NZ Day 17: Various Kayaks

Yesterday began with petting the local cat. Today begins with meeting some adorable ducks!

Then we launched a double-kayak out onto Lake Taupo, the first of two water excursions for the day, both scheduled 2 months in advance via the Taupo branch of Canoe & Kayak. The weather was overcast but we didn’t mind – the important thing is that we didn’t get rained out.

Lake Taupo has a surface area of about 240 square miles. Just for comparison, my current hometown of Oakland occupies an area of about 1/3 of that. It’s the largest lake in New Zealand, and the center of much local folklore. It was created by a gigantic volcanic eruption approximately 26,000 years ago – the largest eruption in the world over the past 70,000 years. The volcano is currently considered dormant – not extinct – and sports a collection of underwater geothermal vents that support sponges and other invertebrates.

We set out from Jerusalem Bay, with a fine misty view of Mount Tauhara just beyond the sparkling city of Taupo, and headed counterclockwise around the lake, while our guide told us fun stories about the Maori tribes in the area.

In due time we encountered the Maori carvings:

These were created in the 1970’s, the masterwork of a local artist (Matahi Whakataka-Brightwell) who managed to convince the tribal elders – who tightly controlled the development of the lake – that his creations would enhance tourism while also raising awareness of tribal history. They were created over a number of years, carved in sections during the few months of the year when weather conditions made work possible.

The main carving is over 30 feet tall, and is a likeness of a Maori navigator named Ngatoroirangi. The likeness is distinctive because of “ta moko” – the Maori tradition of physically modifying one’s face with lines and other patterns to describe one’s family legacy and position in the tribe. In other words, it’s distinctive because he was the only one with this particular pattern, and it’s also descriptive, because the pattern can be read like a code, conveying personal information about the bearer. Like how a marine will get a tattoo describing their rank or regiment, or a place where they saw action – but even more complicated and ceremonial.

Anyway, we only got about 15 minutes to float around in front of the main carving in peace, and then a couple of tour boats rolled up, stuffed with onlookers. We felt smug that we could actually touch the carvings while they could only look!

We paddled back the way we came, and stopped for a break at an outcropping of smooth rocks that presented an easy place to beach the kayaks. Some of us drank tea and ate snacks, and some of us went plunging into the water, which was surprisingly pleasant.

The guide claimed we could actually drink the water without fear, but none of us was inclined to test his claim!

All told, it was a fine outing on the lake, and it only used up the first third of the day. We rowed back over to our starting point, listening to more stories about the history and geography of the area, and then clamored into the company van and returned to Taupo for lunch.

Kerry and I walked around downtown in search of a restaurant, and passed by a store that reminded me of hipster culture back home:

I first heard of "Shabby Chic" a few years ago in the Bay Area. Apparently it's a style of decoration where you make your house look like the interior of an abandoned barn that kids have been using as a fort.

I first heard of “shabby chic” a few years ago in the Bay Area. Apparently it’s a style of decoration where you make your house look like the interior of an abandoned barn that kids have been using as a fort.

I find it both puzzling and hilarious that someone has opened a store dedicated to selling items that I might find sitting on the sidewalk in Oakland.

Weird stuff for sale...

I find it both puzzling and hilarious that someone has opened a store dedicated to selling items that I might find sitting on the sidewalk in Oakland. The rent for this shop must be little or nothing, because I can’t believe their margins are very big. Taupo is a big city by New Zealand standards, but is it big enough to support a store this frivolous? Who knows.

Anyway, Kerry and I ate some excellent fish and chips and home-brewed cider while we waited for our second tour to begin. On the walk back to the kayak place we met with a fellow cycle tourist who sounded remarkably like Cary Elwes:

Check out those knobbly tires!

He’s originally from Alaska and has been traveling all over the world on those same tires. What I find most interesting about his setup, though, is the solar panel arranged on the back. I remember obsessing for months and months over the best way to charge my collection of gadgets on the road, and after all the dust settled, I faced the simple fact that I was probably never going to go anywhere more than two days’ ride from a wall socket – and if I did, a cellphone would be worthless anyway. I wonder how and why this fellow reached a different conclusion? He’s certainly more traveled than I am…

I didn’t think to ask this question in the moment, though. We just chatted about our histories, took a photo, and moved on. Kerry and I didn’t want to be late for our next excursion:

An easy float down a few miles of the Waikato River! We put in right around here at Pois Road:

The water was quite shallow here, and when we stepped into our kayaks they pressed into the sandy bottom and wedged us in place. Here’s a shot of Kerry pulling herself forward on one of my oars, next to our guide.

Kerry grabs her oar, and I pull her forward into the water.

Once we got out into the main body of the river, we used the paddles only to make minor course corrections. The current was strong and steady.

Away we go!

Just ahead of us we could see a group of college-age kids setting forth on a collection of inner-tubes, tethered loosely to each other with rope. They had an extra inner-tube with a cooler jammed inside it, filled with drinks, that they would reel in and plunder from time to time.

