I feel like I should learn a little about Maori culture, so we head over to Whakarewarewa. This mouthful is a shortened version of the real name, which is something along the lines of Te Whakarewarewatanga Mecca Lecca High Mecca Highty Ho. (My apologies to the tribe, but my brain simply can’t handle anything past the first 8 or 9 syllables.) This is an actual living Maori village, which basically means that the people living here (and the children growing up here) are doing so under the scrutiny of thousands upon thousands of sunhat wearing, camera touting, black-socks-with-sandals wearing tourists. Imagine putting your house on Main Street in Disneyland, and you’ll get the idea. It’s got to be surreal.

It’s pretty interesting seeing how hot springs and steam vents are used for cooking and bathing. They’re still in use for that purpose, because it’s just so convenient. We get to sample a bunch of geothermally cooked food, and it’s fantastic.

There’s a Maori concert, which features all of the expected welcoming ceremonies and so forth. The tourists watch and clap along and hold cameras over our heads to snap photos. (Digital cameras are especially handy for this, as you can use the LCD screen to compose the shot.) One of the Maori men in the troupe is very young and very handsome. There are three college age girls in the row in front of us. Every time he is stage front, two or three of their cameras shoot up into the air. When somebody else takes the lead, the cameras go back into the laps. This behavior is accompanied by much giggling.

We walk around the bush in back of the village and check out some more steaming geothermal pools. The views from the top of the hill are nice, and Dave gets better cell phone reception there than anyplace else in Rotorua. (He’s not calling anybody, but he compulsively checks on it anyway.) It is good.

We start the next day at the Rotorua Museum, which is in an early 1900s bath house that looks like a Swiss chalet. There are exhibits on Maori culture and the old bath house. There is also a movie about the 1886 eruption of Mount Tarawera (which destroyed the Pink and White Terraces). We are preceded into the theater by a local “ladies group” of grinning elderly women. When the movie gets to the actual eruption, the benches shake rather violently to give the earthquakes a more immersive feel. This is a total surprise to everyone in the theater. (In the U.S., this would have been spoiled by medical advisories for people who suffer motion sickness or back pain or whatnot. Here, there was absolutely no indication that it was going to happen.) As a result, the sudden motion was accompanied by much whooping and giggling on the part of the ladies, which somewhat ruined the somber mood that one might normally experience when learning about this kind of devastation.

From the museum, we proceed to the Polynesian Spa for our scheduled Pumice and Honey exfoliation treatments and our hydrotherapy treatments (where we are to be sprayed with warm water and rubbed with coconut oil). When we arrive, we are each presented with a large blue bundle and a very, very, very small blue bundle. The former is our plush terry cloth robe. The latter is identified as the “disposable”. The attendant explains the disposable as follows: “They’re a bit… hrmmm… just know that the bigger bit goes in the front, and wear your robe, for your sake as well as everybody else’s”.

At the spa’s request, we have arrived an hour early in order to spend time soaking in the various hot mineral pools (in our own swimwuits!) before our treatments. These are beautifully landscaped with rocks and are arranged by temperature. We work our way up from the 36C pool to the 40C pool (which has a stone bridge and a waterfall). At this point, we spend some time happily working out the formula to convert Celsius to Farenheit and calculating the pool’s temperature before deciding that yes, the pool is uncomfortably hot, and we should switch back to the cooler one.

Finally, with a sense of foreboding, we realize that it’s time to change out of our comfy swimsuits and into… THE DISPOSABLE (dum dum DUMMMMMMM). With our robes VERY securely tied, we make our way to the waiting area, where we sit uncomfortably until we are called for our treatments.

(Dave later informed me that after I was called away, another couple, slightly older and considerably more overweight, came in. All of them were fidgeting in unison, and they shared a good laugh when Dave pointed out, “Not very comfortable, is it?”.)

The honey and pumice rub was fabulous. The hydrotherapy was a little less so. I was a little distracted by my concerns about drowning; when I was on my back, water sprayed up my nose; when I was on my front, water pooled on the table under my face. I was a little distracted by my concerns about the arrangement of the disposable. And, worst of all, I was distracted by sudden vivid memories of preparing a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. You start the process by rinsing the turkey under running water in the sink, rubbing it vigorously, which is pretty much EXACTLY what was happening to me. I also had the uncomfortable realization that I had been rubbed (basted!) in both honey and coconut oil. By the end of the massage, I was half expecting to be roasted over a spit!

