking effortlessly windswept. Today’s mission: conquer Mount Maunganui, a dormant volcano that’s basically New Zealand’s answer to a StairMaster with better views.  

We began by marinating ourselves in SPF 50, a ritual akin to buttering toast, ensuring no millimetre of skin was left ungreased. Hat? Check. Long sleeves? Check. We looked less like tourists and more like beige ghosts haunting the promenade.  

En route, we stumbled upon Tauranga’s secret militia: four sprightly pensioners assembling a fibreglass “Maui longboat” (think Viking ship, but with more sunscreen and fewer axes). They casually mentioned they were off to “navigate the spit,” a sentence that struck fear into my heart. As they paddled defiantly past tankers, I made a mental note: Retirement goals updated.

The Mount’s base walk was swarming with cruise ship comrades, so we veered uphill, opting for the “scenic route” (read: gravelly death march). The views were stunning—turquoise bays, yachts bobbing like bath toys—until a tanker blasted its horn at a flotilla of fishing boats parked in the shipping lane. “Local knowledge,” we nodded sagely, while secretly hoping someone had filmed it for NZ’s Funniest Home Videos.

At the peak, we were greeted by a congregation of Instagram influencers, their iPhones gleaming like Excalibur. Golden-limbed and hashtag-ready, they posed against vistas that even Photoshop couldn’t improve. Meanwhile, Chris and I celebrated with a sweaty sandwich, feeling profoundly middle-aged.  The cheese and meat pie comes later.

The descent was a comedy of errors. Jill and Judith (legs: short, spirits: high) navigated steps seemingly designed for giraffes, while we passed a man named Sam who resembled a beetroot in human form. “Defibrillator?” I offered. He declined, opting for dignity instead.  

From the summit, Tauranga looks idyllic: golden sands, azure waves, million-pound homes clinging to cliffs like limpets. But as the locals will tell you (between sips of flat whites), this “paradise” has cracks:  

- Housing Prices- A shed here costs more than Buckingham Palace.  

- Traffic- The only “rush hour” involves retirees on e-bikes.  

- Earthquake Roulette :The region’s on a fault line. Think of it as nature’s way of keeping things spicy.  

The Verdict: Move Here or Just Visit?

Would I relocate? Sure, if I win Lotto or marry a timber tycoon (the port’s exporting enough plywood to rebuild IKEA). But for now, Tauranga remains a blissful paradox—a place where octogenarians outpace tankers, selfies are an Olympic sport, and every sunset feels like a screensaver.  

Final Thought:

As we hobbled back to the ship, sun-kissed and slightly broken, I concluded: Tauranga isn’t perfect. But where else can you witness a pensioner paddling brigade, dodge tankers, and question your life choices atop a volcano? 10/10. Would sweat again.  

**P.S.** If you do visit, pack sunscreen, a sense of humour, and a defibrillator. Just in case.

Bay of Islands: Sun Hats, Stealthy Footpaths, and the Great Pie Conspiracy

By Parker (a man who now smells vaguely of SPF 50 and regret)

There we were, the Queen Anne, floating regally in the Bay of Islands’ turquoise waters like a dowager aunt at a rave. The sun? A relentless 24°C disco ball shining down on us.

Cue Operation: Lobster Avoidance. Armed with a hat the size of a satellite dish and a handkerchief knotted at my neck like a 1950s bank robber, I transformed into a walking homage to my father’s Cornish seaside escapades. Mirror check:  Yep, still ridiculous. But as the Kiwi sun glared down, I silently thanked Dad for passing down the “dress like a pantomime villain” gene.  

Ah, the glamour of anchoring offshore! No dock for Queen Anne’s grandeur, so 3,000 of us queued like overexcited penguins for a fleet of lifeboats. Last time, we’d languished in a cinema-turned-pen watching “Mrs. Doubtfire” staring Robin Williams.

Today, we strategised like Navy SEALS, securing an early tender ticket. Victory! Until we were herded through a labyrinth of corridors, muttering, “Are we in the engine room yet?”

Our chariot? A “vintage” lifeboat skippered by a chap who’d clearly sailed with Captain Cook. The vessel creaked ominously, but the sea was calm. Small mercies. In choppier waters, I suspect we’d have arrived in Paihia as a flotilla of queasy, green-faced ghouls.  

Disembarking, Paihia greeted us with a breeze, the shriek of oyster catchers, and a beach crunchy with discarded shells (nature’s pistachios, if you will). The Waitangi Treaty Grounds loomed – sacred, solemn, and the site where New Zealand’s founding document was signed.

We deployed the Outdooractive app for a “leisurely coastal walk”. Spoiler: The app worked, but the signposted walk was nowhere to be seen . What began as a stroll soon morphed into a Bear Grylls audition. A “footpath” vanished beneath a homeowner’s rogue extension (“Ah, yes, we built the conservatory atop an ancient Māori trail. Tea?”) Retreating, we pivoted to a hill trek, ascending boardwalks so steep I swear they doubled as StairMaster prototypes.  

Pro tip: If a Kiwi describes a walk as “a wee 20-minute jaunt”, triple it. Add sweat. Subtract dignity.  

At the peak, gasping like asthmatic dragons, we were rewarded with a view so ludicrously stunning it belonged on a postcard. Emerald ridges tumbled into sapphire bays; islands dotted the horizon like crumbs from Poseidon’s lunch. Selfies were taken, lungs were sworn at, and we descended with the grace of newborn giraffes on roller skates.  

Back in town, we found Judith and Jill under a palm tree, demolishing steak and cheese pies. “More cheese than steak,”Judith noted. “A conspiracy?”I mused. But as l tried the flaky pastry and molten dairy, it hit my taste buds, I decided: if this is a conspiracy, sign me up as a co-conspirator.  

Epilogue: Helicopters, Oysters, and Unanswered Questions

As a helicopter buzzed overhead (presumably offering actual sensible people aerial views), I pondered life’s mysteries:  

1. Why do we trust unnamed signs that direct you into the woods over common sense?  

2. Who decided handkerchiefs are hats? (Geniuses, that’s who.)  

3. Is there a Kiwi pie mogul laughing all the way to the bank?  

Answers unclear. But as the tender returned us to the Queen Anne, sun-kissed and pie-stuffed, one truth remained: New Zealand’s beauty is only matched by its ability to turn tourists into mildly lost, cheese-covered adventurers.  

Until next time, Paihia. Keep those footpaths sneaky.  

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