"Taupo nestles among spectacular natural wonders," say the Lonely Planeteers. They're not wrong, but they're not giving you the full picture. Squatting on the shore of its eponymous lake, Taupo is a venus tourist trap, luring young and old with its lovely environs and dissolving their money away in its jetboats and skydives and tours and rentals and tourist bars.
And so we only spent one night in Taupo, hanging out with a few Swiss guys, a Scot and a Brit. I'm being overly dismissive here-- everyone I met there was friendly and genuinely wanted you to have a good time. But too much of the city seemed the result of calculated capitalism. Shiny and plastic. A guy named Vegas Brown played competent, uninspired covers to a drunkenly receptive crowd next door to the hostel.
To be fair, this was the weekend of the big A1 race, and it was trying to get its full Reno on for the drivers of medium-engined fighter jet cars. The race sounded like a cool system, actually-- a bit less powerful than F1, but similar, teams weren't fielded by sponsors but by countries. Lots of posters to be found of the Team New Zealand Black Beauty, powered by Ferrari. I thought seriously about watching a race for almost half an hour before I gave up the idea as silly.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
At Least This Time I Didn't Get Sunburned
En route to Taupo, we stopped in Waitomo to go Black Water Rafting, so called because it happens underground. It also happens on inner tubes, but Black Water Tubing doesn't have quite the same cachet. Sadly, and practically, we couldn't take our own cameras and I wasn't about to throw down $20 for someone else's souvenir photos of me, so you'uns will have to do without. The two guides, Alen and Chad, were inveterate trash-talkers who spent the entire introduction and wetsuit fitting trying to soak the other when he wasn't looking.
The tubing itself wasn't quite what I had expected. There was a lot more crawling and walking than I had figured, and one tunnel that was perhaps a cubic foot larger than I am. Right after that, though, we came to a little waterfall off of which, as we had been thoroughly trained, we jumped onto our bums. Once the last of us had landed with a mighty noise and a crash of chilly cave water, we linked up, foot to armpit, turned off our headlamps, and floated along under a canopy of glow worms. Glow worms are a sort of maggot that angles for lost flies, dangling its mucus in gossamer strands and pooping them out as bioluminescent poo. They look like pale blue-green stars scattered across the ceiling, which is exactly as cool as it ought to be. At the end of the trip Chad and Alen took us up to a 3m high ledge and had us butt-jump off. The ceiling was at most 4 feet high above the edge; I'm unconvinced I cut a dignified figure as I inched backwards to the edge, doubled over completely with an inner tube encircling my bum. The landing was cold, wet, and resounding. It was more or less a perfect end to the afternoon.
The tubing itself wasn't quite what I had expected. There was a lot more crawling and walking than I had figured, and one tunnel that was perhaps a cubic foot larger than I am. Right after that, though, we came to a little waterfall off of which, as we had been thoroughly trained, we jumped onto our bums. Once the last of us had landed with a mighty noise and a crash of chilly cave water, we linked up, foot to armpit, turned off our headlamps, and floated along under a canopy of glow worms. Glow worms are a sort of maggot that angles for lost flies, dangling its mucus in gossamer strands and pooping them out as bioluminescent poo. They look like pale blue-green stars scattered across the ceiling, which is exactly as cool as it ought to be. At the end of the trip Chad and Alen took us up to a 3m high ledge and had us butt-jump off. The ceiling was at most 4 feet high above the edge; I'm unconvinced I cut a dignified figure as I inched backwards to the edge, doubled over completely with an inner tube encircling my bum. The landing was cold, wet, and resounding. It was more or less a perfect end to the afternoon.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Plus, Glow Worms
So it turns out surfing is as awesome as everyone says. I'm learning at Raglan, home to the world's longest left-hand break, where children learn to surf from the age of five. In gym class.
