Already in my journey, I have had the experience all travelers have of expectations meeting a sad reality; it’s like the turkey in National Lampoon’s Christmas vacation. I don’t even like turkey and that turkey looked to be the tastiest morsel this side of poultry heaven, but then Clark Griswold cuts into it and with a foosh, the fine façade vanishes, replaced by a withering carcass. The next shot pans across the table as you see the Griswold family crunching through brittle pieces of turkey, just like as a traveler you must live with wherever you are at, at least until you can catch the bus out.
Now, every country will have some shit spots somewhere. In America, it’s Ohio and any major city’s suburbs, and I’m not going to apologize if you live there because you should know better. I was expecting to find these spots at some time in New Zealand, but that didn’t seem to lessen the shock when I finally encountered them.
Here it seems to be Hamilton, a large faceless city several hours south of Auckland where my bus has had a layover several times. I had heard rumors and hadn’t scheduled any time there, but I assure you the bus stops were more than enough time to become acquainted with the city. It’s like one of those people, where after fifteen seconds of conversation you can tell is an unalterable scumbag and spend the next thirty minutes making up increasingly improbable excuses to leave—“I have a dental appointment” to “my mother was in a car accident” to “my cat is probably up to something and I should go check it out.”
To give you a taste of the scenery when I arrived, across the street from the bus station was Peaches and Crème, a sex shop that I had to stare at for twenty minutes while waiting for a tardy bus, and an auto repair place with such gaudy colors, it would fry the feathers off a sparrow. Inside the bus stop was no better with drifters, trussed-up women with enough makeup to make a whore to blush, and the occasional scruffy drifter stumbling from one bus connection to the next. This last group ranged from me (respectable enough) to people seconds away from passing out in a gutter. It seemed any sporadic, well-dressed person’s goal to get the hell out of Hamilton north, south, anywhere really.
Besides Hamilton, I’ve had another let down in Rotorua, a city about four or so hours south of Auckland. It’s not a shit spot; it’s certainly nice enough, but I was just expecting a lot so that it seemed to rankle a bit more. Here I was completely thrown off guard because it’s known for being a thermal hotspot with a beautiful lake and is in fact a main tourist destination for locals and foreigners.
As for “thermal pools,” this really means that the whole city smells like someone ripped a big one, which led me to be less self-conscious about my own farting but was also the cause of several gags when I approached a thermal vent. The pools themselves are scattered about the city with a large collection in a park close to downtown, and it’s interesting to gaze into their stinky depths, which range in color from turquoise to black to brown. Interesting until you realize you’re staring at boiling water and taking pictures of it.
Signs are quick to remind the pools will burn you straight to hell if you should you be so unwise as to take a speedy dip. The severity of this warning was put to question when I saw several ducklings quite obviously not flopping about in pain but rather frolicking in the water.
The rest of the city consisted of a spread-out shopping district and an expansive lakefront, which played host to a lake (obviously) of dark brooding water that a placard told me was due to something humans did and were hastily trying to correct, seagulls that seemed to issue death croaks instead of cries, and clouds of cylindrical gnats. The gnats didn’t bite you but I had one too many experiences of peacefully walking one moment and then frantically swiping the air in front me the next, to be kind to them.
As a person without a car, I found the greatest problem in Rotorua was that I didn’t have a car. That may seem self-evident, but a traveler can usually get around it—especially in parts of the world not dominated by vehicular transportation (think Spain, Switzerland, or France). Regions just outside of the city looked to be appealing—hiking trails, a Redwood forest, several pristine lakes. I managed to hoof it to a lake one day, but once was enough for that.
Another part of my problem stemmed from the fact that I’m doing this trip as cheaply as possible and thus did not want pay money for adventuresome things offered. But even if I had the money for whitewater rafting or mountain biking down a dragon’s throat, I don’t think I would spend my money that way. It just seems too… much. I can’t really explain it better than that.
Rotorua felt a lot like Yellowstone, which was another spot that doesn’t really deserve all the hype it receives. Sure it’s beautiful, but nothing compared to other spots in the Rocky Mountains. And I assume the same is true with Rotorua—good, not great; there’s a whole lot better in New Zealand.
Musings On A Somewhat Intriguing Life 