Hot Water Beach

Our travels through the Cormandel Peninsula led us to the lovely Hot Water Beach. For 2 hours on either side of low tide, you can dig yourself a hole that fills with piping hot water heated by the underground hot springs. A natural hot tub at the beach!

We rented our space (available from all the local cafes and hotels) and got to work. It was one of the most crowded "attractions" I've seen in NZ. Everyone starts digging and then they give each other confused looks. "This doesn't feel hot." So you dig deeper and it still doesn't feel hot. I was beginning to wonder if people get so exhausted from digging that they're just happy to finally sit in a pool of cold water.

Then the crowd slowly realizes that the hot water supply is limited to a very narrow area of the shore. We moved to a new location and kept digging. No luck. Try a new location. Each time, I dipped my foot in to test my work and each time it was cold. I heard someone sitting in a pool next to me say, "Ouch, the water is too hot." I almost slapped her.

Then it finally happened. I dipped my foot into hole #52 and it was scalding. The water really was too hot. Sitting/standing in one area for too long would burn your bum/feet. People were jumping around like they were walking on hot coals. Steam was rising from the ground. One man even tried to cook a package of ramen noodles.

It was something to see... a few hundred people jammed into a very small area of beach, the rest of shore totally deserted. From time to time, a big wave would send a rush of cold water into everyone's personal hot tubs. The entire crowd would let out a big "oooh!" As the tide came in, those cold waves began to overpower the hot pools. We reluctantly called packed away our shovel and headed back to town. Another hard day's work in New Zealand! I have the boiled foot to prove it.

RotoVegas RotoVirus

Rotorua, touted for the healing properties of its hot springs and mud baths, caused me to break out in hives. Who could have predicted that it would be harmful to spend a few hours at a neon green lake? Where are my Mr. Yuk stickers when I need them?

The outbreak occurred after spending the day wandering through the toxic steam of Rotorua's geothermal parks. Thankfully, my airway remained open and the hives were limited to my arms and the soles of my feet. Strange, huh? Lest you start treating me as a leper, please know that the problem seems to have been solved with a pricey Kiwi antihistamine.
This has happened to me only 2 times previously:

1) In college, I broke out in hives after my inaugural taste of hummus. Yes, it is true that I didn't try hummus until my early 20s. I grew up in Ashland, remember? Against my better judgment, I tried to buy hummus in the Ashland supermarket last summer. The cashier looked at me like I had 2 heads when I asked for help locating this product. This escalated into a debacle involving 3 store employees, none of whom had the foggiest idea what I was talking about. "Spell it," they demanded of me. When I opened my wallet to pay for the other groceries, I strategically placed my hand to cover my license. I was already seen as a fancy foodie; I didn't want to be seen as a New York fancy foodie.

2) I broke out in hives when my baby brother was first brought home from the hospital. After driving him home from the hospital in Pottsville, my dad had to turn right around and drive me to the pediatrician in Pottsville. My condition was expertly diagnoses as a case of "over-excitement." I had myself so worked up over the idea of having a new sibling to boss around that I literally blew a gasket. Hives were popping out everywhere. As a precautionary measure, I was prohibited from having contact with the baby for 24 hours. Torture!

Over time, I've become acclimatized to both these triggers. I regularly enjoy a snack of crackers and hummus without consequence. I've had routine contact with my brother for 19 years without any adverse health effects. Additionally, I've developed healthier coping mechanisms for dealing with extreme emotions (drinking).

I cannot afford any more NZ doctors' bills, so I didn't stick around Rotorua long enough to give it a second chance. I jumped on the Geothermal Explorer Highway (that's the road's real name!) and hightailed it out of town.

Zorb!

Can't you just picture it? A bunch of Kiwis stilling around the farm saying: "There's no bridge to jump off... no river to jetboat down... how can we make use of this hill?" Thus, the zorb was born. This NZ-created activity involves strapping yourself into a giant inflatable ball and rolling down a hill. If the prospect of repeatedly tumbling ass-over-teakettle is too extreme, you can opt to hydro-zorb. The inner core of the zorb is filled with water and you slosh all around, but never turn upside down.

