The morning of New Year’s Eve, I enjoyed a coffee and catch up with a dear friend, mindful of the afternoon forecast promising thunderstorms. The flies were sticky and people desultorily dawdling on the foot paths. I battled with traffic headed towards Waihi beachside village, a mecca for sun seeking visitors wanting adventure on the Coromandel Peninsula.
Columns of cars snaked slowly towards the sand, toy laden with must have beach gadgetry: jet skies, kayaks, newly popular paddle surf boards, mountain bikes and zodiac rubber boats. The occupants of the cars converge on the village clad in ill fitting baggy beiges and sloppy tops crafted in some Chinese sweat shop. The whole beach fashion world has gone sloppy and troppo. Dozy folk wander aimlessly around the shops weighing up the virtues of purchase of one lot of imported Indonesian tat against another, ‘so not to wear’, to work clothing.
However, there is hope. A clever shop, brightly painted, filled to the brim with aforesaid tat, has pebbled a path and signed a sign declaring a secret garden. With anticipation, plodding pedestrians push through the authentic antique Indonesian doors. They come upon a glorious Balinese tableau of numerous, spaciously planted and situated wooden dais with squishy embroidered pillows (yogic stance preferred), wavy flags and colourful pennants paying homage to Buddha. Tired old grandparents vie with toddlers piling pillows and the man and his wife throng into the little sliver of an oasis more befitting another world. A world more suited to the gamelan orchestra, incense and candles than Kiwi fish and chips, a pie and a beer.