Rotorua is the volcanic centre of New Zealand. It lies in the centre of the fissure that stretches from White Island in the north to Mount Taranaki in the east of the North Island. We walk through a Maori settlement right by the lake. Nobody needs heating or a cooker here. Small geysers steam in the front gardens.
Geysers, mud pools and hot sulphur springs have been attracting travellers from all over the world for over 150 years. Even today, steam and the omnipresent smell of sulphur propel Rotorua into third place alongside Auckland and Queenstown as one of the most popular tourist destinations. Greepeace awards medals of honour for farting, as this improves the smell locally to a greater or lesser extent.
We check into the Crank Backpackers. The hostel is almost a small factory, but it’s clean, spacious, right in the centre and has a 12m high indoor climbing wall. We don’t make it to the top during our four days here, despite some rain. There are too many other wonderfully stupid things to try, and no journey is ever long enough.
The local bathing establishments are old and beautiful, as are the Maori villages in the thermal areas on the outskirts of the city. In the forests south of Rotorua, trees from all over the world were planted in the 19th century to test their compatibility with the New Zealand climate. Today, the large redwoods are doing very well there. Mountain bikers race through the mountains, we walk up to the highest peak on a horse trail. Rain falls again from above, the geysers steam below us. Ferns wash our trousers. New Zealanders only talk about rain when they can no longer see their hands. We gradually adapt, but then extend our stay by one night in the hostel instead of camping again.
If we’re going to get wet, we’re going to get really wet. Rolling down a mountain in a big water-filled plastic ball is quite nice. But the ascent of our second volcano, Rainbow Mountain, 20 kilometres south of Rotorua, is more fun. Turquoise crater water, green rainforest, yellow gorse, blood-red rocks over yellow, brown and white earth, a whole mountain buzzing with bees. The fire warden on the summit tower explains the sources of steam on the horizon.
Kerosene Creek lies directly at the foot of Rainbow Mountain. It stinks like rotten eggs, but it’s a nice 35 degrees and the thermal baths are the only free ones in the area. Under a waterfall, I squeeze the sulphur into my cerebellum. On the journey home, we engage in an olfactory war with our hiking boots. They win.
I win the poker tournament in the hostel against 16 young travellers who can drink and gamble, but not both together. First prize: a raft for $90 over the highest commercially navigable waterfall in the world, Kaituna Falls. I had already plunged 7 metres into the depths there on the last trip. Besides, we had already booked a rafting trip, so the waterfall will have to wait a little longer.
The Wairoa River 50km to the north can only be travelled on 25 days a year due to a dam. Two days after the poker tournament is such a day. Mighty rocks are washed over by category 5 drops a good three metres high. We all swallow a lot of water. I look really scared in some of the pictures, Uli is constantly grinning. In a big rapid, the raft runs over the accompanying photographer in the kayak. But he stays in the saddle. The captain’s comment: “Shit, I hoped he would swim.”.
A sign next to the road back says “100: it’s not a target”. So you don’t have to drive 100km/h. Even if Kiwis have a pleasantly crude sense of humour, I still dare to question the supposed strictness of their gun laws. The sign is completely riddled with shotgun blasts.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.