You don’t need a map to find Rotorua, a northern New Zealand city known for its geysers, mineral baths and mud pools. Just follow the smell.
The rotten-egg odor of sulfur permeates the place. You can detect the pungent fetor wherever you go, the result of all the geothermal activity in the area.
The smell is the bad news. The good news is the abundance of soothing waters that can make your aches and pains go away.
Pat and I went to the Polynesian Spa, a large complex of hot mineral pools on Lake Rotorua. Two natural springs, one alkaline and one acidic, feed into 28 pools that range in temperature from lukewarm to slightly scalding. We heated up in five of them, then chilled out in the Cold Plunge Pool, which is as close as I’m going to get to joining the Polar Bear Club.
When we flew to Rotorua from Christchurch, I absentmindedly left my laptop on the plane. If that happened in the U.S., it would have been a bureaucratic nightmare to get my computer back. In Rotorua, a Mayberry-friendly city of about 60,000, it was a breeze. As soon as I got to our hotel, I called the Air Zealand desk at the airport, mentioned what had happened and got the following response: “Oh, is this Mr. Warner? We have your computer. Come pick it up anytime.’’ I guess what happens in Rotorua stays in Rotorua.
On our first night in the city, we went to a Maori center, where we learned about the history and culture of New Zealand’s native people and watched a welcoming ceremony that featured Maori songs and dances. I joined some other tourists on stage for one of the dances and made a fool of myself trying to imitate the classic warrior look — bulging eyes, hanging tongue and chopping arm motions. The ceremony was followed by a delicious buffet meal that included chicken, lamb and pork cooked in a traditional Maori fire pit.
I tried to work off some of the fat with a couple of OGO rides, a local invention where you roll down a hill inside a giant plastic ball. You can do it with or without water in the ball. I chose the wet slide down two grass tracks – the 820-foot straight course and the winding 1,150-foot path. (I didn’t have time to test the new Mega course, billed as “the fastest, longest and steepest downhill ball rolling track in the world.’’) You can lie down inside the ball or try to stand up, which is akin to walking on a banana peel. Every time I tried to stand I flopped on my back, looking like a comedian doing a pratfall.
One evening Pat and I drove 40 miles to Papamoa Beach to see Dean Horsup, my tentmate during our climb to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro last year. Dean, a native New Zealander who I met at the start of the climb, introduced us to his two children, gave us a tour of the beautiful Tauranga area and treated us to a delicious dinner at a restaurant a few blocks from the ocean. We also hiked partway up 761-foot high Mount Maunganui, where Dean trained for his Kilimanjaro trek. Judging by all my huffing and puffing, I think I’m more suited to treadmills than mountaineering these days.
Next stop: Waitomo.
