The Virtual Reinhard
Created | Updated Jan 26, 2006
A Letter from Rotorua Part 1
The town of Rotorua straddles the geologically active faultline that runs down through North Island New Zealand. Driving in, the first thing that we noticed was the heavy pall of steam that hung over it. The next thing that we noticed was the pungent sulphurous smell.
Buried Village
Our first stop was the Buried Village, inundated by mud in 1886 when the local volcano blew its top in a spectacular display of fire and storm. The town had been a fashionable Victorian tourist spot because of the nearby 'pink and white terraces', now destroyed, and so the event was well recorded both by the local press and by the diaries of visiting Englishmen. Certainly there was enough fascinating detail to make an interesting museum, culminating in an interesting walk among the now excavated buildings.
Possibly the highlight of the sunken village was its 40 metre hot waterfall, probably more spectacular than usual on our visit due to the continuous heavy rain.
The path to the fall was curious in that it was guarded by fierce signs warning of heart attacks and falling children when, in fact, even with water cascading down the steps, it was just a gentle stroll which Bronwyn negotiated in flip-flops.
Hell's Gate Thermal Valley
Hell's Gate, in another part of Rotorua, is an area of volcanic mud pools. After a slightly dubious lunch in the tourist cafetaria, we ventured out into the continuing rain to explore the sights.
The different pools and features are packed side-by-side in a large field of mud and rock, with footpaths winding between them. Each has its own temperature, colour and character and many have stories associated with them. For instance, Hurutini was named after a Maori princess, victim of an abusive husband, who killed herself by jumping into it. Hell's Gate itself is the largest boiling whirlpool in the country, of unknown depth and a constant 98C. The Inferno owes both its gunmetal colour and its superheated temperature to a suspension of graphite particles and the Cooking Pool was used by the local Maori as a kind of bain-marie.
We had already got used to the sulphurous smell that had assaulted us the day before and, as the wind and the rain picked up, we welcomed the occasional hot breeze that blew off one bubbling pool or the other.
The Mud Volcano had built a man-high cone around a fizzing crater. The Steam Cliff boiled and, it was said, occasionally spat gouts of water several metres into the air (although it wasn't doing that while we passed by). The twin pools Sodom and Gomorrah grumbled ominously to each other as we struggled past, cheap umbrella bending and blowing in the wind, often becoming more of a liability than an asset.
By the time we got back to the start, we were soaked through and quite cold, so it was just as well that we had booked ourselves into a hot mud bath and spa.