Registration involved the usual health-related questions and warnings. After paying and going through all the motions, the girl ahead of me said, "Well... I do have epilepsy." She and the desk clerk decided this "probably wasn't an issue." That's the Kiwi spirit! She'll be right.

After being transported to the top of the hill, I squeezed myself headfirst into a narrow opening in the zorb (reminiscent of being born) and took a seat on a small bench area. The zorb operator then crawled in after me to strap my feet and chest harness. He instructed me to hold on to the handles above my head and keep my head pressed back against the zorb wall. He climbed out, gave me a push, and down I went.

The zorb was exponentially less terrifying than my bungy jump, but equally fun. I have no desire to bungy jump ever again, but I would happily zorb down a hill every morning. To be honest, I wondered if the zorb would be too tame because it didn't look to be moving that fast down the hill. (NZ has turned me into an adrenaline snob.) I had no reason to worry... that ball takes some really big bounces. It feels like you're in a washing machine on spin cycle. I couldn't tell up from down or left from right. I laughed the whole time. I'm told it sounded like I let out a giant "whoop!" with each revolution. I couldn't hear anything inside the zorb, but I'm told that the loudspeaker was playing everyone's favorite power ballad as I tumbled down the hill... GNR's "Patience." Sweet as!

Picture Perfect

I was finally able to upload some more pictures! Click here to see the photos from the north island that correspond with my last few blog posts.

I am currently in Rotorua, which is one of the biggest tourist attractions on the north island. It has a heavy Maori influence and is best known for its geological features - geysers, mudpools, steaming earth, etc. It can feel very other-worldly. There's one minor drawback. When you least expect it, you get a whiff of something really nasty. "Who farted?" you think. Then you remember that you are in asulfur-rich land. The whole city smells like a rotten egg.

For reasons unknown to me, Rotura is affectionately known as "RotoVegas." It's not like it has a happening nightlife or anything. However, I find the nickname to be especially apporiate this weekend because some of my favorite N to the Zed readers are in the real Vegas celebrating a family wedding.

Big Congrats to Dave and Rachel... from one Vegas to another!

It Wasn't Supposed to End This Way

Speaking of Maori culture, I recently attended a Maori hangi and concert. It's basically a big show for tourists that involves traditional Maori food, song, dance, etc. To put it simply, it was all very "Disneyland" and not worth the money.

What was worth the money, however, were the 30 minute bus rides back and forth between the city and the Maori village. Our "driver guide John" (as he liked to call himself) was quite entertaining. Think "Murray" from Flight of the Conchords. On the way there, he was very adamant that we "use our imaginary" to travel back in time and turn our bus into a waka (Maori canoe). He stuck to the script very closely and made sure to announce when he was moving from the causal part of his speech to the formal part of his speech. He warned us many times: "You're about to experience a culture experience." We swerved off the road a few times and he'd say, "That's just your driver guide going into a ditch."

On the way home, the driver guides are apparently supposed to end this charade by giving special acknowledgment to home countries of all visitors. Each country was supposed to elect a representative to come to the front of the bus and lead his countrymen in the national anthem or some other native song. Sounds like fun, right? As driver guide John launched into his spiel, some people on the bus continued to talk. He asked them to be quiet and they continued to talk. The rest went something like this... he got increasingly frustrated with each reprimand.

John: "Oh I can't believe the Czech Republic is still talking.
John: "Czech Republic, you are being so disrespectful."
John: "Can the interpreter please take care of the loud men from the Czech Republic?"
John: "Czech Republic, can you please show some respect?"
John: "I'm just trying to shut down this cultural experience."
John: "I can't put an end to this cultural experience until the Czech Republic gets quiet."
John: "It wasn't supposed to end like this!"

Driver guide John then pulled over the bus to scold the entire Czech Republic. Just like your dad used to threaten on long car trips! Don't make me turn this bus around! I was biting my lip to stifle my laughter. Dawn, who was doing the same, said, "Don't even look at me." We couldn't contain ourselves.

