The Thrill of the Unexpected
A trip to the land of the Silver Fern & a Kiwi wedding
In a summer before the pandemic, I packed my bags for New Zealand, drawn across the world by the wedding of my old Kiwi mate Jason to his bride-to-be, Mel. Jason, ever the entrepreneur, ran a wireless internet service provider out of Hamilton, keeping the Waikato region connected in ways that suited his laid-back yet tech-savvy style. Mel, on the other hand, was a force of nature, a biker through and through, with a gleaming Harley that roared like thunder. Their union promised to be as unique as they were, and I couldn’t miss it.
The journey started with a flight to Auckland via Hong Kong, a layover that tested my patience from the get-go. Hong Kong airport is a soulless beast; overpriced, sterile, and utterly forgettable. With half a day to kill, I ventured into the city, hoping for some spark of adventure. What I found was a chaotic crush of humanity, towers scraping the sky, and streets so packed it felt like wading through a human river. No room to breathe, no wide-open spaces; it was no place for a cowboy like me. I swore then and there I’d never set foot in that concrete jungle again.
Touching down in Auckland, I made my way south to Hamilton, where Jason hosted me. It was peak summer, the kind of warm, golden days that make you forget the world beyond the horizon. We kicked things off with a trip to the Waitomo Caves, famous for their glowworms. Sliding into a boat for a silent ride through the underground waters, we were enveloped in darkness punctured by thousands of tiny blue lights clinging to the ceiling like a private galaxy. It was surreal, magnificent, a moment where nature’s quiet magic leaves you speechless. On the way back, we pulled over at a roadside farm stall for smoothies made from the freshest fruit I’d ever tasted. Sweet, tangy perfection in a cup; nothing’s come close since.
With Christmas approaching, Hamilton buzzed with holiday spirit. We drove up to the Mormon temple on the hill, where the Christmas lights display was a local spectacle. Strings of bulbs twisted into elaborate scenes, illuminating the night like a fairy tale. It was wholesome, festive, and a far cry from the rowdy celebrations back home, but it warmed the soul all the same.
Adventure called next, leading us to Mount Ruapehu, the largest volcano on the North Island. Summer had stripped away the snow, but the ski lifts still ran for sightseeing. We started the ascent in shorts and T-shirts, basking in the valley warmth, but at the top, we bundled into cold-weather gear against the biting wind. The ride up was smooth, uneventful, rewarding us with panoramic views that stretched endlessly, green hills rolling into distant haze, a reminder of New Zealand’s raw beauty.
But the descent? That’ll be seared in my memory forever. The lift carried us over ancient lava fields, vast valleys, and sheer gorges carved into the mountain’s flank. A few hundred meters above one such abyss, the whole thing ground to a halt. No warning, no explanation. Mobile signal? Nonexistent. Peering down, my heart climbed into my throat, the jagged black lava below looked like a bed of razor blades, vicious and unforgiving. Minutes ticked by. Jason sat beside me, both of us pretending it was fine, but inside, my anxiety built like a storm. Half an hour in, I was questioning every life choice that led me there. At 45 minutes, panic clawed at the edges. After a full hour, the lift jerked back to life. Back on solid ground, my legs were jelly; relief flooded me like a tidal wave. Talk about earning your stories.
From there, we headed to Rotorua, where the geothermal activity announced itself long before we arrive, the whole place stank of sulfur, like rotten eggs on a hot day. But the drive was worth it, winding alongside spectacular rivers that sparkled under the sun. We blew off steam with some clay pigeon shooting, and I have to say, I aced it. Pump-action shotgun in hand, I felt like the cowboy I am, nailing every target with precision.
Next up was the luge track on a nearby mountain, karts racing down winding paths at breakneck speed. My first run was flawless, pure adrenaline. The second? Not so much. Someone nudged me into the side, my wheels caught the grass, and I was airborne. Landed hard, bruised and bleeding, needing a patch-up at first aid. Nothing a long, cold beer couldn’t fix afterward.
The highlight, of course, was the wedding itself, held on the black-sand beach at Raglan. It was hands down the best venue I’ve ever seen, waves crashing, endless ocean horizon, the sun dipping low. Jason and Mel exchanged vows with the sea as their witness, her Harley parked nearby like a chrome sentinel. It was raw, romantic, something else entirely.
All too soon, it was time to head home, again via that cursed Hong Kong layover. I sat in the terminal, muttering curses in Afrikaans under my breath, vowing once more to steer clear. New Zealand had given me thrills, scares, and memories for a lifetime—proof that the best trips are the ones that test you just enough to make the triumphs sweeter.