It's tiring as the dickins, though. For every minute you spend standing on your board (assuming you catch every wave you try, which is a laughable assumption at this stage in my surfing career), you spend about five getting out there. But this ratio only applies to a tiny slice of intermediate surfers, because beginners will fall over more often than not, sometimes after riding a third of the way back to shore, and better surfers are going to both go farther out and be more selective about waves. So expect to spend a good ten to fifteen minutes slogging through water, fighting currents and crosscurrents and waves. And as you get deeper, not only does the water pull harder at more of your body, ever taller waves batter you until you have no choice but to throw your board in front of you, jump, and hope you'll ride it out and not take another body blow. It's pretty awesome, actually-- like hiking, football and wave mechanics up and had a baby together.
Once you get out as far as you can/dare, you turn your board around and wait for a wave. When you see one 5-10m back, you hop on your board and start paddling. Moments later, the coming wave lifts your board and you start sliding forwards down the breaking face of the water. Now you have to (smoothly, mind you, or it's game over and a face-full of brine) lift yourself up and pop up to your feet, with your weight low and centered on your front foot which is in turn just in front of the board's center of balance. But once you start getting the hang of all that, it's wonderful. Nuts to the pow pow gnar gnar (snow, you know I don't really mean that)-- there's a beautiful, intuitive interaction between your mass and the wave. If you feel yourself getting a bit bogged down, you just shift your weight a bit forwards, in front of the wave's crest. The idea is to be going downhill always.
It's like snowboarding powder, with free feet and a constant intuitive calculation where the variables are your body weight, position on the board, water speed and direction and slope. Plus it's a gorgeous summer day and you're surrounded by attractive people in wetsuits and bathing suits and you're just off a long beach of lovely, fine, charcoal-colored sand.
Incidentally, Ugly, if you're looking for something to do next January, come visit me and learn to surf. There is no way it wouldn't be worth the money.
The other really noteworthy thing about my stay here in Raglan is the zipline at the hostel I was at. It's not a very large zip, with just a rope to hold onto and a flat plastic cone that'll support your bum (or feet, if you're particularly adventurous). There's no obnoxious signage or waiver or anything and there's a tire stopper that will bust you in the chops if you're zipping standing up and don't see it coming (don't laugh too much, it was nighttime). It is beautifully pre-litigious, and it simply could not exist as such in the States.
It's tiring as the dickins, though. For every minute you spend standing on your board (assuming you catch every wave you try, which is a laughable assumption at this stage in my surfing career), you spend about five getting out there. But this ratio only applies to a tiny slice of intermediate surfers, because beginners will fall over more often than not, sometimes after riding a third of the way back to shore, and better surfers are going to both go farther out and be more selective about waves. So expect to spend a good ten to fifteen minutes slogging through water, fighting currents and crosscurrents and waves. And as you get deeper, not only does the water pull harder at more of your body, ever taller waves batter you until you have no choice but to throw your board in front of you, jump, and hope you'll ride it out and not take another body blow. It's pretty awesome, actually-- like hiking, football and wave mechanics up and had a baby together.
Once you get out as far as you can/dare, you turn your board around and wait for a wave. When you see one 5-10m back, you hop on your board and start paddling. Moments later, the coming wave lifts your board and you start sliding forwards down the breaking face of the water. Now you have to (smoothly, mind you, or it's game over and a face-full of brine) lift yourself up and pop up to your feet, with your weight low and centered on your front foot which is in turn just in front of the board's center of balance. But once you start getting the hang of all that, it's wonderful. Nuts to the pow pow gnar gnar (snow, you know I don't really mean that)-- there's a beautiful, intuitive interaction between your mass and the wave. If you feel yourself getting a bit bogged down, you just shift your weight a bit forwards, in front of the wave's crest. The idea is to be going downhill always.
It's like snowboarding powder, with free feet and a constant intuitive calculation where the variables are your body weight, position on the board, water speed and direction and slope. Plus it's a gorgeous summer day and you're surrounded by attractive people in wetsuits and bathing suits and you're just off a long beach of lovely, fine, charcoal-colored sand.
