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The Great Gonzo Blowout: Rotorua

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Maori Culture

When a genuine Maori chief performs the traditional haka with members of his tribe, it’s enough to scare the stuffing out of you. Rotorua has a large Maori population with a rich heritage, eager to share and educate visitors about their unique traditions and history. Covered in tattoos and face paint, the Chief explained the customs and rituals of his tribe, performing songs, chants, fights and war dances. There’s a serious tone for the formalities, even though it’s scarily amusing to see a Maori warrior sticking his tongue out and hissing. The Chief explains that the more fearsome they look, the more attractive they are regarded within the tribe. I heard a rumour that a Dutch guy laughed in the face of the Chief once, and got a headbutt as a thankyou. But things got more cheerful, and the real-life Chief proved to have a great sense of humour. He tells us that the tattoos on his legs took over 50 hours to do. This was followed by a traditional hangi, a delicious feast cooked the traditional way by lowering food into the volcanically heated earth to slowly roast (lamb, sweet potatoes, and the stuffing was particularly good to get back into my system). I asked if it was true that Maori men used to run into battle with erections, soliciting a few nervous laughs. No. They did run into battle naked, but strapped their members to their legs to avoid the unkindest injury of all. And yes, Maoris were known to eat the “long pig”, that’s us in case you didn’t know (we taste like pig apparently). Following the meal, I walked through an old forest to a sacred crystal pool, tiny glowworms reflecting on the backs of the large, black eels.

Riverjet

One last fling down the gorgeous Waikato River in a Bat-mobile black jetboat, taking in the scenery on the way to the Orakei Korako thermal park. Bubbling mud, hot thermal springs where Maori’s would throw in pigs to cook them for a couple off hours, cascading falls of silica, a large geyser that you really don’t want to be too close when it explodes. On the way back, the Riverjet performed some spins and twists, cruising at about 70 km/hr and getting some laughs from the kids in the row behind me. After the Agrojet, it was a little tame, but a good wind down after a week of thrills, and I’ve said it before, this is a beautiful country.

And so it came to pass, this Great Modern Gonzo Blowout. My itinerary was chock full of fun, leaving me exhausted, grabbing meat pies as sustenance along the way. Back at Cactus Jacks, Joe would give me a beer for the thermal bath, or I found some Windhoek Lagers at a bottle store, owned by a South African. “Sit back and relax with a trusted friend,” said the back of the bottle, my brand from many years ago, in a land far, far away. The pictures look fantastic, because otherwise it went too fast to remember much. Backpackers in New Zealand live on beans and toast, but save up for months to come and blow their loads on the dozen of thrill seeking activities advertised in towns around the country. It’s hard not feel high after jumping out of a plane.

Time to hope a bus south to Wellington. Two weeks left of Modern Gonzo Round the World in 12 Months. Reality is wooing me with a coy smile and a knife behind her back. I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer.

Old MacDonald’s Farm
Abel Tasman National Park, New Zealand

Special thanks to Cactus Jacks Backpackers for hosting the Great Gonzo Blowout with cold beers, a thermal bath and true Kiwi hospitality.

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