“You couldn’t draw up a better resort town ” Patrick says to me, “nice beach on one side, beautiful calm harbour on the other, and on the tip a lush hikeable mountain.”
Patrick is a local- born in Auckland, living across the bay in Tauranga. He’s just one of the many local Kiwis eager to guide and illuminate the beauty of the nearby area. We struck up a conversation during our ascent of Mauao- the Mount that gives Mount Maunganui it’s namesake. Patrick shows me some interesting landmarks than bids me farewell: “Got to keep moving!”
Trails and pathways carve through Mauao left and right. They’re filled with all sorts of humans- athletically-clad young backpackers, aged ladies and gents, high schoolers, pregnant women, young fathers with babies tucked securely in their arms, and even goofy shirtless Canadians in flip-flops.
In the Shadow of Mauao grazing sheep scale along the rock-speckled green hillsides , and further inland, along the peninsula, is the actual township of Mount Maunganui- a linear town bursting with bars, restaurants, surf shops and hostels.
The hostel buzzes with multi-lingual inebriation, a crackling stereo with vintage hip hop, the click-clack of backgammon stones; aromas of self-rolled cigarettes, international cuisine, spilt beer and cider (and a card shark named Bryan might just pay two nights' accommodation by hustling a local Kiwi, three estonians and a brazillian in two games of underground poker.)
Upon arrival at Mount Backpackers Bryan and I integrated instantly, after a quick trip to the washroom I walked out to the small patio square (which is the hub of all parties, dining, games and social life) and Bryan was already wearing a balloon hat- it took all of five minutes before he looked like he had lived here for weeks.
And many backpackers do work and settle here, although “settle” may not be the correct word. The party has barely ceased since our arrival on thursday (thursday? wednesday? The days blend and disappear in a blur of sun and cloud). Bon vivants from several countries exchange drunken banter. Beer and food are given freely, languages and ideas exchanged for nothing but the desire to improve the traveling lives of fellow people- to create the best total experience possible.
Hostel life is cramped, cluttered. The night is a symphony of snores, creaking bunk beds, groans, yawns, and the early morning teems with the sound of ruffling clothes, bags, sliding zippers. beds are filled with sand and the floor covered with the backpacker’s odds and ends.
We get out early and often- the town is simple and walking around offers little more than peace and serenity, but the vast, powerful pacific is always a source of wonder, a great repository of reflection.
Our last evening, at low tide, we scampered across the weeded rocks in search of marine life. Odd starfish, urchins, strange spongy algaes , and mussels were tucked in every small crevice. We trekked our to the tip of leisure island: a wonderful view of the pacific. Looking back and seeing the sun tuck itself behind the Mauao’s lush treeline- we know it’s time for us to leave.
Patrick is a local- born in Auckland, living across the bay in Tauranga. He’s just one of the many local Kiwis eager to guide and illuminate the beauty of the nearby area. We struck up a conversation during our ascent of Mauao- the Mount that gives Mount Maunganui it’s namesake. Patrick shows me some interesting landmarks than bids me farewell: “Got to keep moving!”
Trails and pathways carve through Mauao left and right. They’re filled with all sorts of humans- athletically-clad young backpackers, aged ladies and gents, high schoolers, pregnant women, young fathers with babies tucked securely in their arms, and even goofy shirtless Canadians in flip-flops.
In the Shadow of Mauao grazing sheep scale along the rock-speckled green hillsides , and further inland, along the peninsula, is the actual township of Mount Maunganui- a linear town bursting with bars, restaurants, surf shops and hostels.
The hostel buzzes with multi-lingual inebriation, a crackling stereo with vintage hip hop, the click-clack of backgammon stones; aromas of self-rolled cigarettes, international cuisine, spilt beer and cider (and a card shark named Bryan might just pay two nights' accommodation by hustling a local Kiwi, three estonians and a brazillian in two games of underground poker.)
Upon arrival at Mount Backpackers Bryan and I integrated instantly, after a quick trip to the washroom I walked out to the small patio square (which is the hub of all parties, dining, games and social life) and Bryan was already wearing a balloon hat- it took all of five minutes before he looked like he had lived here for weeks.
And many backpackers do work and settle here, although “settle” may not be the correct word. The party has barely ceased since our arrival on thursday (thursday? wednesday? The days blend and disappear in a blur of sun and cloud). Bon vivants from several countries exchange drunken banter. Beer and food are given freely, languages and ideas exchanged for nothing but the desire to improve the traveling lives of fellow people- to create the best total experience possible.
Hostel life is cramped, cluttered. The night is a symphony of snores, creaking bunk beds, groans, yawns, and the early morning teems with the sound of ruffling clothes, bags, sliding zippers. beds are filled with sand and the floor covered with the backpacker’s odds and ends.
We get out early and often- the town is simple and walking around offers little more than peace and serenity, but the vast, powerful pacific is always a source of wonder, a great repository of reflection.
Our last evening, at low tide, we scampered across the weeded rocks in search of marine life. Odd starfish, urchins, strange spongy algaes , and mussels were tucked in every small crevice. We trekked our to the tip of leisure island: a wonderful view of the pacific. Looking back and seeing the sun tuck itself behind the Mauao’s lush treeline- we know it’s time for us to leave.
We head back to the hostel and steam up some of the mussels we found in white wine and butter. A small late night snack that left us not necessarily full in our stomachs, but rather our brains satisfied with eating self-foraged food.
And with that, we’ve tasted the Mount: but a whole country awaits. Tomorrow brings about Whakatane, a small town with even more coastline and sunshine. But off Whakatane’s coast sits a live Volcano, sprouting steam and shaky rock waiting for for the stamp of our curious feet.
But beyond that, there is no telling what other interesting earth will come our way.
-Kevin & Bryan