Rotorua is, by most accounts, the most touristy place in New Zealand. Tourism feels very different here than in the states. First, there are (it seems) many fewer people here, so Dave and I frequently find we have the place to ourselves. Second, there are (it seems) many fewer lawyers here, so tourist attractions are visibly less concerned with issues of liability.

On our way from Taupo to Rotorua, we stop off at Orakei Korako to see what a proper geothermal area looks like. The parking lot is on one side of a lake. The steaming silica terrace spills out on the other (this looks like a lava flow, but is actually deposited from mineral rich hot springs which dribble out onto the lake. You reach the terraces via the world’s shortest ferry ride, operated by the world’s most bored boat driver. (When I ask him about this, he says that he occasionally has near misses with a landing sea plane, and I suggest he start trying to mow down waterskiiers to keep things lively.) We wander around the board walks, seeing geysers, mud pools, hot springs, and a rather nice cave. As with everything else, we have the place mostly to ourselves.

Upon arrival in Rotorua, we check into the Regal Palms Motor Lodge, where we get a room that’s just lovely. It has a cunning little kitchenette. It has a decently sized TV. Lots of different restaurants deliver. And it has a GREAT BIG SPA BATH! We begin seriously to consider never leaving.

But leave we do, because I’m determined to try out the Skyline Skyrides. We take a gondola to the top of a big hill overlooking the lake. Then we (repeatedly) take a luge most of the way back down. This “luge” is actually a sled with handlebars and brakes. There are three tracks to choose from. We start on the “scenic track” to get the feel for it. On the way down, I notice that, in typical New Zealand fashion, (a) there are very, very few people here besides us and (b) there are no safety rails, so that if you were to totally lose control of the luge, you could plummet directly off the side of the track and straight down the hill, which would probably make the ride much, much more exciting. On the way down, Dave notices that he has mistakenly taken one of the smaller sleds, and he is having an interesting time maneuvering the handlebars around his knees.

At the bottom, we push our sleds onto a conveyer belt and ride a chair lift back up to the top of the hill. (The sleds proceed down the conveyer belt and are automatically hung off of the bottom of the chair lifts.) With a cry of “AGAIN!” I run right back to the start of the luge track. Dave follows good naturedly.

The scenic track moves reasonably quickly, and I’m very conscious of the lack of safety rails, so I’m a little wary of upgrading to the “intermediate” track until I’m shown up by a very, very small child in front of me. Happily, the intermediate track isn’t too much more difficult, and Dave has managed to find some larger sleds, so we swoop down in great style. I have one dicey moment when a rather large rabbit hops out into the track in front of me. I don’t know which of us is more surprised, but the rabbit has better reflexes, and a tragic accident is avoided.

We discover that it’s theoretically possible to ride the luge directly onto the conveyer belt, thus saving the effort of pushing it and looking very cool in the process. After about four tries Dave manages to stop the luge in just the right place, but his dismount is a little too slow, and he is left suspended over the luge like a crab, on all fours with his pelvis stuck in the air, as the sled ever so slowly makes its way down the conveyer belt and out from under him. “Looking cool” was not in the picture.

Finally, we feel we’re ready for the advanced track. I handle the course swimmingly, although with perhaps a little more brake and wobbling than was really called for. I get to the bottom, and look back up the hill for Dave. He isn’t there. I’m starting to picture him in a crumpled heap somewhere, and wondering if I’m going to have to ask the chair lift attendant for assistance, when he comes ever so slowly down the course. As it turns out, he has once again picked one of the small sleds, a fact that he doesn’t realize until he comes across the first steep downhill section of the course. When he pulls the handlebars back to apply the brakes, he discovers that they can only move a centimeter or so before solidly encountering his knees. His only remaining option is to fly down the downhill at full speed, emitting some sort of prolonged yodelling cry of panic. When he reaches a flatter section of track, he is able to splay his knees enough to brake, but steering is difficult, and he has to take the rest of the course very, very slowly.

Good times.

Dave and I “see the sights” in Taupo, such as they are. We hit Huka Falls, see Aratiatia Dam open, eat at the Prawn Farm, and wander around Craters of the Moon (geothermal area with steam vents). It’s all a little underwhelming, except for the Prawn Farm, which escapes underwhelming states by virtue of my having no expectations except a tasty lunch.

The view from our motor lodge is beautiful, with sparkling blue Lake Taupo in the foreground and snow capped dormant snow capped volcanoes in the background, so I suppose it will do.

