I’ve stopped taking pictures at this point. It’s absolutely useless. I’m on a bus from Auckland to Whitianga, a small town on the east coast. For the last hour I’ve been glued to my window, watching in wonder.
As we drove out of Auckland, we passed through farmland that honestly reminded me of English countryside. Except the hills are much bigger and constantly speckled with cows or sheep. Sort of like stubborn, furry acne. Something about the hills bother me until realize that they are actually mountains. The trees have been shorn away to make room for livestock. You can see forests in the distance, where the farmers finally got tired of battling nature. Alongside the road the mountains stand there naked, like bashful teenagers in grassy underwear.
At the moment I’m going through larger mountains on a rickety old bus. We’re careening at lightening speed down the small winding road. Usually I enjoy a bumpy ride, but I’m actually forming contingency plans in case I throw up.
I’m distracted from my car sickness, however, by the unbelievable flora we’re passing. I see plants that have absolutely no business growing alongside each other. One minute we pass through a tropical rainforest with heavy hanging moss. Next minute, we’re passing an open field of shrubs that look like they belong on a high-altitude artic plateau. Two seconds later: We’re in the middle of a boreal forest. In Florida. During the Jurassic. There are pine trees, palm trees, and ferns the size of my torso. Then, we pass ferns that are actually the size of trees. Nothing I knew about plants makes sense anymore.
Just when I give up trying to predict what I’ll see next, we round the corner to a patch of small coniferous trees, every one of them flicking me off with hundreds of arms. At least that’s what it looks like. At the end of each branch, there are tufts of smaller needles that resemble a clenched fist. The middle cluster protrudes far outwards. I get such a strong impression that the trees are flipping me the bird with all their might that I avert my eyes, worried that I have offended them.
Then I laugh. Every thing about this place is a trip.
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