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Published: January 17th 2007
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Marg at one of Rotorua's smelly mud holes.Wednesday 10th January to Saturday 13th january 2007
Margy incredibly appeared at the hostel at 8.30am as agreed and we set off up the hill for the fifteen minute walk to the car rental joint. It was pouring with rain. The car, a Daihatsu Iria which we soon nicknamed 'Herby' was tiny but perfect for the two of us and we headed off in the direction of her hotel to collect her bags. The hotel manager, Matthew, gave us some insider information and told us to avoid Hamilton, the more direct route I was planning to take, and use the more northerly minor road and at 10 to 10 we hit the road. Driving on the left made it a formality although the positioning of the indicators on the right and wipers on the left gave cause to some aggrieved glares from other motorist's.
We'd been told the journey to Rotorua, home of the unique but very smelly sulphourous mud pools would take a good three hours but after just two on near deserted roads through wonderful scenery we stopped for a coffee and were told we were just half an hour away. I'd booked a hostel, en-suite twin
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Cheers. Lamb steaks, the saga of the shitty sheets firmly behind us. of course, the night before and at 72 bucks it was just the ticket. I checked in and took the bags to the room, checked it was presentable then went to collect Marg from the car. She looked surprised, I was relieved and all was well.
The bed on the right appeared to have had not the same attention from the maids (it looked like it hadn't been made) so I threw my sack on that one and claimed it as mine then Marg started to think aloud "now, which side do I sleep on?" at the same time pirhouetting through a full 180 degrees in an attempt to picture herself falling into a deep slumber.
"On your back?' I asked
"No, this side" she replied. I still had no idea where she was coming from so asked whether she liked to sleep with her face to the wall. She did so we consequently swapped and whilst she unpacked I nipped to the communal kitchen in an attempt to save her soya milk from curdling by fridging it. As I was returning to the room Marg stumbled out looking shell shocked and ashen faced. I asked her
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Marg check's out the result of the 3.30 to see if her yankee's come in. Unfortunately it hadn't ! what was the matter.
She sidled up to me and whispered in my ear "there's shit on the sheets". Oh my God I thought, this was going to scupper any chances of budget accommodation for the remainder of the trip. I didn't thankfully see it but apparently there were two light brown rings on the lower sheet and even the nice kiwi girl on reception, who set off immediately in search of replacements was mortified, but thankfully our Marg's a trooper and minutes later when crisp new ones were fitted she was laughing and joking about it.
Rotorua is beautiful. A small, chilled town on the southern tip of Lake Rotorua, it is home to a unique series of mud pools. Fortunately, Marg is made from the same ilk as me and organised tourist trips just not her (or my) cup of tea so having wandered around a series of pools close by to our digs we adjourned to the local supermarket to buy dinner.
At the checkout Marg was counting out her coins into the hand of the large stern faced wench on the tills. "Ooh, that's a pretty one" she said handing it to Klnodyke
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Another of Rotorua's bubbling mud pits. Kate who sneered back "yeah, and it ain't one of ours either" handing it back without so much as a hint of a smile. It was a coin she'd picked up during her 13 hour wait at Singapore !
We retired to the hostel, the best I'd yet to come across (minus the shite stains of course) and I rustled up some lambs steaks with broccoli, fried veggies and the nicest potatoes you've ever tasted and a nice bottle of vino tinto and we followed it with a nice walk after dark by the shores of the lake.
Our room was situated right next to the entrance to the dormed accommodation and being in bed by eleven inevitable meant the clattering of doors and chattering of voices as people returned to their beds. I worried this would be another blow to my chances of remaining on a shoestring budget for our time in NZ but the following morning Marg was having none of it.
We were on the road heading for our eventual destination of Turangi by 9am and at 9.45am pulled into our first port of call, the Lady Knox Geyser (pronounced Gyzer) and thermal pools
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Thar she blows. Marg at Wai O Tapu Thermal Wonderland. situated at Wai O Tapu. As we both feared it was the tourist hotbed we expected and, having handed over our twenty bucks took our seats in the semi circular benched seating overlooking a coned mound of rocks six feet high with dribbles of smoke leaking out of the top. According to the paraphanelia handed out with our tickets the geyser would blow at 10.15 prompt as it did everyday and we both marvelled at how wonderful mother nature was for something so wild to be so reliable. "How can it be that it blows every 24 hours?" I pondered when hours are a thing made by man.
"It'll be to do with the sunsets" Marg answered to which I smartly replied "but what about GMT and summer time?". I thought I was being clever but we both decided to leave it and change the subject. At 16 minutes past prompt we both looked at each other with a look as if to say "how could we be so silly", that we both knew it would never keep time that good and at that very same moment the bearded gent who'd minutes earlier collected our tickets, just like the
multi tasked staff at Easyjet Airlines, moved forward clutching a shoulder bag and promptly proceeded to empty it's contents into the top of the rockpile. We smellt a rat before he went on to explain that his sack contained soap powder which would soon react with the waters within. We should have known and looked at each other again, this time with raised eyebrows. He went on to explain that the geyser would continue to react for up to forty five minutes sending spouts of hot water up to five metres in the air. Within five minutes of the initial eruption we'd upped and left.
We spent the next seventy five minutes walking around the various spectacles of Wai O Tapu Wonderland. The scenery was stunning as were the various natural acts of nature that we witnessed at regular intervals and thankfully, due to the size of the park, the presence of tourists was spread out and bearable.
