Wonderful Rotorua
Across the deep blue of Lake Tarawera a small and sultry wind plays. It scoops little scallops of water off the surface and ruffles the sweaty down on a mallard’s chest. The reeds bend only slightly and just a puff of silica raises along the path. Over it all, the sun beats down. It’s hot. But it’s been hotter. In 1886 it exploded.
Probably the most significant volcanic explosion in New Zealand’s history was beset with superstition and overlaid with fact. That Tararewa blew its stack is indisputable; that the local Maori were laid low with typhoid and dipsomania is proven; that a phantom canoe was seen on the lake, is disputed but not unproven; and that the water ran in and out of the shoreside channels in a tidal fashion is the same.
That the spectacular Pink and White Terraces disappeared for all time is also a given, they’re most definitely not there now and all that is left are a few lithographs, paintings and some amateurish sketches. But there was nothing amateurish about the explosion. Tarawera had been practising on and off for 18,000 years.
There were, at this time, amongst the local Maori, those who could see that no good was going to come of the number of their tribe whom, mostly seduced by alcohol and the Pakeha money they could earn as guides to the nearby Pink and White Terraces, were behaving abysmally. Their chief, Aporo Te Wharekaniwha, a handsome and noble man, though said to be impetuous, had turned into such a party animal that he eventually scared even himself. With commendable effort, he got himself back together, but it was too late – for a superstitious and animistic people, the signs were already there.
It started badly, when the reformed Aporo had words with the tohunga or wise man. Tuhoto Ariki was the last of the ancient tohunga. He was said to be over 100 years old and almost no other of his generation remained. He was not only an expert in charms and incantations, but also in sorcery and witchcraft. He was not the sort of person to get into words with, even if you were a chief. Aporo’s impulsive side took over and he so affronted Tuhoto that the tohunga cursed him to death also promising that “before long something else would happen”. Soon after, Aporo died of typhoid fever and the village waited anxiously for the “something else”.
It didn’t take long. The creek inexplicably ran dry; Aporo’s horse, not seen since the chief’s death, began to appear on a nearby hillside, looking out over the lake; and a pool of boiling mud suddenly shot 120-feet into the air. But the greatest portent of something looming was the appearance on the lake of a phantom canoe. Both Maori and Pakeha were startled when the waka sped across the lake, seemingly heedless of those watching. It bore unfamiliar markings and its occupants were strangers; some tales recount that as the waka passed, the heads of the warriors turned into those of dogs. On shore, the creeks feeding into the lake again ran briefly empty before the water channeled back. Even worse was to come.
At 12:40am on 10 June 1886, Mount Tararewa exploded. Not only did the blast go up but also across, ripping a fiery gash across three volcanic cones and sending ash and mud billowing into the air, bits of which fell 700km away. Villages were buried; the hotel collapsed; Mrs Hazard and three of her children suffocated in the schoolhouse; Mr Edwin Bainbridge, an English tourist who had shown great bravery in rescuing fellow guests, then died when the hotel balcony collapsed on him; a group of Maori camping on an island in the centre of the lake would never even have had the time to feel frightened. That 123 people were known to have died is no small tragedy, but it is remarkable that it was not more. The most notable natural casualties were the Pink and White Terraces, said by some to be the eighth wonder of the world.
The eruption made both Maori and Pakeha cautious about visiting the district for a while but prior to that terrifying display Rotorua had been a top tourist spot. Even before the arrival of the Pakeha, Maori - between arguments with local tribes for some; more often for those who had no quarrel – had always found Rotorua a place well worth a visit. That perception remains.
The new Lake Tararewa, reshaped by the explosion, is docile. Now luxury launches glide sedately, waterskiers and jet skiers skid across its ripples, anglers drift off into angling dreams, soothed by the soft lap of water against their waders and the occasional ripple of a trout past their bait. And if the slightly sinister Mt Tararewa still glowers down upon the scene, well nobody seems to take any notice.
In recent years Rotorua has undergone a radical facelift. There are bars, restaurants and cafés, international hotels, boutiques, and a whole range of activities that have long eclipsed a ride on Toot ‘n’ Whistle around Kuirau Park. He huruhuru te mana ka rere; he ao te rangi ka uhia - when the bird has feathers, it flies away; when clouds come, the sky is covered; (change is always occurring and altering things).