Driving on the left is starting to make sense, which leaves me with serious reservations about driving safely when I get home. I continue to turn on the windshield wipers at every intersection (or at least the ones with left turns), but the windscreen needed a good wipedown anyway, so that’s okay. Spectacular scenery can be a little problematic. Memorable quote from this leg of the journey: “Ooooh! Look at that forest! Ooooh! Look at that oncoming traffic!”

We have arrived in Taupo. Dave and I are taking it easy today, since we can barely walk (see previous blog about Blackwater Rafting and Waitomo Walkway). Taupo is a very picturesque lakeside community, full of Kiwis trying desperately to pretend it’s still summer. Dave and I are wearing fleece and jeans. These people are wearing shorts and T-shirts, and are covered with goosebumps.

This is a vacation of firsts. It’s our first time in the Southern Hemisphere. Our first time across the date line. Our first time driving on the left side of the road. Our first time walking boldly each to the wrong side of the car, only to have to sheepishly switch places. Our first time navigating a traffic circle. Our first time charting a new path on the fly after being spun out of a traffic circle in entirely the wrong direction.

We drive from Auckland airport to Waitomo. The journey involves 10 minutes of looking for the rental car trunk release, 60 seconds of looking for a way to shut off the rental car alarm triggered while looking for the trunk release, and 3.5 hours of driving, including approximately 358 roundabouts. It is a dizzying journey. It includes an unexpected scenic tour of Hamilton, thanks to roundabout #63. I start to get the hang of the driving, except that I turn on the windshield wipers every time I go to make a left turn. I would turn on the windshield wipers every time I go to make a right turn as well, except that the “off” position for the windshield is as far right as the stick goes. Right turns will thus only be a problem only on rainy days.

We arrive at the Waitomo Caves Hotel in the late afternoon. It’s a beautiful old hotel from the early 1900s, but it’s in a state of disrepair, especially when it comes to our room. Peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpets, along with some horrific pink particleboard furniture that really hasn’t held up well. The effect is a bit creepy (a la The Shining). But the place is clean, and has a tasty restaurant, so we’re okay.

The next morning we get up and do our Blackwater rafting tour This involves donning wet suits and helmets with miners’ lamps on them and following an underground stream, scrambling over rocks, floating on inner tubes, and jumping off a waterfall. The caves have glowworms, which appear as specks of light at the ceiling of the cave that form a sort of starscape. It’s all very romantic, except when the guides accurately identify glowworms as “shagging maggots with shiny shit”. Accurate, but somewhat off putting.

The tour is reasonably athletic, if only because climbing over wet rocks in a wet suit and goofy boots is exceedingly awkward. But (after a brief break for lunch), Dave and I elect to take the Waitomo Walkway, which winds through farmland and lush forest to arrive at the same caves that we navigated earlier in the day. The walk is spectacular, with great views and a couple of exciting close encounters with mean looking gangs of cows, but it’s three hours round trip and up and down hills, and we started out tired. By the time we make our way back to the hotel, I nearly burst into tears over the fact that our room is on the second floor. There are lots of pictures from the first half of the hike, when it was more a relaxing excursion and less a horrible forced march.

After many, many, many hours of blissful sleep, Dave and I stumble out of the hotel and walk down to the wharf to take a ferry to Rangitoto Island, an extinct volcano. Or, rather, a volcano that is “thought to be extinct”, which presumably means that scientists think it’s done, but really the whole thing could blow at any time, because who can tell. (Joan assures me this is par for the course for extinct volcanos.) Dave and I, along with a handful of adults and approximately 300,000 fifth graders hike from the wharf up to the summit. The hike to the top takes about an hour. We spend most of that time trying to arrange things so that we are hiking in the peaceful sections of the trail where there are no fifth graders. We start out with a good lead, so as long as we keep up a good pace, we can keep ahead of the bulk of them. At a couple of points on the trail, there are displays with educational information. I’m not one to pass up educational displays, so I am tempted away, until the sounds of high pitched voices and tiny stomping feet get louder, and we have to be on our way again before we get trampled. I now know something of what a hunted fox feels like.

At one point we take a rest stop, sitting on the rocks on the side of the trail and having some water while allowing a bevy of hot, tired New Zealanders (some of which are not fifth graders) to walk by us. As they pass, they all look at us with expressions of surprise. When we continue, we discover that the whole lot of them have taken seats on either side of the trail at the very next bend and are having a nice break. I’m left with the impression that it simply never occurred to them that such a rest was a possibility until they saw us do it.

