Rotorua's Maori & Geothermal lands

Rotorua offers plenty of heart-stopping, risky thrills for adventure seekers: bungy jumping, white water rafting, Fox Flying, jetboating, luging, and even something unique called Zorbing. Nowhere else can you roll down a hill enclosed in a clear plastic ball with a bucket of icy cold water thrown in for extra excitement. New in 2003 was talk of zorbing down waterfalls.

But what really sets Rotorua apart from other cities are the Maori Cultural and Geothermal attractions. Which is why we visited.

We had grand plans when we arrived. Over three days we would wander around bubbly mud pools, sulphuric craters and sizzling mineral waters at the most colorful geothermal park Wai-o-tapu; mountain bike past steamy crater lakes on winding singletrack through a Redwood forest; return at dark for an eerie ghost ride amid swirling steam and spooky trees; take a full day guided tour to the Buried Village with hikes around the Blue & Green Lakes; attend a Maori hangi and concert; shop for Maori crafts; and soak in the hot springs at the Polynesian Spa.

But frankly, rain and pervasive foul odors chased us away. Sulphur hung in the air. Everywhere.

Quick Tips:

The offensive odors increase greatly at night. Make sure your lodging has tightly sealed windows and door frames. We stayed in two different hotels, and had TWO sleepless nights.

What a shame. Rotorua has unusual attractions and beautiful walks. I''m still kicking myself for not talking my husband into staying one more day to bike the trails Gary Fischer rates among the world''s top ten, soaking in the Polynesian spa or buying the beautiful, unique Maori carved masks that I admired on Fenton Street. Shoppers take note: this is one of the best places in all of New Zealand to buy Maori souvenirs. I assumed I could buy similar products in Auckland before flying home. Wrong.

Staff at the Visitor Centre will arrange transportation, tours or lodging for city and regional destinations (even the difficult logistics for Whakapapa Village in Tongariro National Park–a remote place hours away). You can also exchange money and store your luggage here (six hours for /).

Check out Rotorua attractions, mt. biking trips, geothermal tours and Tamaki''s Maori hangi.

Best Way To Get Around:

Rotorua is three hours driving distance from Auckland and five hours north of Wellington. It is easily accessible by plane, bus, or rental car.

Regular buses include Intercity, Newmans, Magic, Kiwi Experience ,and Stray backpacker buses, although there are an amazing array of additional smaller companies that provide services to this central city. All roads lead to touristy Rotorua. Even tiny towns far away. We managed to get here the same day we suddenly became stranded in such a town hours north just by looking under transportation in the Yellow Pages. Within two hours the next scheduled van whisked us away...

All connecting buses and local tour buses arrive and depart from the Visitor Centre, on the eastern end of Fenton Street. Within walking distance from here is the Rotorua Museum of Art & History, Polynesian Spas, Tamaki headquarters, Lake Rotorua, Eaton Hall B&B, Princes Gate Hotel, miscellaneous hostels, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Even a movie theater seven long blocks away.

To visit outlying attractions various shuttles are available, including the Magic of Maori which will transport you from one place to another all day for . And if all else fails, hail a taxi.

Stranded several hours north of Rotorua, we stood at a phone booth in somewhat of a panic, as hostel after hostel informed us they had no vacancies for tonight. We'd just booked a bus for Rotorua that would pick us up in fifteen minutes, yet we had nowhere to stay.

A weekday in February, it was nevertheless summer, which meant reservations were required no matter where stayed. We'd seen plenty of disappointed people stranded all over NZ pleading for accommodations from tiny Takaka to touristy Franz.

Suddenly we were in their company. But by choice. We'd jumped off the Stray backpacker bus somewhere en route from Waitomo to Coromandel, deciding that going solo would be HEAPS better than sharing the company of sullen 20 year olds who desired nothing more than a sleepy existence glued to headphones instead of bounding outdoors to kayak, hike, parachute or jetboat.

