RotoVegas

Since I was already so far north for the Hamilton match, I decided to take a few days to travel before heading back to Wellington. That is, after all, why I’m in New Zealand. So on Monday morning I caught the bus from Auckland, where my friend and I had gone following the match, to Rotorua about two hours to the south east. It’s a town reputed for its rotten egg smell, thermal activity, Maori culture and mud. Despite the smell, it’s still highly recommended as a North Island activity. I even knew a little bit this one, but still didn’t find what I was expecting. I think it’s time I just stop expecting all together. Given the nickname, I was picturing something brash and flashy, an entertainment capital, but didn’t find one. The only similarity to Los Vegas in my mind is the shows. Here Maori culture is both celebrated and commercialized, shown through the overwhelming availability to tourists. All the major hotels have Maori concerts and Hangi (a traditional feast). Many of the local Marae (technically the open area before a carved meeting house, but used generally to describe the meeting place for a group or tribe of Maori) have opened themselves to tourists and put on concerts as well.

For my introduction to Maori culture I chose Te Puia, which was described as a cultural centre including a little bit of everything the area was known for: boiling mud pools, geysers, a Kiwi house, carving and weaving exhibitions, and the traditional concert. The mud pools were interesting, the main active geyser Pohutu the tallest in New Zealand if not even farther afield, and the Kiwis are cute, but the main attraction is supposed to be the interactive Maori experience. Rather than just sitting down for the show you gather outside the Marae, choose a chief from your group (which must be male, urgh!) who then has to not offend the warriors that come out to check whether you are friend or foe by picking up the fern leaf that is offered and backing away slowly. You then flow through culture and custom as the group is approved of, welcomed and enters the intricately carved meeting house after removing your shoes as a sign of respect. What followed I believe are the basic elements of any concert in town, which would include Maori songs, games, authentic costumes made from plants and other items found in nature, and traditional dances including the local Haka and a Poi dance using white balls on a string the women twirl as they dance, sometimes up to four at a time. When the show ends you’re once again free to wander around the grounds. You can even wander into the connected village where my tour guide, her extended family and many of the others employed at the centre still live in community.

Pretty sure whoever decided on the nickname has never been to Los Vegas!

Back at my hostel, I started cooking my dinner and actually wondered if I was the only person staying the night until halfway through my rotini bolognase another girl unloaded her groceries. A few more people checked in as I read my book, but I can’t imagine there were more than a dozen of us in probably a 100 bed hostel. I managed to forget my ear plugs since I had packed in a hurry, so opted to pay $1 more for a female only dorm when checking in the night before. Less chance of snoring! Since no other females went for the extra expense, my 8 bed dorm made for a nice warm single.

Speaking of warm, when checking in I made sure there was bedding before committing as the only place I’d seen central heating since winter had set in was the NZRU building where I worked. As I unloaded my things I began to wonder if I had made a poor decision noting basic blankets only, chipped paint on wooden window sills, and oh so seventies worn carpet and matching bathrooms. When I realized noticed the radiator heating, the place became a palace in my mind and everything else was forgotten.

During the few trips I’ve managed to eke out in my time here, I’ve tried to break out of old habits (previously discussed) and experience a little more of what’s on offer. In Picton my wine (not WING, despite my typo) tour was definitely uncharacteristic and I wanted to keep that up. Here I caught myself about halfway through living like a pauper, making decisions based on best value/lowest price once again and experiencing nothing beyond the basic necessity of Rotorua already described. Please refer back to the subtle comment on rotini bolognase. At least this time I put beef in it! I’ve had plain pasta and sauce in hostel kitchens at some of the best cities in Europe: Dublin, Vienna, Prague, and etcetera. To be fair, I’m usually on a very tight budget and skimping on food means getting to do more things. Skipping lunch or getting Kebab (one of the cheapest, most plentiful fast foods in all of Europe) has often made room for an extra castle, museum or ferry ride in my day’s funds. I can just hear my mom’s shudder as I write this. Here in New Zealand you’d have to skip a week’s worth of meals to fit in an extra activity as so many things (especially with no car to get to them) require a tour that starts from $80 to $100. Te Puia was a steal, giving you a taste of everything but not fully experiencing anything, except maybe the geysers, for a mere $35 plus $6 return for the bus.

I had already booked the night bus back to to Welly that evening (oh so very backpackerish) and needed to find something to do until the 11:00 p.m. departure. So kicking myself, I’d decided I should splurge on something really impressive, something really Rotorua to fill my time. I whittled my choices down to A) a night tour of a kiwi house, a likely more elaborate Maori concert and feast, tour of a glo worm cave and a few other nighttime adventures and B) a night at the spa including the therapeutic thermal pools the area is known for. While I pondered my choices, not being able to shake the well honed instinct for something free or cheap completely, I spent most of the day walking around the Redwood Nature Reserve not far from town. The trees are imposing, looking down from their lofty heights as you walk between them feeling like a character in ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.’ Just looking at them you know they’ve weathered decade upon decade of storms and different people standing at their feet, not always with good intentions. I fancy the largest as the oldest as well, the papa lions of the pride schooling the younger, thinner trees on what it takes to grow big and strong, to be a proud Redwood.