Moving past some fellow drifters. That's four inner tubes: One for each person, and one for the cooler.

I filmed a bunch of the trip with my hand-dandy head-mounted camera, of course! Here are some highlights.

I don’t know what this little river island is called, but it’s swarming with plants and birds:

Checking out a large rock under the water:

“Oxygen Weed” is an invasive plant, foreign to New Zealand, that has grown in great quantities since when it was accidentally introduced:

Part of the river has high canyon walls along it. This particular cliff has a bungee-jumping platform suspended above. Scary!

The canyons along the river. This particular cliff has a bungee-jumping platform built over it.

For the less adventurous, there’s a hot spring a little farther along the riverbank, feeding into the river from a small waterfall.

Our kayak trip made a brief stop at a riverside hot spring. It was odd seeing so many people, after seeing so few on the river. "This is actually a very slow day," our guide said. "In December you'll see well over a hundred people here, every day."

The hot springs was choked with other tourists, most of them of the well-to-do European kind. It was odd seeing so many people here after seeing so few drifting on the river.

“This is actually a very slow day,” our guide said. “In December you’ll see well over a hundred people here, every day.”

Kerry warmed up her feet in the water. I didn’t feel cold and I didn’t feel like swapping my clothes, so I just posed for a picture instead:

While we were loading back up, I made brief friends with an adorable local dog:

After that it was a short drift to a riverside campground with a crude boat ramp, where we disembarked. Our total distance doesn’t look like much if you view it on a map, but it was a very relaxing and relatively inexpensive way to spend a couple of hours, especially after all the rowing we did earlier in the day on Lake Taupo.

Our route while drifting on the river

Back in town we got thai food from a much better restaurant than the one we’d tried the day before. They actually served a thai iced tea! YESSSS!

We handed our laundry to the in-house washing service, and watched some Venture Brothers. It rained pretty heavily. We talked for a while about our plans: Should we leave here a day early, foregoing the unscheduled time around Lake Taupo, in order to get more wiggle room on our journey to National Park? We might need the extra time if one of the shuttle buses is too full to take our bicycles…

We decided to sleep on it. As we were preparing for bed, we heard a knock on the door and a man handed our laundry back, freshly washed and folded in the sack we’d provided. Good! No need to wait for that in the morning.

Sleep came easily since we were exhausted, but we woke up later when a group of people a few rooms down started making a huge ruckus, smoking and laughing on the front porch of their room. I walked out and asked them to keep the noise down in as calm a way as I could, though if they’d kept it up I would have probably lost my temper and yelled at them quite loudly. Kerry called the room service line to file a noise complaint but they didn’t answer. Hoohah!

NZ Day 13: Ruminating In Rotorua

Today we got another early-morning call with bad news. No dolphin snorkeling activity for us – the sea was still too choppy. Kerry and I decided that Whakatane was bad luck, so we checked out a day early and shoved our bicycles into a bus, and rode it back up to the lovely lakeside city of Rotorua.

The highway seemed even more twisty on this return trip, and we both got upset stomachs. It was early afternoon when we arrived in Rotorua, and instead of setting out immediately on the bike path towards Waiotapu, we decided to use our extra day to recuperate a little more and get an earlier start the next morning.

Most of the hotels in Rotorua were booked solid, and most of the rest had very high prices. Eventually we found one that was affordable and only a little bit crusty, and we flopped onto the bed and napped until our stomachs felt better. The discomfort inspired us to go through our luggage again and prepare another box of gear that we could ship directly to New Plymouth, instead of hauling it around for another three weeks. We paid for shipping online and left the box with the hotel receptionist, who promised to hand it to the carrier when they came by the next day.

I’ve been thinking lately: Travel is often romanticized and overrated, especially when it’s the kind of travel that’s packaged and sold to the middle class – and the aspiring middle class. For a while now I’ve been lucky enough to consider myself middle class, and one of the reasons I know this is, I have become a target for these romanticized, packaged experiences.

In the case of New Zealand, the package is obvious to me. It’s, “come wander through a working model of Middle Earth! You’ll dance with Hobbits, swing swords at orcs, and cast Magic Missile at the darkness!” Well, I could try and pursue that. I could completely embrace that vision – that product – and come to New Zealand intent on finding it. If I went with what the travel agents recommend, it would go like this:

Drop several thousand dollars on a helicopter ride into the mountains, then stand around for a few minutes in front of a rock formation that looks vaguely like the background plate for the city of Minas Tirith – except there’s no city there, obviously. Then fly another helicopter to a meandering spot on the Mangawhero River, the backdrop for (and I quote) “the dramatic scenes of Gollum catching a fish.” Then drive a few miles into a farmer’s back yard, to a hill that, if you squint, kind of looks like Fort Edoras in Rohan – if you scraped off the actual fort. And look! Here’s a hill that looks like Weathertop, if you squint and imagine a Weathertop-shaped structure in its place!

