Arriving at Rotorua it’s obvious there’s a little more life in this town; it’s one of the biggest tourist hot-spots of the North Island. For a start there’re two Maccy Ds and a Nandos. Then there’s the spattering of clothing and sporting apparel shops and of course a host of random activities to sink your teeth of adventure in to. Visiting Te Puia – the main park of mud-pool, geyser and green pond interest – which is owned and run exclusively by Maori – it’s a shame the weather has broken up. Though in all honesty the relatively close “Craters of the moon” is more interesting, larger and less than a third of the price; I visited both and that’s my tuppence worth.
En route from Rotorua to Taupo, I frequent another Subway and ask the redhead girl of 19 to wrap it in two (stretching it out in to breakfast and lunch), and it transpires that as soon as she’s got enough saved for the ‘plane ticket, she’ll be off to Australia. It’s a cyclical problem New Zealand has; the land itself is perfect for isolationists and those wishing to change lifestyles to whatever they want. Pick an area in your own personal Feng shui of land; nearby enough civilisation to prevent onset of reclusion and madness, yet far enough away to prevent misanthropist feelings bubbling to the surface frequently – and this country offers gold dust not found anywhere else.
Once you’ve had your woodwork bungalow thrown together in a few weeks, procreate till your heart’s content and try to put up with the accent your children develop. Once adulthood strikes though, they’ll no doubt want to get away in much the same way as their parents – it’s in the blood after all. Doubtless, the offspring will crave the opposite of what they’ve got and head to Europe or neighbouring rival Australia (Kiwis and Aussies having the same camaraderie as the Paddies and Pomms, for example), seeking a change in lifestyle. Their turn to procreate occurs and perhaps the new generation will consider New Zealand in order to get away from it – and so on. What strikes me is the strange standard of living here; if anything food should be cheap, incredibly cheap. Freight on anything other than lamb, wool, milk and cheese means that yes – a single blank CD in the largest supermarket will cost just under a quid (ludicrous) – and that you’ll be paying through your bleeding nose for anything else. Yet for a country that relies so heavily on immigration I’m bemused why costs remain so high; salaries simply haven’t caught up. Perhaps it’s the British influence (or that I’m simply useless at economics), though sadly that leaves the only attraction of this country as the countryside itself. And for most of us, that’s not going to be enough unless you’re heavily in to sport and enjoy rolling hills ad infinitum and the ubiquitous sheep.
Leaving Taupo and finding Napier on the East coast and things are starting to look up. This place is about right for me – small enough, interesting, modern and some picturesque sights coupled with sea and the “fresh” air make it one of my favourites so far. Heading on to Wellington and things become even better, though sadly the affliction of time wasting youth wandering around in hunting packs and opening conversation with “Hey, white bro?”, is ever present. Thankfully compared to youth in London, this lot seem almost harmless, so it’s more of a minor annoyance and doesn’t taint the city in any way.
It is windy indeed; furiously so when you’re heading against it. Car engine revs will drop sharply as the wind smashes against the bonnet and windscreen; your face will be awash with tears when running in to it and you’ll need to drop it in to the granny gear if peddling. Head out with the wind to your tail and it’s gloriously easy going, however, and the plentiful number of sports enthusiasts nodding and smiling at you is fantastically morale boosting. The evenings offer enough bars and eateries to keep those from youthful drunkedness to aged ale-sipping happy, and the numerous small attractions (such as the tram to the botanical gardens and – nowt much else), will keep you busy for a day or two. And so this is what a capital city should be – for me it’s a little like Mummy Bear’s porridge, just right.
No comments:
Post a Comment