Desolation Meets Serenity up New Zealand's East Coast

We decided to take the long way to Gisborne by driving up the scenic (and ridiculously windy) coastal highways. We were met by brilliant sunshine, crystalline streams, majestic cliffs, idyllic beaches, feral ponies, women screaming, dense fog, a church with a bloodstained pulpit (the reverend was hanged, beheaded, then, if that weren't enough, his eyes were gouged out and eaten), rusty abandoned cars, creepy elderly mannequins and cows completely at a standstill on the highway, twice. Sans the bizarre happenings, the east coast is renowned for it's wide open spaces and small populations. We would often drive for stretches of over 60 kilometers (37.3 miles, if you wondered) and not see another human being, which is eerie on an island so small. It's also heavily Maori, namely the Ngati Porou tribe live along the coast while the Tuhoe dominate the interior. We have already seen a dozen or more Marae (elaborately carved Maori meeting houses) as well as tons of bilingual schools. The east coast is in no way a tourist draw, admittedly, we drove through entire towns before we realized we had, so I feel Katie made the right decision in leading us to this clandestine and often unexplored region. That evening we landed at the ghetto fabulous Te Araroa Holiday Park complete with rundown toilets, rusted vehicles, windows that don't close, a lady that sells fish and chips out of her caravan and many other eager and chatty permanent characters (residents).
The next morning we roused ourselves at 550am in order to be the first people on earth to see the sunrise that day. This involved a terrifying drive through the pitch-black on narrow, unguarded cliff-side dirt roads for about an hour. It was here, in the absolute middle of nowhere, that we ran into our French (or outerspace) friend Romain (another post will be dedicated solely to this strange, strange French giant) naked in his van. As the dawn neared, it became apparent to us that we weren't going to see much on account of the ominous gray skies. We sat in the car (not wanting to walk up the mountain to the lighthouse), counted down to the sunrise, of which we saw nothing and then took the dangerous track back to the highway. The day was rainy, cold and gray. We visited an Anglican church whose interior was decorated with Maori carvings, we stopped in Ruatoria, famous for it's politically active Maori population, many of whom subscribe to Rastafarian religion. (The white folks around here warned us not to linger in this “dangerous” area, but having lived alongside the Bronx for over a year, I felt I could handle it) We ate delicious, flaky and warm bacon and egg Ruatoria pies and continued on our monochromatic journey. We bypassed the longest pier in New Zealand and some famous beaches on account of the billowy fog. We drove through the wee town of Whangara and alongside Wainui beach (both featured prominently in the wonderful book/movie The Whale Rider) and arrived in Gisborne before noon.