At 11.45 we returned to Herby and proceeded on our way. As most of you will know I hate driving on Englands congested roadways but sitting behind the wheel here is a completely different kettle of fish. The roads are
quiet to say the least, in excellent condition and the scenery along the way beautiful and an hour and half and what seemed like minutes later we were sitting on the shores of Lake Taupo in the sunshine eating our lunch.It was a reminder however, after three days of cloud and rain just how hot this sun can be. In just half an hour Margy's arms had burnt bright red.
We continued along to our intended stopover point of Tarangi and arrived an hour later. We had no accommodation booked and it seemed to be just another one horse town. It was still only three thirty so I suggested we push on over the desert road, the road that is usually closed for the winter, to the town of Waiouru. The landscape changed to become a carbon copy of a drive over Denbigh Moors, barren and lifeless, and we were literally miles from anywhere when Marg's call of nature began to get uncomfortable. Her chirpiness had all but disappeared as my foot pressed harder on the gas and when we finally reached civilisation in the form of a diner at the entrance to our revised intended stopover point of
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Typical barren scene from the desert road. Waiourou she was near bursting point. I burst through the doors and shouted to the woman behind the counter "Scuse me love, do you have a toilet" as Marg followed very, very carefully neglecting to mention if she said no she could have a serious problem on her hands.
She hesitated then answered "are you going to buy anything ?"
I'll buy the friggin cafe I thought to myself if it means my mother can have a crap then noticed the sign on the wall behind her '3 dollars to use toilets if not purchasing foodstuffs'. She was only doing her job I suppose. I sat with a coffee whilst Marg made herself feel better.
The lady at the cafe advised us not to stay in Waiouru as we'd planned "there's nothing to do and the motels are cold" and told us to head to Taihape, a further half an hour on where we checked into an en-suite twin at The Safari Motel, at 70 bucks even cheaper than Treks. It was now 5.15pm and whilst Margy took a very well deserved nap I headed into town to look around. It appeared that town was closed for
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Do I know this woman ?!! Wellington the day !! Two stores were still open and of those one was late and due to close any minute. The bar over the road, which resembled the OK Corral looked like it would be an adventure in itself so I crossed and entered. It was completely empty except for the bartender who walked with a stoop and a limp and who looked genuinely ecstatic to see me. I asked if I could sit out back in the beer garden, a small back yard with a table and nothing else, and within 30 seconds of sitting down he'd joined me with his coffee and cigarettes. He seemed desperate for someone to talk to.
Turns out he was born a scouser and was interested in things back home and he filled me in on the area around Taihape and the catchment for his boozer. Town occupancy 2000 with a further 1500 from the surrounding farms, the main source of employment being sheep shearers, shepherds or people who fixed the sheep shearers or shepherds tools and machinery. Oh, and shop keepers who sold things to the sheep shearers and shepherds. He explained that the shearers and the shepherds share a hatred
The North Island; Here We Go !!
Movie time at The Safari Motel, Taihape. of each other that would be equivalent in the UK to plasterers being at war with bricklayers and went on to say how at weekends he has to employ up to six doormen to the keep the rival fractions apart. I thanked God it was only 5pm on a Thursday, not 8pm on a Friday. and after two quick beers and before the workers returned from a hard day on the sheep I returned to the safety of The Safari.
Next morning I was up and out running by 7.45am and after 500 metres pulled up lame again. I'd have to leave this calf to recover for at least a week. I really hate not being able to excercise.
We left Taihape at 9.15am and headed south via Palmerston North (where we took a wrong turning again) and Levin and arrived at Porirua around noon. Marg sat and waited while I had antipodean haircut number two in a small barbers where the two women seemed pleased to have such foreign species in their store.
Nomads Backpackers, brand new and in an old building in the heart of Wellington, was a doddle to locate but a real bugger to actually stop at. We found the street straight away then spent the next 20 minutes going around and around the one way system trying to locate. "Okay Marg, this time" I'd say then we'd be waving back to it again.
We eventually parked and checked in. The room on the second floor was large and lovely. All white walls and white linen and a lovely large double bed as well as the single. The double appeared un made so after a quick visit to reception we were upgraded to one on the top floor with satellitre TV. It was just like the Ritz.
I had to take the car to the drop off point which was a story in itself. It was on the other side of town and a flip flop clad forty minute brisk walk back. Marg looked relieved when I returned as I had said I'll be back in half an hour. She wasn't half as relieved as I was.
Marg had changed into fresh clothes, in particular a new pair of pants that cost three quid from K Mart, real smashers with zipped pockets hidden all the way down the legs, in fact so many that she'll probably still be finding new ones in weeks to come. Before we left the room she wondered aloud where she'd put her credit cards and upturned all her bags in search. "Have you tried your pockets?" I asked. She thought she had but as a double check I ran my hands up and down her legs like a policeman frisking for hidden weapons and found a lump of similar feel to a card just below the knee of her right leg. It was the missing card. We took time to do a wash in the hostels wash rooms and then dined on the complimentary spaghetti bolognese and drank the complimentary glass of red in the bar next door and then went to get a Kebab because the complimentary spag bol consisted of approximately thirteen strands of the spag. I texted Minxy, a friend of David Bailey's who he'd met on Myspace and who had said she'd show us round Welly but she never got back.
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non-member comment
Good photos - nice story - but shame about the Minx.