For those who prefer the do-it-yourself approach, try a parachute jump or a parapent. Whether you have a motor home, caravan, camper van, bicycle, or just hitchhike, in New Zealand, enjoy our thick native bush, listen to the birdsong, explore the Conservation tracks, pan for gold, fish for Trout and Salmon, feast on our fresh seafood.
Our camping grounds are very well appointed, most have kitchens, and recreation rooms as well as well appointed ablutions. Motor Camps also offer a wide variety of cabins, tourist flats and motel accommodation. Enjoy your holiday, the sun and the surf, and come back and see us again. This website requires JavaScript! Please enable JavaScript in your browser and reload the page!
I started pointing and half-yelling at the half-baked senor that we needed to get on that bus. He waved me off and continued talking on the phone. A few minutes later, just as the bus shot off up the road, he finally put down the phone and calmly informed me that we had just missed our bus. No fucking shit. We really had no choice though and decided to suck it up and pay the senor. Once we got into our plush leather seats, with more leg room than you can imagine, leg rests, adjustable air con, and situated on the second story up the front with a huge window for us to view the countryside, the pain of spending unnecessary dollars subsided, a little.
It continued to subside the entire journey, as we were indulged with meal after meal, drink after drink, and kept entertained by our lovely El Salvadorean bus hostesses. Definitely makes riding the cheaper buses all the more difficult.
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Once we made it to San Salvador, the night had closed in, and once again we were stranded in a foreign city, with no clue where we were or what we were going to do. Later on the way out to the beach he told me he tried to rip me off because he thought I was a gringo, then was surprised when I argued with him in Spanish. The next morning our stoke to finally be back in the ocean quickly diminished as we saw the point El Sunzal chopped up with a cross-shore and waves rolling down the point in the form of big fat mushburgers, and not to mention the locals dropping on in on you every second wave you caught.
We surfed it, and slightly recharged the surf batteries, but it was definitely nothing like our last surf back in Southern Mexico God I miss that place. The disappointment of the waves had Lewis and I thinking other options. Utila is also well known for its super cheap scuba diving courses, situated amongst the second largest reef in the world, so there was always that too.
The mission over there represented one of the debates travelers in the region will always have. You can do it quickly, comfortably but expensively, or you can do it cheap, long, and uncomfortably, but all the more exciting.
As we were chilling at a bar for an open-mic night, we overheard an incredibly typical German dude, who looked like he had just emerged straight out of an underground Berlinese nightclub: hipster-thin singlet, short-shaven Aryan blond hair, and loud, incredibly loud. He was with a group discussing his plan to head to Utila for a giant party. It turned out our new friend Robin, and his British mate James, were locked in for a chicken busing mission to Utila.
Robin, so he said, knew the way and could speak Spanish. As we were looking to keep costs down, and are always keen on an adventure well I am anyway , this plan sounded perfect. We had considered it earlier, but now there were a few of us keen, it made the decision all the more easy. On a map it looks like a daunting adventure, and in short, it was pretty damn daunting. Our first hurdle occurred only one hour into the trip, when our bus from La Libertad to San Salvador stopped dead in the road halfway up a hill.
By this stage we had acquired a fifth member to the party, Chris, another German, but from a small country city, a somewhat antithesis to the hyped up Berliner. Our options were limited so we began asking local El Salvadorians waiting in the queue whether they could take us the alternative route to San Salvador.
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Almost immediately we got hold of a dude with a Toyota Hilux who was more than happy to give us a ride in, as long as we split the gas. We all piled into the back of the Ute and shot off towards the capital, stoked with our good fortune and the generosity of the locals. Not long after crossing into the Honduran border what we thought was a shotgun blasting into the back of our bus turned out to be a blown tire.
We made it into a hostel at around 10pm that night, without being murdered, after five buses, a ride in the back of a pick-up, and a taxi, for a total of 14 hours on the road. We were exhausted. The next morning we were to get up at 4am to get the 4. Once we finally made it to Utila it was that classic mix of jubilation and utter exhaustion.