Driver guide John had just about enough from those brutes. "If we were visiting your country, I can tell you we'd be very disresp... I mean... we would be very respectful. Because that's just how the Maori are." They finally shut up and driver guide John proceeded to shut down the cultural experience properly. When it was time for the Czech Republic to sing its national anthem, driver guide John yell out: "Come on Czech Republic! Now it's your turn to make some nooooiiiissse!!!" And that they did! The Czech Republic national anthem has about 5 verses and it sounds suspiciously like a drinking song. They're a very boisterous people.

As luck would have it, Dawn and I were the last 2 people on the bus to be dropped off. When it was just the 2 of us, driver guide John looked back at us in his rearview mirror. (To follow the rest of the story, you should know that there was a long delay when a USA rep was called for on the bus. We were debating on a good song... maybe the Oscar Mayer bologna song? In the meantime, another man got up and led the bus in a mangled version of the Star Spangled Banner.)

John: (he referred to people only by their country name) "Hey USA - do you know who that was who sang your national anthem? (long pause) He was a New Zealander... from New Plymouth."

His tone was hushed and disapproving. Think about when you pulled some antic and your parents would say, "I'm not angry; I'm just disappointed." Driver guide John was trying to shame us!! Now let me tell you something. The man who eventually volunteered to sing the Star Spangled Banner was overweight, wearing a Texas Roadhouse t-shirt, sweatpants, and a big fanny pack. I'm pretty damn sure he was an American.

East Cape

The section of NZ's north island known as the East Cape is one of the most isolated and least-visited parts of the country. There are no proper grocery stores; petrol stations are far and few between. In my opinion, it's also one of the most beautiful parts of the country, thanks in part to its remoteness. You can walk along the beach for miles without seeing another person; the roads are eerily quiet. There are no hotels or rowdy youth hostels. The only accommodation comes in the form of small home-stay style beach houses. No TVs, no computers, and it was great! These places started at as one-room baches (Kiwi beach house) and have slowly expanded over the years. They're usually owned and operated by the same Kiwi bloke who built the place 30 years ago. There were usually no more than 10 people staying at these houses - all ages and nationalities. We shared good conversation, good dessert, and good drink!

The vast majority of residents on the East Cape are Maori. In fact, this is NZ's largest concentration of Maori people. It's not uncommon to hear the language spoken in the street or see a sign in the corner shop written in Maori. Driving along the coast, you see more maraes (Maori meeting houses, community centers) than homes or businesses. These structures are easily identified by their beautiful bright red wooden carvings. The communities here are very tight-knit and proud of their heritage. There was a time not very long ago when it wasn't popular to be Maori, but they've recently started "taking back" the culture. The old custom of facial tattooing (moko) has been revived. For men, this involves the full face. For women, the tattoo is usually limited to the lower lip and chin. These designs are incredibly intricate and eye-catching, but I'm not sure if it polite to stare at someone's face.

The Maori people may be concentrated in the East Cape, but their influence reaches much further. Maori art and myth are a BIG part of NZ culture. Heck, the All Blacks do the haka before every game! It also plays a prominent role in tourism. The Maori are certainly afforded more respect and recognition than the Native Americans of the US. However, nothing is perfect. Maybe I'm a cynic, but I've tried to politely ask/observe whether all this "inclusion" is a sign of true respect for Maori culture or whether it is a bunch of politically correct BS. A lot of people say it's half and half.

The truth is that there is still a lot of racism and inequality. I'm not sure that this would be apparent to a short-term visitor. The longer I'm here, the more I pick up on this... whether it be a racist joke, rude comment, etc. Maoris make up 17% of the NZ population, but over 50% of the prison population. Their income is below the national average. Something is wrong there. I wonder what kind of job opportunities an East Cape resident has? There is nothing there. And what other resources/services are available to the community? Obesity, an important public health issue, disproportionately affects the Maoris.

Sure, those tight-knit communities on the East Cape seem to live in relative harmony, but it kind of feels like segregation. They don't always welcome white (pakeha) visitors and white visitors (Kiwi and foreign) don't always want to go there. The East Cape is said to have some of NZ's best surfing, but I've been told that Kiwis don't vacation there very often. One person told me a story about accidentally offending a man by calling him Kiwi. He sternly explained, "I'm not Kiwi. I'm Maori."