A major recent change is to the Sheraton Rotorua hotel. The first international hotel to be built in the city, it was a wonder in its time. Now it’s the
Grand Tiara Hotel and it’s new swept-up look includes serving dinner by the pool; poolside dining is not something one consciously thinks about in terms of visiting Rotorua – it used to be more like takeaways down by the lake.
Other properties like
Rydges,
Millennium and the
Royal Novotel (owned by no less a person than the King of Thailand) have also shifted in. It’s one of the reasons that many people now refer to the city as Roto Vegas. The lakefront has a smartly cobbled shoreline edged with park benches and wrought iron railings. The cobbles continue up the shore, into the business area and right down the main street – a job worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, bought in under time and under budget by a local contractor, which goes to show that in Rotorua, the little guy is still king.
Everything seems to have a balance of the old and the new. The Redwood Forest is a beautiful bit of timberland with soft bark and other bush debris underfoot. It is full of soft shadows and stray mists. Birds call and the sun filters through the high trunks in soft stripes. You can have breakfast among the redwoods, sitting at a linen-laid table, eating with silver cutlery off porcelain plates. If you drop your fork it won’t make a sound as it hits the forest floor and a discreet waiter will retrieve it for you, dressed in crisp black and white.
The Blue Baths are as glamorous now as they were when they first opened, perhaps more so. Dancers swirl across a checkered floor and among the potted palms of the upstairs tearoom, drink tea from fine china and eat sandwiches and scones from a three-tiered cake stand. Below in the courtyard, "The Bluey’s" ring again to the sound of splashing and laughter. The pools are revived and the tearoom kitchen turns out plenty of tiffin thanks to modern technology.
Across the road, the
Polynesian Spa has its Lake Spa Retreat, offering the latest in skincare and massage therapies including facials, body scrubs, mud and herbal linen wraps, massages, manicures and pedicures. There are outdoor pools in landscaped gardens and an indoor freshwater pool with a slide. There is complimentary shampoo and conditioner in the changing rooms and the private pools have a carpeted change area. But put your head around the corner and there are the hot springs of memory; milky with minerals, edged with wood that has gone silky and grey and soft in the elements and accessible by wooden steps that disappear into the murk. When you put your wet hand on one of the great pumice boulders that are piled around the pools, you get that same funny feeling on your palm that you get when you put your tongue onto a puffed rice cracker in a Chinese restaurant.
At
Waimungu Thermal Valley, the piece of yellowy-green sulphur you swipe for a souvenir still burns a hole in the pocket of your shorts. At
Whakarewarewa the Pohutu Geyser still shoots a 30-metre stream of petulance up to 20 times a day. The burping mud pools still look like something you’d like to squish your feet and fingers through if they weren’t so wickedly hot. And you can go around the park by Waka Express instead of walking these days.
The dogs still show off and the sheep are still grumpy at the
Agrodome but over the yapping and baa-ing you can hear the shrieks and laughter from the bungy, the freefall, the swoop and the zorb as braver souls pay good money to be scared witless. You can career downhill on the luge, an activity so successful it’s been taken internationally; proving there’s no hindrance to becoming globally successful by basing yourself in Rotorua.
You can cuddle a lion cub but keep a safe distance from their parents at
Paradise Valley Springs. If that disconcerts you (and it should) just glance over your shoulder into the actual springs and see fat trout laze where the silver ferns trail their fronds into the water and be reassured.
You can still smell the hangi smoke, hear the sound of bare feet stamping and the rustle of flax skirts, thrill to the haka and accept a challenge on the edge of the marae. You can run your fingers through the chisel marks of a carving on the whare wall and know that, whether Maori or Pakeha, this is somehow part of who you are.
You can take a gondola to the top of Mt Ngongotaha and look down on it all and see that Rotorua is still a rural town, with that comfortable small town feeling. And you only need to breathe in to know whatever cosmetic changes might happen, underneath, Rotorua will always be Rotorua.
By Jane Warwick