As precious minutes disappeared from my calling card, I finally heard a "Yes" from a lady at Rotorua's Sport of Kings Motel. She took our reservation and offered to send a driver to meet us at the bus stop, and off we went.

Several hours later, shivering in front of the closed Visitor Centre, we waited for our motel shuttle. At 8pm busy Fenton Street was strangely quiet and deserted for a main drag. Soon a little car pulled up and a talkative Kiwi took us to his motel 10 minutes south of town.

He talked non-stop about Rotorua's attractions then asked us our plans. But we downplayed our stay in Rotorua, thinking we'd be transferring to Hot Rock Backpackers tomorrow. When we told him of our continuing plans in Tongariro, he tried to convince us to stay in a tiny town where he'd stayed and played miniature golf at a course modeled after volcanoes.

Exhausted, we were relieved when we pulled into the motel on Peace Street (hoping for a little of our own). But, the driver was the owner. He checked us in, took our breakfast order, then began extracting tourist brochures...sending his wife to search for additional information.

The helpful chap followed us to our room to show us ‘where everything was' talking incessantly. We tried subtle clues to accelerate his exit, but he didn't notice. I even excused myself to pee, sat on the bed, took off my boots, sweater, and sorted through my backpack...averting any encouraging eye contact. His wife rescued us thirty minutes later when she came to retrieve him.

As for the motel–we had a spotless spacious room with a kitchenette and bathroom. Two private enclosed spas and a heated outdoor pool were additional perks. But the bed was calling. Unfortunately, stress from the tiring day, an unexpected fight, and the stench of intensifying sulphur seeping through closed windows kept me awake. At 6:30am irritated at barking dogs next door, I got up to soak in one of the private spas..ahhh...and let the tensions melt away.

Weeks before leaving the States, we reserved a room at HotRock Backpackers using my credit card on their secured Internet site. They "forgot" to delete my Visa number prior to emailing our confirmation, then "lost" our reservation by the time we arrived in town. Fully booked, we had to stay elsewhere (yet charged us for those nights according to this month's Visa statement!).

At Rotorua's Visitors Centre, a staff lady called other hostels but alas, all were likewise booked. After much dialing, she found a vacancy at Eaton Hall B&B. "There's one room left. Do you want me to book it?" she asked.

The name sounded impressive, and the location was perfect...right across from the Polynesian Spa and Rotorua Museum & Government Gardens. I pictured taking a scenic stroll in the flower gardens followed by a luxurious soak with my sweetheart in the steamy springs of the Lake Spa surrounded by rocks and waterfalls, then walking across the lawn to our private comfortable B&B.

"Ma'am?" she repeated, a note of tension in her voice. I shot my husband a quick look and said yes. Sight unseen.

We found the two story house four blocks away. Immediate disappointment. Obviously the postcard picture was a bit dated. White paint was peeling and cracking, and the forlorn flower boxes were empty.

Inside, our stern hostess proudly showed us the TV room where we would eat breakfast in the morning. Lumpy furnishings smelled musty. A profusion of nicknacks and lace doilies decorated end tables, wall shelves and an old television. Mismatched china plates sat on beige tablecloths draped over cheap white plastic tables, trying to add sophistication to the dark stuffy room. Embarrassed, I couldn't think of anything nice to say. Have you ever stayed in an old lady's home with bad cataracts?

Our room was likewise dated. The private bathroom had a shower and two tiny sinks with separate spigots for cold and hot water. There were no outlets in the bathroom. No mirror in the bedroom. At least another bad hair day could be blamed on that. A large window let in sufficient light, but maybe that wasn't such a good idea...the place was downright in need of some special lovin' care.

But the worst was yet to come. As darkness approached, the air became increasingly stagnant and sticky without air-conditioning or ventilation. The nauseating sickening stench of rotten-egg sulphur wafted in through the leaky window, intensifying with each passing hour. Frustrated and wide awake at 3am, we agreed to leave Rotorua first thing in the morning. Within an hour we became acutely aware of loud retching noises coming from our neighbor upstairs. Or so we thought. But when we scurried toward the bus stop at daybreak, we saw otherwise as we sidestepped chunky voluminous vomit under our window. At least the sulphur had kept that smell away.

