May 4th and 5th - Tauranga to Rotorua

Rotorua stinks, but please, allow me to clarify.  The town itself is curled around Lake Rotorua where geothermal activity causes steam to rise out of every sewer grate and the sulphur smell of rotten eggs to permeate the air. So yes, Rotorua does stink, but not metaphorically speaking. Kelsey and I put our new principle into practice and chose the hostel with the highest BBH member rating rather than the one that tempted us with its movie theatre and climbing wall. We weren’t disappointed; the Funky Green Voyager had a down to earth vibe that we immediately fell in love with, prompting us to book two nights rather than our usual of just one. We scored an awesome twin in a bunkhouse separate from the main house that had the greatest item of luxury in a hostel room yet; a table! Since we didn’t need to be out first thing in the morning I decided to unload all my gear onto said table and try to become a little more organized with the minor items I seemed to be perpetually misplacing. Kelsey got a good chuckle out of the horrible Chinese to English translation on my dollar store toothpaste and more chuckles later as it took me 4 disposable razors to shave my 10 days of beard growth. Not only had the rain ceased but the sun was out in full force that first day so we rented bikes from the motel across the road and took a little trip to the center of town to see some of the mud pits and thermal baths. We worked up a sweat and so, on a tip from our good friends at Lonely Planet, we took a 25 minute car ride south, turning onto a gravel road off the main highway to a place called Kerosene Creek. It was there that we found one of those fantastic word-of-mouth spots that are treasured by locals because the majority of the tourists either don’t know about it or don’t have the means to get there. Walking down a secluded path lead to a tiny waterfall that fed a small pool where one can take a bath in water a little milder than your average hot tub. We soaked in there for an extended period of time as it was nothing short of heavenly. After about half an hour I decided that I’d gotten too many little rocks in my trunks so we were got up to leave when some bohemian-looking dude, beer in hand and walking his dog, passed by overhead. I gave him a friendly peace sign which he returned though I could read the slightest hint of disappointment that he didn’t have the spot to himself. It took us all of 30 seconds to dry off and grab our belongings to leave but the hippie couldn’t contain himself and stripped down to his birthday suit before we’d gotten out of sight. Regardless, it was one of the highlights of the trip thus far, a testament to the uniqueness of New Zealand that one can find if willing to search. We decided that our nerves had finally settled since the Auckland bungee and it was time to get the adrenaline flowing again so we booked a tour with a rafting company that takes thrill seekers over the highest commercially raft-able waterfall in the world, a 7 meter drop. We got suited up in wetsuits and ugly sweaters before enduring about half an hour of safety procedures. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the francophone couple from New Caledonia who barely spoke English and were dumfounded by the thick kiwi accent of our instructor. It was a fresh and exciting experience that has me completely stoked for our three day paddle down the Whanganui River even though I did sustain a rather nasty injury. I was quick to realize that there is only so much that the company can account for safety wise, and that the insurance forms we signed prior to rafting were without a doubt carefully worded such that we were essentially signing our lives over. It really is every man for himself out on the water, you try and work as a team but when you’re hurtling towards a waterfall or rock ledge all you really care about is saving your own bacon. Oddly enough we made it down the 7m one relatively smoothly. I was curled up in a ball at the front and the worst I got was a bunch of water up my nose and a few seconds of disorientation. My injury came a little later when we purposefully paddled back into some rapids so that they’d pull us in and we’d get flung about. We were pushed at a decent pace towards the rocky sides of the valley and, being in the front and tall, I had to lean back because I was sliding underneath an overhang. The space got tighter and tighter and as a natural defence mechanism I raised my arms to protect my face resulting in a series of cuts and scrapes along the length of my left arm. The captain at the back of the raft was rather impressed and pondered whether or not to try that with subsequent tours. We got some cool pictures and I got the added bonus of cleansing my wound with some rub that stung like hell so altogether it was an amazing experience. We met up with Simon Lee later that evening and introduced him to another one of our resolutions; if someone isn’t jealous of the dinner we’ve cooked, we haven’t done our job. We got this idea after everyone in the hostel stopped to comment on our homemade pizzas that had mushrooms, spinach, and fresh mozzarella. That 2^nd evening we treated ourselves to hot dogs with onions, beans, pan roasted potatoes and salad. Everyone was jelly again. With our bellies full and our bodies broken we went to bed knowing that the next day we’d be squeezing through tight spaces 27m underground at the Waitomo Caves.