I don’t know what it is with me and nature hikes though. Whenever I attempt one, the rain starts to fall. I turned back from the longer trail when the sprinkles started to be more than the occasional drop on my nose, changing to regular dots on my waterproof jacket. I decided to stick it out though on one of the shorter paths, but unlike the Queen Charlotte Track the foliage hadn’t grown together above the path to create a canopy so the rain fell unhindered. Once my stocking hat had soaked through I said ‘no thanks,’ returning to the information centre as soon as I could. Even then it wasn’t until I was walking the paved mile back to the main road that I felt the familiar feeling of water seeping into my sneakers a little at a time, starting at the toes where you hope and pray it will stop, but once it starts it never does. It just continues working its way down to your heal until you literally squish when you walk. I’ve said it before, but hopefully not again; I need new shoes before my next trip!

So it was decision time. I had plans to see a much larger glo worm cave in Waitomo, and had already seen a concert. Even though I had seen a pair of Kiwi birds the day before, the idea was still a draw as they really are quite cute. They’re also very rare in the wild, only living in certain areas of the country like the farm outside Kerikeri where I stayed. Most people see them at breeding places like the one on the tour because in addition to being rare, they’re nocturnal. Places like Te Puia trick them into thinking the day is night and vice versa using tightly climate controlled environments as accurate as possible to their native habitats while keeping the birds safe from predictors and easy to spot for tourists. They’re flightless birds, large ones, with bodies the size and shape of a volleyball covered in brown material more like fur than feathers. Protruding from their head, like a baseball attached to the volleyball, is a long beak that looks like a wide straw that narrows until reaching the tip, which they use to snort up insects and worms for their dinner. The story is that the birds developed to take the role of mammals around the world that perform similar functions. There were no mammals native to New Zealand, but once they were introduced the Kiwis met their first predators and have stood on the brink of extinction for decades. Along with the silver fern, they are the national symbol and identity, so they’re now protected and conservation sites go harvest their eggs, incubate them hopefully ensuring greater survival rates before reintroducing them back into the wild. However, I went with what was most against my instincts and chose the spa.

The Polynesian Spa more specifically, has signs as you enter proclaiming it one of the Top 10 spas in the world, but that wasn’t why I chose it and have done no independent research to confirm their claim. Once I made up my mind I even decided to get really crazy, splurging on a honey skin treatment/massage that came with the private pools included in order to prepare the skin for your chosen treatment. Even when I splurge I look for good value! From the moment they provided a sea green fluffy bathrobe upon checking in, a smile curled my lips like I had a secret and an occasional giggle, usually a sign of pent up silly excitement, escaped past them. This despite my eternal mortification (I honestly can’t believe I’m admitting this) that they also provided a black one piece hopefully wholly sanitized swimsuit as I had forgotten my own blue green bikini at home despite knowing I was going to a thermal pool town. I thought I couldn’t possibly BORROW one, but the spa was the only place in town that sold them this time of year and the only cute one didn’t come in my size! I actually totally forgot about it. I could have been wearing a clown suit underneath and the robe would have made it all right. The one size fits all approach left me feeling like a child dressing up in her mother’s clothes: safe and secure, but I had shake my hands free from the extra foot of sleeve in order to pick up my water bottle as I headed out to the pools. I have definitely underestimated the necessity of a quality fluffy bathrobe in my life, something I may have to rectify soon.

I forgot from my tour earlier in the day that most of the pools were outside, which was important as the rain had not stopped from that afternoon. There were four pools to choose from for my presoak, opting first for a cooler one at 38°C and the only one covered by a green pyramid shaped roof. Even then, the wind blew the cold rain into your face on occasion as your body soaked in the toasty warm water. The water was perfect; warm, but not so hot you had to get out exposing yourself to the elements to catch your breath and cool your body temperature before re-submerging. The second pool at 40°C did require it, but a beautiful rock grotto gave shelter from even the blowing wind off the lake just past the landscaped hedges.

Despite the toasty pools, I couldn’t relax completely. I kept checking my watch to see if it was massage time. Finally it was, so I dried off, donned my robe and work my way down to that end of the building. I won’t bother describing the massage itself. If you haven’t had one yourself you should definitely give it a try once in your life, but ooh the smells. I’m such a visual person that sometimes I forget I have a nose. Maybe that’s why I can survive on such bland food. It’s only when I walk past a Body Shop with scent so thick it’s like walking through fog that I really notice it. I found out at a girls pamper evening for work that they have special scents they burn in the back to draw you in. I always thought it was just the products themselves, but either way I won’t complain.

Getting back to the massage, the sweet, sweet smell of honey saturated the air in the small room. If that wasn’t enough, hot oils add a scent of their own as they soak pure moisture into your skin, then wiped clean by hot towels giving my body a complete warmth it always craves but rarely gets to enjoy. I’m not sure my skin enjoyed the full magnitude of the moisture as I could see curved patterns of oil playing on the surface of the water above my legs after sinking back into the pools. However, I did get the full magnitude of 30 minutes of relaxation nearly falling asleep on the table where my masseuse left me. I spent another hour soaking, but the water in my chosen pool seemed hotter this time. I could barely stand it a minute before perching on the rocks that lined the sides or sprung up like islands in the middle. I didn’t find out until I had almost finished that the temperature has risen to a whopping 41°C, but at least then I knew I wasn’t going crazy. I finished my time in my now cooler grotto alongside a pair of Chinese tourists before heading in to shower before my night bus. Definitely not a bad way to spend an evening.