Incidentally, Ugly, if you're looking for something to do next January, come visit me and learn to surf. There is no way it wouldn't be worth the money.
The other really noteworthy thing about my stay here in Raglan is the zipline at the hostel I was at. It's not a very large zip, with just a rope to hold onto and a flat plastic cone that'll support your bum (or feet, if you're particularly adventurous). There's no obnoxious signage or waiver or anything and there's a tire stopper that will bust you in the chops if you're zipping standing up and don't see it coming (don't laugh too much, it was nighttime). It is beautifully pre-litigious, and it simply could not exist as such in the States.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A Series of Touristy Events
We stayed the night in a hostel in Whitianga, near Coromandel town. Hostels are pretty cheap here-- for a dorm room you'll throw down around $25 NZ a night. Given that each of those dollars is worth maybe 57 cents, it's not a bad deal. Awfully friendly, too.
Then we went to Cathedral Cove. It was a bit of a hike, but nice enough. The gothic arch was better on the other side, but this one had a better view. It was a bit underwhelming, but after digging your own hot tub, many things would be.
(Incidentally, you can see all my pictures here or here if you're so inclined).
When we went to check out in the morning, we asked about Hot Water Beach. I'm delighted we did, because we learned that the tide had started to come in an hour ago and we had to boogie. When we got there the beach was small and shrinking, but the urgency had been overstated. We had a good hour to hang out in what has to be the coolest, most gimmicky beach on earth.
Hot Water Beach sits atop a hot spring. What this means is that, after bringing or renting a shovel, you can dig yourself a hot tub. The water that comes up from below is ridiculously hot-- so hot, in fact, that you have to either dig within reach of the waves or get busy with a bucket to get a tolerable mix of hot spring and cold ocean water. A bit crowded when we went there, yes, but totally boss.
Then we went to Cathedral Cove. It was a bit of a hike, but nice enough. The gothic arch was better on the other side, but this one had a better view. It was a bit underwhelming, but after digging your own hot tub, many things would be.
(Incidentally, you can see all my pictures here or here if you're so inclined).
Driving Upside Down
I started the day out with IEP's orientation, nine stories above the nearest Starbuck's. I misestimated my packing time, so I didn't have time to grab a bite beforehand. It was about three hours long and I was about ready to gnaw a limb or two off by the end of it. Other than that it was all right. Just about everyone at IEP had come from abroad, loved it and stayed.
There was a lot of fluff to start out-- the kiwi accent, quirks of a culture very similar to ours (though I'm being a bit unfair calling that fluff-- not everyone there was American or Canadian, just most of us), etc. Then we started going over all the attractions around the islands and holy smokes there are a lot of them. There are so many, in fact, that any attempt to give a comprehensive list becomes downright tedious by the thirtieth gorgeous forest/unique geothermal spot/scary place to jump off. Especially if you haven't eaten anything yet. The best part, by far, was the description the German guy gave of New Zealand's rail system. Positively sodden with distain.
Fo' real, dough. See also:
It was also a frustrating and scary road, when driven by a city boy who's rusty with a stick shift and doesn't have all the reference points for driving lefty internalized yet. We didn't crash, but I spent more time six inches away from beautiful precipices than the rest of my life combined.
In Which a Road Trip is Arranged
Sundays in Auckland are slow days. There are still throngs of people moving about, but they're smaller and a bit less hurried, with fewer places to go. I spent the day exploring Auckland further. I didn't have time to climb Mt. Eden, the extinct volcano in the city, with it's oddly terraced slopes and, I'd imagine, commanding view. I did manage to wander into a poorly labelled women's clothes store, though.
