Paihia
Paihia is a coastal town. That meant water, beaches and cliffs. Astonishingly, this small coastal town had absolutely the most fantastic scenery I have ever seen in my life. At 8.30 pm, we drove up to the top of the cliff. The heavens probably felt that they had a good day as well; the sun was almost setting, its glorious majesty burning the clouds a deep crimson pink. Looking out from the car windows, I involuntarily felt my jaw drop. What appeared to be large acres of a golf course was actually natural botany all around. The road cut between the halves of the landscape, where miles and miles of grass stretched in both directions, one way finally giving way to the sea and another continuing on, its path concealed behind the coniferous foliage. The land sank and rose, small hills in their own right swollen out of the ground with the occasional pine tree to rest or take shelter under.
The best windy experience in New Zealand is, without a doubt, found at the top of Paihia. In the wake of the evening sky blanketing over the scenery, the temperature decides to follow the sun across the horizon, and drops at least ten degrees. The wind then decides to perform its last final act of the day, bellowing with all its might, penetrating my jacket as though it was a screen door and providing a full-body aerofoil almost strong and tangible enough to lean against.
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The cruiser rocked back and forth tumultuously as waves battered and struck the hull. I anchored myself firmly in my seat, head back and wishing very hard that it would stop spinning. Feeling more and more green by the second, I glanced out of the window. Bad idea. I was greeted with the sight of more and more waves charging the ship like an enemy fort.
The ocean is melancholic and grey, aside from the pale phosphorescence as some of the waves crest. The waves are hard to see as thick, opaque clouds blot out the sun. But then, every few minutes, the entire seascape is illuminated by lightning. Sometimes it is a dim, weak light cast by a bolt miles away whose thunder takes ten seconds to reach you, while other times the lightning hits closer to home, and then the waves metamorphosise into brilliant slopes of silver and cast black, triangular shadows across the choppy waters to boast how tall they are.
Bracing myself by gripping the sides of the seat, I endured the sudden upwards jerk as the ship was lifted into slight propulsion. Even as I type these words I can still feel the ship rocking back and forth ominously, the sickly feeling in my throat and the desire to go to sleep. Small droplets of rain moistened the outside glass every now and then, pooling into large gobs of water before sliding down the pane and culminating at the bottom of the window, disappearing out of sight.
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As the winds started to pick up speed, the waves grew more and more rambunctious. Back on the shore, the ocean now did not seem so violent from a safe distance away. At close proximity however, the waves scramble to meet you once again and pummel against the rocks. Involuntarily, I sniggered; it was as if you were some kind of rock star and the waves were your fans, so eager to touch you and to get under your skin.
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In the twilight, the coastline is a completely different landscape. The sun no longer reflects off the sand, giving the coast the look of some very wet desert. It is only in the dusk that I realise how treacherous the terrain of the beach really was. I go closer to the rocks about a few meters from the shore and investigate life in the tide pools. Barnacles suction themselves to the rocks, tiny fish swim in groups and a lone starfish lies deathly still, glued to a rock. While the fish darted around the pool, the starfish stoned, giving it the look of those dead, shrivelled up marine ornaments you purchase in souvenir stores.
Then, as if it had realised what I had been privately verbalising in the back of my mind, it lazily waved an arm, making me hold back a snort. It was as if it was saying, " Who're you calling dead?"
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Just past the swimming fish, nothing was visible except a small crack in the rock, leading down to infinite darkness. What in the name of Edward Culllen would live down there? I found myself thinking.
While I was exploring the rocks on my own, it wasn't too bad. The sounds of waves crashing, like the wind, constantly reminded me of where I was. And despite the bitter cold nipping at my fingers, the harsh landscape piqued my interest. Life in a tide pool, in the rocks was very precarious. The great ocean, encircling the entire Earth, eats away viciously and relentlessly at the land, chewing and biting it down with its agents, the waves, bit by bit. These rocks were nothing but the mere crumbs that fell from the vast mouth of the ocean. And then, within those tiny, insignificant crumbs, these rocks which would be ground into dust by the wind, contained millions and trillions of microscopic living things. Entire universes contained in eight hundred millilitres of seawater cupped in the armpit of a rough, weathered rock.
End Paihia