"Nah, it'll be too touristy," my husband complained, resisting my suggestion to visit. I'd brushed off his comments reminding him that the Maori women we'd befriended on the Routeburn Trek highly recommended Tamaki, claiming it was the most authentic Maori experience around.

Twenty-something coaches leave Rotorua daily for two evening performances 30 minutes south of town. En route, our bus driver warned passengers not to laugh, smile, stick out tongues, or mock the traditional challenge ceremony in any way; then selected a male volunteer to act as our bus' tribal "chief" for the upcoming formalities.

But we quickly realized the ‘seriousness' of the evening wasn't really expected when the bus driver told people in aisle seats to raise their arms and "paddle" our imaginary waka while window passengers repeatedly chanted "ha ha ho HEE" to scare off approaching tribes. We felt ridiculous, but participated in the silly antics.

Oddly enough, if you closed your eyes and pictured Maori warriors gliding through dark waters toward enemy territory–while "ha ha ho HEE" grew in intensity and exaggerated anger as people got into the act–it started to sound strangely realistic..and easier to imagine the intimidation others felt when Maori approached them in a time when NZ was tribal and cannibalism was practiced.

Several bad puns later we were off the bus standing outside the replica village amid a throng of tourists with cameras poised awaiting the warrior to emerge from the thatched fence. By the time he emerged half-naked with black penned images "tattooed" on his arms and face, his bulging eyes, angry tongue thrusts and weapon-wielding motions were more humorous than scary.

He thrust his spear into the air in a series of violent movements, attempting to intimidate us, then approached one of the "chiefs," placing a peace offering at his feet and pressing his nose to the chief's nose.

We had been ceremoniously welcomed, and followed the warrior into his forested village to the beat of drums. Costumed Maori were weaving, singing, sharpening spears, carving, or poi twirling in front of wooden maraes. I was drawn to the happy genuineness of Maori women.

The most authentic and enjoyable part of the evening was the concert. Songs were beautiful and haunting. Their distinctive sound, a blend of soft chants and ballad-like song, still drift through my mind. Riveting. Especially when explained in context of Maori legends and history.

Dinner followed. The traditional hangi–food cooked on hot rocks buried under the earth for several hours–was served buffet style in the huge dining room. Sitting at table 153, we were nearly last to feast on tender chicken, lamb, potatoes, coleslaw, rolls, mussels, and bread pudding.

Our parting instructions were to join hands with one another as we sang a farewell song, then rub noses with fellow companions. But my husband, dragging me by my hand, was out the door before the guy to his left tried anything of the sort.

When George Bernard Shaw visited Rotorua in 1934 he exclaimed that it was the closest place on earth to Hell, referring to the eerie landscape gurgling with mud, hissing steam vents, offensive odors, cavernous craters and collapsing lands.

No where else was this more vivid to us than at Wai-O-Tapu, a thermal wonderland south of town where we saw the Devil's Home, Bath, Ink Pots and his Inferno Crater. This scenic reserve, containing the largest and most colorful geothermal activity in the Taupo Volcanic Zone, was the highlight of our Rotorua experience.

My husband and I jumped on a shuttle ($20NZ) that left the Visitor Centre at 11am, and listened to the driver tell us how we'd missed the eruption of Lady Knox Geyser at 10:15, a daily soap-induced occurrence. But at 8am, we'd been too busy arranging our travel details for Tongariro (which tied with Waitomo as our favorite North Island destination).

Our van dropped us off 30 minutes later, giving us 2 hours to wander independently. We glanced at our color-coded map of the park which describes the 25 sights along three walkways. Most people visit with tour groups, and are limited to the 30 minute walk around the first loop.

