HELL ON EARTH

It is the unmistakable smell of rotten eggs.

“Ughhhhhhhhh!” I think, eyeing my fellow passengers wondering which one of them is the backpacker with tummy trouble. 

Hoping to catch a breath of fresh air I pop my nose out of the window only to find the smell becoming worse. Nagesh, fellow-wanderer for some years now, grins, “We are there!”

We have arrived at Rotorua – the smelly, smoky hot-spot on every New Zealand tourism itinerary. It sits on the most volatile section of the Taupo Volcanic Zone and on good (or should that be -- bad) days can give off a curious sulphuric-rotten-egg smell. Geo-thermal activity is everywhere. Pits steam, holes smoke and water boils wherever you look – inside hotels, behind bushes even in people’s backyards!

There just beside the humdrum road is a pit belching out inky smoke. I have only heard of the Earth’s molten, fiery center. I stare, mesmerized, at the evidence.

After checking into our hotel room (sadly, no steaming flushes), we walk towards the lakefront. The most accessible spots in hell for a newly-arrived soul are around the Government Gardens near Lake Rotorua. Stunning roses nod and evil-looking pits burp up smoke on seeing us. In and around the gardens is the interesting Rotorua Museum of Art and History and for those feeling like a ‘mineral-water’ soak, there are the thermally-heated Blue Baths and the Polynesian Spa. Some distance away, Kuirau Park offers more flower-beds and some shallow thermal pools that do to your feet what no pedicure can hope to.

After soaking in the sights and smells (literally) we go for ‘hangi’, the traditional meal of the Maoris, a large number of whom Rotorua is home to. In fact, the Whakarewarewa Maori reserve is right next to our hotel and we can see that most houses have their personal smoking pits.

Our Maori hosts greet us by rubbing noses! And then they perform, among other things, the ‘Haka,’ a fierce war dance interspersed with much chest thumping and murderous gestures. Meanwhile our food has been cooking slowly in earthen ovens over (what else) steaming holes in the ground. When the food is laid, I am in heaven. There’s slow-cooked chicken, meat, kumara (sweet potatoes), crab, shrimp, vegetables…I do not make it to dessert. 

The next day, we head for Waiotapu which, depending on how many sights you wander off to, is about half an hour to a whole day away from the city. Soon we see the earth’s fiery interior, her chemicals and her minerals come together in a histrionic display of colour and fire-water-works. A Hollywood set that Hollywood could never have imagined unfolds before us.

The aptly named Devil’s Ink Pots is a spectacular sea of mud – where steaming whirls and whorls plop, hiss and spit eternally. Even more enchanting is the Champagne Pool. Gold-rimmed and bubbling seductively, it looks inviting until you realize it has more chemicals than your car battery. Having admired all the wicked looking craters blowing smoke rings around the pool, we walk across it on a narrow path (fall and you will be boiled!) on our way to more sights.

The electric blue of one pool is sure to haunt me forever; or at least every time I order a Blue Curacao. But for the tell-tale steam rising around the edges, the pool looks as icy cool as the cocktail. Before we reach a jade green pool, we come across a wonderful green stream flecked with yellow. Like a good tourist, I can’t resist dipping my hand in it – “Owwwww!” It is hot! Even the rock-face on the side of the path is hot. Far in the distance is a hillside with magnificent plumes of smoke, too many to count. I note that if I get lost here, sending smoke signals will just not work.

In all this we also keep our 10.15 a.m. date with Lady Knox Geyser (pronounced guy-zer never gee-zer in New Zealand). It erupts every day at that precise time to ooohhs, aaaahs and the flash of cameras. This is achieved by pouring detergent into its vent! The surface tension reduces, the boiling water bubbles, spurts and finally gushes up in a tall, sizzling fountain. That it is man-made takes nothing away from the spectacle.

Waiotapu, we realize later is a weird, wonderful sampler of the fantasy landscaping all around the area. Near the Blue and Green Lakes, you can picnic or live in your trailer-camper home. And though the Green Lake is far too dangerous, you can even go for a swim in the Blue Lake. At Hell’s Gate mud pools boil all day long. This thermal area has the sensational Kaikahi Falls, said to be the largest hot waterfall in the Southern hemisphere.

And yes, there are volcanoes. Even in the nineteenth century, Mount Tarawera’s hillsides had much-visited, mineral-laden baths that contributed to Rotorua’s fashionable reputation as a spa. In 1886, when Tarawera erupted, the sound was heard as far away as Auckland. The baths along with Te Wairoa, meaning ‘Buried Village’ (now excavated and a tourist spot), were buried under lava and ash. The eruption carved out Waimangu, the valley that lies before me, brilliant green, full of vegetation and home to the magnificent boiling Inferno Crater.

I look at Mount Tarawera, now a lush green, peaceful looking fixture on the landscape with new respect. And suddenly fun thermal activity acquires a mean edge.