What better way to destroy a fantasy world? Heh heh heh.

Oh, how I mock the packaged product; but I do need to cop to the fact that I wouldn’t be in New Zealand if it wasn’t for the Lord Of The Rings films drawing my attention to it. Even if I’m not imagining myself in the Mines of Moria whenever I wander into a cave (like I did in Kentucky), I have still obviously been influenced by Peter Jackson’s adoration for his native country, and our common roots of fantasy literature.

Kerry has been to India quite a few times. She has many stories to tell, and they thoroughly clash with the “product” of tourism in India. In India’s case I think it would be fair to call that product the “Eat Pray Love experience”. It goes, “be like Julia Roberts! Reject middle-class decadence by burning thousands of dollars in jet fuel to flirt with exotic men! Oh, and there’s yoga, so it’s totally legit.” I wonder how many people see the movie, or something like it, or perhaps any one of a zillion Bollywood films, then go to India … and it’s beautiful and exotic, but it’s also packed with constant harassment, heartbreaking poverty, chaos, inconvenience, and filth.

Of course, the “product” is not born of India, but more from a negative sketch of what’s missing back home. And the same is true for the fantasy sketch of New Zealand. Even if we know they’re fake, such things can have a perverse and lingering attraction anyway. I just burned thousands of dollars in jet fuel to ride a bicycle in an exotic location, and is there anything meaningful I’m chasing in it? Probably not. It’s not for charity, it’s not for self-discovery… I’m not running from a past trauma… I’m not even doing yoga! (Just some fake Tai-Chi!)

So, I can’t shake the feeling that despite my high-mindedness, I am guilty of chasing the equivalent of the “Eat Pray Love experience” for geeks. I haven’t thought much about the Lord Of The Rings films, except during the tour of Hobbiton – kind of hard to avoid, when you’re walking around inside the Green Dragon Inn – but nevertheless I am mimicking the films in my own way, pursuing my own version of that product. I’m on a fairly self-contained journey (bicycling) through fresh air and nature (New Zealand), avoiding deadly beasts (cars) and exploring old ruins (Limestone Island) while casting Magic Missile (taking pictures)… A great antidote for my day-to-day job, which takes place at a desk. Where does the prepackaged fantasy world end, and my own mundane vacation begin? Am I the same posh, blinkered middle-class traveler that I look down upon for buying the “packaged product” of New Zealand as Middle Earth?

Perhaps I am, with just a difference in degree.

The most appalling packaged travel I ever took part in was a three-day cruise to a little island off the coast of Florida, on one of those gigantic cruise ships. There’s a lot I could say about it, but I’ll just say, every corner of the ship was enthusiastically designed to make me – the traveler – feel USELESS, like a pet hamster trapped in a giant food bowl. All that comfort backfired and made me feel very uncomfortable.

Maybe that’s what the difference in degree is: Comfort level. Perhaps I demand some level of discomfort because it bestows some feeling of accomplishment, or worthiness. Something to set me apart from other people. Not for the impression it gives other people – I’m usually embarrassed at the attention I get when I mention my long bike tours, since I think it identifies me as crazy more than anything else – but for the impression it gives to myself. I seek something personal, in the dangerous roads, the harsh weather, the rough sleeping, the isolation. Enlightenment, on my own terms.

Well, it’s true: Sometimes the uncomfortable aspects of travel can be the most enlightening, if you give them enough time to work on you. For example, I think the desolation of the small, meth-addled towns I passed through when cycling across the US helped me re-assess what was really worth worrying about in my own life. Of course, that’s another thing that the middle class is vilified for: Traipsing through third-world countries and using poverty as a kind of framing device for their own trifling problems back home. I’ve seen plenty of scathing editorials drifting across Facebook, flouncing at “poverty fetishism”, accumulating truculent “likes” like ants on roadkill.

Well, haters gonna hate, and ain’ters gonna ain’t.

As an aside, I think it’s very interesting that the author of Eat Pray Love wrote a followup book, gathering material about the meaning of marriage, as a tactic to conquer her own fears about it after her bitter divorce. To me, this says that “Eat Pray Love” – and the travel and the farting around and the talk of spirituality – was the years-long phase where the author “got her sillies out” (as an ex of mine would say), and the follow-up book “Committed” is where the real work took place, back home in the ‘States, back in another stable arrangement. I haven’t read it, but perhaps she even admits to herself somewhere in those pages that she didn’t have to travel to Bali to meet a man worthy of her time, and could have just as probably found one within 10 square miles of her house. I’ve seen many divorced men my age spend a fortune on distant travel and exotic women to do the same thing: “Look how different my activities, environment, and social circle are now! That means I’m different too!”

Change is not the same as rehabilitation.

All-too-human, and not exactly a spiritual awakening. … Good thing too, because if a spiritual awakening cost that much money, it would be in very short supply!

Okay, enough seriousness. Onward, to the next day…