I'm certainly no expert on the matter, but I've been very intrigued by Maori culture and its place in today's New Zealand. Of course, these are just my personal observations and I'm sure many people would disagree. I think NZ has done a lot of things right, but I don't think it's the racial/cultural utopia it sometimes portrays itself as to visitors. There are lots of questions, but I don't know the answers. As the Kiwis would say, it's something to "have a think" about.

Horse Trek

Horse is still a common mode of transportation on the East Cape of NZ. It reminded me a little bit of Corolla in the Outer Banks. I saw the horses running along the beach and thought, "This looks like fun." I was wrong. The 2-hour moonlight ride turned out to be very nervewracking.

As Dawn and her horse galloped past me, she asked, "Did you tell this guy we've never done this before?" I had, but that doesn't matter in NZ. We received minimal instruction. I was basically boosted onto the horse, told to pull the reins to stop him, and kick him to make him go. Helmets were optional. I chose to wear one, but it was too small for my large head/hair and caused more pain than a head injury would have.

The sunset was beautiful, but it quickly turned very dark. There was a full moon, but it was still impossible at times to see the horses/riders ahead of me. They weren't overly concerned with keeping the group together.

The horse was having no part of my instructions. It wanted to go very slow or run. I pictured myself being launched headfirst a la Christopher Reeve. At times, I would let him gallop to keep up with the group, but that was strategy was simply too painful to maintain. Let's just say the saddle was less than comfortable, and I required a cushioned chair for the next 24 hours. My back was also very sore from having to sit so straight and rigid. (Note to self: work on posture.) I was able to relieve some of the pain by pushing my feet further into the stirrups. That way, I could my feet to support some of my weight. The next day, I learned that the one piece of advice the instructor gave Dawn was: "Do not push your feet all the way into the stirrups." Apparently, your foot can get stuck and you will be dragged along like a ragdoll if the horse bolts. Who knew?!

Newsflash, Part XXXVIII

Just like in the US, malls in New Zealand are being overrun by teenage hoons. In response, a Christchurch mall will begin playing the tunes of crooner Barry Manilow. This will hopefully drive away the kids and attract a more desirable demographic... middle-aged mothers. I dedicate this blog post to my mom, who recently attended a Barry Manilow concert. No joke!

* Special thanks to Candice for sniffing out this Kiwi news story all the way from Brooklyn!

Napier, NZ

I write to you from Napier, NZ, which was destroyed by an earthquake in 1931. That earthquake was the best thing that ever happened in the town. Art deco was all the rage when the town was being rebuilt, so they took the fad and ran with it! Napier now has one of the largest collections of art deco buildings in the world. There are heaps of cute retro-looking pastel shops and hotels. It's all very Miami Vice. This chic town is gaining a reputation as "the new Auckland" because it is filled with snobs who care about art and fashion. These aint' no gumboot-wearing bogans!

Tongariro Crossing

Is New Zealand's most beautiful day hike still beautiful if you can't see it? My left contact lens ripped on the way to the Tongariro National Park, so I didn't get the full experience. But what I saw was absolutely amazing... worth every hour of grueling uphill climbing. More than 24 hours later, I am very sore and still exhausted.

The 18.5 kilometer Tongariro Alpine crossing is considered to be NZ's best day tramp (Kiwispeak for hiking... please no tramp jokes. I've heard them all before). It is also consistently ranked as one of the top ten day tramps in the world. You climb up mountains, around an active volcano crater, turquoise lakes, steam spouting forth from the ground. In addition to the photos above, you can see some of the spectacular views at this website.

Keep On Keepin' On

Fear not, dear readers. I am still alive and well in New Zealand. I am on the road again after conquering the south island and spending a week in my adopted hometown of Wellington. The great Kiwi road trip continues for one more month in the north island! Time flies.

I am trying to travel a little bit lighter at each stage of this journey. If you know me, you will understand how difficult that is. At this point, I made the gut-wrenching decision to leave my laptop in Wellington. That 2003 model is just too big and heavy to lug around. Unfortunately, this means the blogging may get even slower and picture-less. I will do my best to keep you updated from internet cafes (while I'm surrounded by Asian teenage boys playing computer games).