The island itself was paradise, especially after the arduous journey in getting there. Close your eyes after reading this and imagine crystal clear turquoise water, white sand beaches, blue skies, scorching sun, bars everywhere, and babes, glorious babes. After finding a place to stay we were straight onto the cervezas and into the bath-like waters of the Caribbean. The rest of that afternoon consisted of swimming, jumping off the wharf, fooling around with kayaks, drinking cervezas, rum, eating and meeting the lovely inhabitants of the island.
Not a bad afternoon. Needless to say the party came to us. As a group we tucked into a half-gallon bottle of rum and let the night take control. Our first stop out of the hostel was a bar called Treetopia.
It was amazing. There are secret pathways leading every which way, tree-huts to chill in and down a few cocktails, and caves covered in ceramic ceilings. If you are ever on Utila, check it out. What we found was around a thousand young people gyrating in the sand to booming techno. For Lew and I, it was a little overwhelming, especially after the epic journey in getting there, so after a little more partying we decided to have an early one 3am in order to make it through the next evening.
Our primary reason for heading to Utila was Sunjam. As things do when rum is involved, the festivities began escalating and before long Robin had his spray cans out and was painting everybody in tripped out colours for the night ahead. As the sun was nearing setting point, we decided it was time to head to Sunjam before we passed out, and around twenty of us piled into a wee fishing boat to shoot us over to the smaller island for Sunjam.
Yes, like any other dance party, except you are on a tiny island in the Caribbean off the coast of Honduras; yes, very badass. Like any all night party, it was pretty wild, but it definitely came in waves. There are moments where you are with all of your friends having the time of your life, dancing around getting loose.
Then you lose everybody when you go off to get a few drinks and are left wandering around for an hour searching high and low feeling like an absolute creep as everybody around you has an insane time. Then you catch up with them again and it is all good. And then it is nearing 6am; the sun is starting to rise; yet the music never slows for a second. All of a sudden the effects of partying all night hit you like a truck, the music starts to sound like it really is — shit — and all you want to do is cuddle up in bed and be rocked to sleep.
You find a boat to take you back to the island, and are stoked for a second. Until you get out to the open water and the swells are virtually submerging the boat, soaking everybody to the core.
People are crying; it is not a happy place. By the time you arrive back at the island forty minutes later everybody is near hypothermic and at least a little pissed off, especially the girl with a camera in her pocket — ouch. Except the captain, who sneakily put on his full-length rain jacket just before you set off, bastard. Our instructor was Gary, another Kiwi from up near Whangarei, and he was absolutely killing it. Hopefully surf-instructing in Ecuador will run along similar lines.
After our first open water dive I knew I had made the right decision. Underwater truly is another world. As a surfer I have spent a lot of time on top of the water, but I have always been a little apprehensive about diving deep below.
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Sounds ridiculous, but you just never know what is down there. Though after four days of diving down twenty metres or so, I am completely hooked. Exploring little underwater caves, getting right up in the faces of insanely colourful fish, swimming alongside dolphins, getting lost in the jungle of coral and random swaying sea weeds — whatever apprehension I had before is now completely gone.
There is just something about diving without all of the gear you have with scuba that makes free diving feel so, umm, well, free.
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My Kiwi mate Tom had just done a free diving course and was more than happy to teach me some of the techniques. At first it is quite daunting, and impossible to fathom how you can hold your breath for minutes underwater, but with the right exercises before diving, and learning how to completely relax, it is simply amazing how long you can push it. There is nothing like diving twenty or so metres down, swimming through a school of fish and exploring a few underwater gardens, then looking back up and seeing the sun glistening through the turquoise water, and knowing that you are down there all by yourself, alone.
It really is a cool sensation. After free diving for a few hours it feels, for me at least, just like spending an afternoon doing yoga and meditation. But with this you are actually doing something. A week on Utila was a good amount of time for Lewis and I. Without diving there is really only one other thing to do: party.
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And that is what our new friends Robin and James did every single waking hour, day and night. As we were diving each morning at 7am it made all-nighters a little difficult, but we definitely got involved as much as our bodies would let us. The island itself is widely known for its diving, partying, iguana sanctuary, and incredibly eccentric locals.