Driving north the accusations of letting rip without suitable ventilation began to be thrown around and eventually we conceeded that it was infact more to do with the gaint colums of steam billowing out of the ground and maybe beacuse we were getting nearer rotorua rather than anything dodgie either of us had eaten. After checking our badly worn DOC campsite guide we headed off through the clouds of stinking steam for a campsite out by a nearby loch. The next morning we faced again one of our biggest problems: trying to decided what amazing adrenalin/cultural activity to do first.
Zorbing won out and when we pulled up at the Zorbing Center our curiosity overtook any sence of financial rationality and we jumped at the opportunty (there was probably some sort of deal). After handing over a proportion of our savings and singing away on all manners of insurance wavers we jumped in the back of a landy and got driven up the hill. While we were getting driven up the Zorbanots had loaded a selection of Zorbs (big inflatable hamster balls) on to their DIY ski lift and we were met at the top by a selection of Zorbs. At this stage we were given the choice of 3 different runs: Zig-Zag, Downhill, and The Big Drop Off, we thought we might as well start with the first and work through them, only issue being the first to go had to go down the in the 'The Black Zorb' which filtered out any sun light making the Zorbanot more disoriantated...There was much faffing so being a man and all that goes with it I stepped forward. So following a bucket of warm water into the darkness I dived in head first. Now at this stage i would like to describe the experience, but sticking to the first rule of what happens in the black zorb of death stays there. All im going to say is its possibly one the funniest confusing sensations I've ever experienced, if you have ever been tumbled by a big wave it was similar only warm, soft and less salty, haha. Mairi followed me down in a blue zorb and after she was reborn through the exit hole we were reunited at the bottom of the hill, and massivly exicted about giving a tandem run a shot. This time as I dived into the zorb with my classic style and grace, something went wrong and my big forehead made contact with the entry hole side walls and i ended up doing a half tumble midflight. Classy only my face was forced so hard into my chest i assumed i had broken my neck, it was only as Mairi appeared through the hole and threatened to land on me i realised i wasn't paralised and managed to dodge her. For the next couple of minutes we laughed so hard i forgot about my near paralisation as we rolled,slid,bounced around inside the gaint hamster ball all to the bottom of the hill. Feeling thorughly clean and excited about our next adventure we headed into town to find an eye sore.
This lead us to Hells Gates in the afternoon where we were guided around the valley of geothermic acitivity, boiling hot springs, bubbling mud and spitting mud volcanoes and much more. This was again through the clouds of stinking steam which gave the place a real eery feel and so living up to its name. Although this was all very educational and the storys about the local mouri tribe and how they used the hot springs in all aspects of life was pretty cool, but it was getting towards the time for our mud bath. The mud bath was more like a 2 person troff filled with really hot water and few inches of mud in the bottom, but this didnt stop either of us coating ourselves and each other in the thick smelly gray mud while reinacting the sima moment from the lion king and giving our selves tribal patterns. After a mind blowingly cold shower we were put back in the hot spa and alowed to cook for a while. I have litterly never been so cleen between the zorbing,mud,showers and spas I felt like a new man (apart from the very stiff neck). After a quick drive back into town we were picked up along with all the other old fogies and driven out to a mouri moarie for a night of tardtional food,dance and song. The flock of fogies were ushered into the extensive gift shop to wait for our mouri guide to come pick us up. He was late and we only just got out of that shop by the skin of our teeth with out buying something wither it have been a tradtional ceramonial spear or pair of allbacks socks, but never mind our mouri managed to squeeze into his costume and resuque us just in the nick of time. Being lead on the mahri through the totum poles depicting the gods and hearing the stories behind them we began to think about the affect white westerners have had on local collonies around the pacific. It was a sobering thought, but slightly birghten by how much effort was going into preserving what was left and bring back some extinct customs and tradtions. We were challenged by a group of 'warriors' who looked like maybe they either might have had one big mac too many or one too few. We took the upturned fern-showing its silver underside-in a sign of peace and followed them back into the tradtional gathering hall. Where we were treated to local dances songs and music. Half way through this the women folk were asked to hobble up on stage and take part in a poi dance...mairi soon found she had a natural flare for this but was a bit peed off when i was then asked to go up to learn the haka. To all of you who sit and watch the All Blacks and laugh, Its hard to sitck your tounge out and bulge your eyes at the same time with out smiling or worse laughing! I feel I gave a decent account of my self compared to the old gits on stage next to me, who have had an entire lifetime to perfect their grumpy looks. Next up we were served a sensational 'all you can eat' buffet of taradtional foods cooked slowly on hot rocks burried in the ground. Nether of us were holding back or standing on ceromany and completed 5+ round trips to the buffet, to the astonisment of the grays at our table who claimed they never could have eaten like that when they were our age. The night ended in a prayer and a trip down to see a gyser erupt under flood lights and sip hot chocolate while sitting on the hotrocks with another wee singalong song. The old-yins were fasinated by our tales of living in a campervan and surfing and enjoyed telling us how much more civilised their bus tours were.