That evening, we discover a buzzing pub fashioned out of an old police station. Some of the food is typical – a mountain of wonderfully-done spare ribs – and some of it is New Zealand style seafood, the like of which I have never had before – green-lipped mussel, walnut encrusted halibut...

By the time we are through, it’s six ‘o clock and the shops are all closed! The bright sunshiny day will continue for a long time though. I window-shop and peer at the jade jewellery displays. Rotorua is also one of the centres for jade, the stone prized by the Maoris as ‘pounamu’. I mentally tick the shops I will visit tomorrow as we head towards the lake.

Lake Rotorua looks so beautiful that we sit there a long while staring at the plumes of smoke on its other end. Swans squawk and swim to where tourists are feeding them. Far away jet-boats are terrifying passengers with sudden sharp turns at terrific speeds. A helicopter buzzes reminding you that you are in New Zealand, adventure capital of the world.

As we sit volcanoes, geysers and boiling mud seem not at all unusual. As for bad smells, they seem barely noticeable and pretty usual too.

Break away to Samode

                     

“Hello!” I spoke excitedly into my phone.

It was a sunny winter day and we were passing through Jaipur on our umpteenth doing-one-of-the-Rajasthani-circuits trip. Needing to break our journey, we were looking for a hotel to stay the night in. As always, the much-praised Samode seemed ideal. “Would you have one double room for today?” I asked.  As always, the courteous voice informed me regretfully. “No, Ma’am, we’re completely booked.”

The conversation was the same – every trip we made till this monsoon. Why not make a short trip to Samode all by itself? “Yes Ma’am, there are rooms available at the Samode Bagh,” the courteous voice informed us.

Some clothes, some books, no rising with the sun, a small breakfast and off we were on a pleasantly easy drive on the Gurgaon-Jaipur highway. Barring the khich-pich at Shahpura and the snarl at Kothputli (both flyover construction zones), the road seems alright if not good. Samode is a tiny village, a little before Jaipur. Some four hours later, driving on a tiny road, we stopped at an ornate gate, tucked behind some high walls. After parking the car, we walked through the 400 year old gardens.

Fountains fed by underground pipes and water, danced along the way to the 150 year old pavilion where a group of colourfully garbed locals sat with marigold flowers and a dholak. One side of the older part of the garden is lined with stables where horses (with anglicized names like Danny) and ponies live under the relative comfort of electric fans. A little further is a dilapidated old ruin inhabited by what seemed like a million bats. As they make their curious insect-like moaning whistling sounds, you conjure up images that are eerie, especially at dusk. 

Going forward to an all-white building, we passed the small quaint swimming pool laid with tiles that made an ornate motif underwater. Alongside was a Jacuzzi and all around were white walls shielding it.

You emerged from the building into another garden with tent-style cottages along the periphery. Paths criss-crossed the entire garden which had countless trees, among them Bael, Amla, Imli and Neem. There were water-troughs for birds and little charpoy-machans while small tented pavilions hosted carrom, pool, table tennis and general sitting areas.

The rooms’ sit-outs were a bird-watching delight. All manner of feathered creatures would come pecking and looking before moving on to other interesting places. And when it rained, there would be a constant flow of sound and spray.

One idyllic afternoon, we heard the sound of bugles. Through a huge gate in the wall was yet another tucked-away garden. And in it was being played an elephant polo match! While not a serious match, the scene was straight out of a Merchant Ivory movie. Hatted white people with teacups in their hands. OK so some were also drinking chilled beer. Huge, caparisoned elephants with decorative motifs painted on them, mahouts with polo sticks, a big ball, two turbaned little men squatting near a rustic score-board on which was chalked in elephant-sized numerals : 1/1. A full-fledged band with shiny instruments and starchy red-and-white uniforms would pipe up at every break, belting out martial tunes. As for the elephants, they would bow, curl their trunk in greeting and sit on the ground to allow the mahout to climb on to their backs using a ladder resting on their side. It’s only when I went really close for a photo that I realized that we were talking gigantic, mammoth-like animals here!  

The Samode palace is a bumpy four kilometers away. And as you emerge from behind the wall and see the gate, it is a wonderful sight. Rearing up from the hills, the palace was built by a Rawal, not quite a king, but a descendant of the king (in this case none other than Prithviraj Chauhan). Resplendent against a backdrop of rocks, it is now a picture of Mughal-Rajput fusion with mirrored wonders like the Sheesh Mahal and the lounge. Seen from the terrace of the palace, with the swimming pool laid out below and the hills meeting in the horizon, the whole view is an unreal mix of the modern and the ancient. The food here as at the Bagh is average with some dishes standing out.

In tune with our recent holidays, there really is nothing to do but laze around here. Read. Eat. Walk. Talk. Watch. Laze. When we leave two days later, we take away with us a lazy memory, a little hazy in detail, a short distance from the highway but a long distance from the everyday.