The views from the top of the volcano are spectacular, and I take lots of pictures.

We spend the afternoon at the Museum of Technology and Transport. Most of the museum is this odd collection of Victorian dwellings, old cars, and exhibits about famous New Zealand pilots (both of them). The museum has a very rural feel, possibly because it’s a good distance away from town. There were at least four other people there.

The highlight of the museum is the science exhibitions. It’s a lot like the Exploratorium, except that most of the exhibits work, and Dave and I have the whole place to ourselves. We clamber over self-constructed arch bridges, make ourselves sick on a spinning momentum exhibit, drive a robot badly around the floor, and launch a air powered soda bottle into the air. Good times were had by all, except possibly the robot.

Just arrived in New Zealand. That was a long flight. Long. Long in the sense of geological time. Long in the sense of astrophysical time. Long in the sense of watching Legends of the Fall.

We take off Sunday night and land Tuesday morning. This might have something to do with crossing the date line, but I’m inclined to think the flight just actually is that long.

Our travel itinerary starts with a brief flight from SJC to LAX, followed by a (puzzlingly) even longer commute from our gate in the outbuilding that United uses for express flights through to our gate in the international terminal. (Go LAX.)

We then proceed to embark on the 12 hour ordeal commonly referred to as Air New Zealand flight #5. Gangly Dave, as always, wants the window seat, so I am stuck in a middle seat between Dave and a man with curly blond hair and a nice tan who is determined to take over an entire overhead bin (not over his seat) with his bag of useless scuba gear and equally determined to take over my entire seat region with his elbow. The man is 80% elbow by volume. I will henceforth refer to him as Elbows McGruff. Kali has nothing on him. The contested region is not the common armrest area. I have long since ceded the armrest area. I am referring to the section spanning from my side of the armrest to about my sternum. This is prime elbow territory.

The next 12 hours of my life consist of snatches of restless sleep in the intervals between abuse by joint. Particular lows come during meals (ow! ow! ow!) and while filling out surveys (OW!). I get increasingly passive aggressive as the sleep deprivation kicks in, finally reaching the point where I repeatedly deliberately slam my elbow into his arm (which is fully in my personal space), then giggle and apologize. This has no effect.

As we land, my sleep deprived brain is fondly fantasizing about Mr. Elbows with all of his scuba gear in an Open Water situation. Dave (I’m told) leads me blindly through customs and out of the airport. I’m a little hazy on the details.

Dave and I are determined to stay awake and active throughout our first day in Auckland, this being the best way to acclimate ourselves to our new setting and time zone. Thanks to Sir Pokes A Lot, for me the day takes on all of the charm and warmth of a forced march. We will make it to 8pm, or we will die trying. I secretly hope for the latter.

We start the day at Kelly Tarlton’s. I’m not a big fish person. For example, I would never bother with scuba lessons, and will thus never be inadvertently be abandoned in the open ocean by a dive company like Mr. Elbows is destined to be. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, I can remember some moving walkways and the biggest damn sting rays and crayfish (strange, I’m suddenly hungry…) that I have ever seen in my life. (Blurry and confusing pictures to follow when we get home.)

Our next stop on the trail of yawns is a bigger success. After a refreshing walk through Auckland domain, we get thoroughly lost in Newmarket, which had everything to do with the lack of street names on our maps on on street signs, and nothing whatsoever to do with us having the mental capacity of below-average undead squirrels. But we eventually find ourselves at the Lion brewery, where we take the LionZone tour. This is the perfect activity for the profoundly jetlagged. There is a tour guide that tells you exactly what to do at every step, both preventing you from having to make any taxing decisions and assuring that you don’t get lost or trapped in any heavy machinery. Beer commercials and speeches from talking mannequins wash over you, and there is no pressure to comprehend or retain any of the information. And, most importantly, the tour commences at a truly spectacular pub, where you are encouraged to pour yourself beers. Several beers. Three or four, as I recall. Lion Red is really quite tasty.

Best of all, we have made it to 5:30pm, and after a bus ride and some room service, we are finally allowed to sleep.

P.S. It isn’t until the next evening that Dave and I both admit that we experienced some sort of horrible exhaustion-induced hallucinations during the talking mannequin portion of the LionZone tour. They moved. One of them winked at me.