Lucky for you if you're with such a group: the most famous attraction in the park is in this loop, the Champagne Pool. This strange bubbly teal-blue water has a thick orange border under the surface, and an unstable white-gray pumice ledge encrusting the water. Despite the Danger signs, you can still get remarkably close to the edge of this pool and stare at the bubbles and bright orange brain-like mass underneath. Sulphur steams up continuously, producing clouds of fog so thick in places it feels like you're inching through a South Dakota blizzard. Created 900 years ago from an eruption, the hot springs contain an assortment of minerals including gold, arsenic, mercury and silver.

Champagne Pool is adjoined to equally fascinating Artist's Palette where every imaginable color, tint or hue is visible depending on that day's weather, wind, chemical composition and water levels. The day we visited, the pools were primarily a gradually shifting range of yellows with subtle tints of red, pink and blue-green. The coolest part was walking across an open boardwalk, mere inches above the pastel minerals and hissing fumeroles, although the thought of tripping was somewhat unnerving...

Highlights on Loops two and three included forested walks past giant kanuka trees, neon green waterfalls, mud pools with wrinkled, intricate patterns hardened into sinter terraces, iron-tinged craters with boiling mud, and stinky yellow sulphur caves.

Outside the park our van stopped to view boiling mud. Crackling words from the Weird Sisters jumped into my head from years of teaching MacBeth, "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble..." Phlop. Plop. Paphlop. Our driver told us to get our cameras ready. As if on cue, the gurgling mud erupted violently two feet over our head...a wicked sight indeed!

Once upon a time in this gurgling, hissing geothermal land, hundreds of people flocked here from around the world to "take the cure" in Rotorua, NZ's famous Bath House. Purported to cure any ailment from arthritis to obesity, this was THE place to go.

Inside this lavishly decorated Edwardian mansion elegant ladies and wealthy gentlemen once spent full days soaking in private thermal baths, relaxing in airy plant-filled atriums overlooking Lake Rotorua, and strolling among it's gardens. Then in 1933, a Spanish mission styled building was added to the property to house the Blue Baths, the first public pool that allowed mixed bathing. An instant hit, the Blue Baths flourished as THE place to be seen among the socially elite.

The Blue Bath House was restored and reopened in 1999 as a tea house, museum and spa pool. We walked through the former changing rooms, chuckling at the colorful pictures of ladies hanging from each door...a visual history of swimsuits throughout the ages. We walked past a game of bowling–men dressed impeccably in white were bowling on the lawn–to the Edwardian Bath House, now Rotorua's Museum of Art and History.

We began our self-guided tour with a fantastic 15 minute audio-visual display called Rotorua Stories. It was a great introduction to Rotorua's history, geology, and mythology associated with the worst disaster NZ has experienced. Just be prepared for a jolt in your seat as you see and hear and feel the volcano erupt!

Afterward we saw the exhibit on the Mt. Tarawera eruption. When it occurred in 1886, the volcano killed 120 people and destroyed the area's most famous attraction, the Pink & White Terraces. Another informative video provides demonstrations of the explosion and presents scientific information about volcanoes.

Exhibits on two floors covered Maori battles, modern art, tourism and Maori history. I especially enjoyed learning about how the Te Arawa Maori tribe paddled across the ocean in a narrow waka (canoe) and became the original settlers of Rotorua. Beautiful displays in dim light captured the mystery and allure of richly carved masks, wakas and ancestral statues. Equally captivating were exhibits on their legends, instruments, history and tanonga (treasures).

Another wing showcased former spa treatment rooms. We peered into tiny tiled rooms where celebrities and affluents once sat in bathtubs believing that electro-hydro therapy would cure their complaints (feeling fat? Zap off those unwanted pounds!). es, they'd been slightly electrocuted during their baths! Pictures and instructions on how to hook up those electrodes were still evident. And telltale signs of using unstable pipes in an unstable thermal land were evident in the rooms with collapsed floors. Imagine having been in THAT tub!

We wandered through to the basement. Pipes all around. Suddenly illuminated heads hanging amid the maze of pipes began talking–eerily narrating the engineering feats and ultimate failures of the former spa. A fitting finale for a grandiose spa where the magical cure didn't exactly pan out either.