At night the Globe bar, which is a semi-affiliated neighbor of ACB, had an all you can eat pizza special for $10. You got one beer free and free rein on a towering stack of Dominoes pizzas that might have, on a good day, been called mediums in the states. I had one slice with onions, potato wedges, and barbeque sauce. I'm still not sure if it was good, but it sure wasn't bad.
There was a drawing for drink vouchers, in an effort to get the after-party going. There being far more tickets than people, everyone got a couple of numbers for the draw. Two of my numbers were called consecutively. I didn't think to give the second to one of the guys I was hanging out with, though, so my luck was at least partially for naught.
Far and away the coolest of the aforementioned fellows was a guy from Toronto named Mike. It turned out he had just bought an old Mitsubishi Gallant at the Sunday Car Fair and was planning to road-trip down to Wellington over the next 10 or so days in time to see Stereolab. No shit, I said. He was hoping to find a person or two to split the cost of gas. Is that so, I said.
At night the Globe bar, which is a semi-affiliated neighbor of ACB, had an all you can eat pizza special for $10. You got one beer free and free rein on a towering stack of Dominoes pizzas that might have, on a good day, been called mediums in the states. I had one slice with onions, potato wedges, and barbeque sauce. I'm still not sure if it was good, but it sure wasn't bad.
There was a drawing for drink vouchers, in an effort to get the after-party going. There being far more tickets than people, everyone got a couple of numbers for the draw. Two of my numbers were called consecutively. I didn't think to give the second to one of the guys I was hanging out with, though, so my luck was at least partially for naught.
Far and away the coolest of the aforementioned fellows was a guy from Toronto named Mike. It turned out he had just bought an old Mitsubishi Gallant at the Sunday Car Fair and was planning to road-trip down to Wellington over the next 10 or so days in time to see Stereolab. No shit, I said. He was hoping to find a person or two to split the cost of gas. Is that so, I said.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
What a Day Day
The sun never rose on January 16th. The day came and went somewhere over the middle of the Pacific ocean, the crossing of which took either 11 or 34 hours, depending on how much stock you put in time zones.
The upper windows on McDonalds across the street are the best Golden Arches (am I reading too much into a bit of gilt? Psh.):
I was riding in an Air New Zealand 747-400, which is an enormous double-decker of a plane. Incidentally, if you ever get the chance to ride with Air New Zealand, jump on it. Coach is coach, whomever you fly with, but there is a myriad of details that they just do right. Complimentary wine in coach; friendly flight attendants with funny accents; normal hot and cold controls on the toilet faucet. After a long, long day being underwhelmed by United, things stand out.
The plane landed at 4 AM, and we all shuffled tiredly through customs and Biosecurity (so much more sensible than Homeland Security. More charming, too-- "12 Monkeys" comes to mind, rather than Orwell). I got an hour or two of real sleep at Auckland Central Backpackers, and set out to explore the city.
Auckland is awesome. It's a bit like a smaller, more asian New York, without all the scaffolding and ideas about its toughness. It's amazingly clean. I was pretty knackered, so I didn't do much, but I did visit the Sky Tower. At 328m, it's the tallest building in the southern hemisphere, and it's shaped just like a rocketship (thus the url. The title, of course, is the time difference between NZ and US Eastern times). You can also, for too much money, jump off of a platform 192m up. My sources tell me that's 630 feet. You get a stylish blue and yellow jumpsuit and you get hooked up to a wire rig. There are two wires going up to the platform, with a crosswire that moves up and down. A short bungee cord descends from this crosswire to your harness. You stand at the very edge and before you have any chance to justify yourself to your terrified body, you jump. I did feel a bit cheated when they stopped me 15 feet down for a photo op, but the following 600 were awfully adrenal. Hell of a view, too-- Auckland sits at a narrow part of the island, surrounded by islands, sea and ocean, and dotted with undeveloped knolls and developed hills. The landing is a red mat with a bullseye. I missed.
The upper windows on McDonalds across the street are the best Golden Arches (am I reading too much into a bit of gilt? Psh.):
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
