Rotorua

Bubbling mud pools, chanting warriors, and the whirl of helicopters are all pare for the course in Rotorua. This tourist destination claims to be like no other place in the world and they might just be right.


In celebration of our first long weekend in New Zealand, we headed south to Rotorua. The moms in my playgroups seemed to think this was a less than ideal choice; they warned of the city's sulphuric odour and cough inducing air. These women had obviously never driven through Thurso on the way to Tremblant, or Saint John when the wind blows the wrong way. Yes, it had a sulphur scent but it was subtle with no respiratory distress.

As we made our way across the pedestrian-friendly downtown core on Saturday morning, we made a strategic decision to cater to Mikaela first in hopes of some grown-up activity later. On this day, we would be rewarded. The volcanic playground on the shores of Lake Rotorua is a two-year old's dream, she swung and climbed, teetered and tootered. Daddy took it to the next level in allowing her to wear a life jacket and go in the paddle boat; Dora frequently wears a life jacket so she can be safe. At the lakefront, you had your pick of scenic activity - floatplane, helicopter, traditional waka (canoe), and so forth. Dave nagged for a helicopter ride, but I said no. On the recommendation of a friend, we then made our way over to Kuirau Park. In retrospect, I consider this wonderful free park as a geothermal teaser. As Mikaela napped, we took in our first bubbling mud pools, hot springs, and steam upflows. Additionally, the gardens were beautiful, a playground was available for the little miss, and Dave & I were able to enjoy some delights at the local market - fresh local strawberries for me ;-) After a brief return to the hotel to recharge Dave, we took a drive out to view the famous Blue & Green lakes and, of course, visit our third playground of the day.

Although I'd enjoyed my first glimpse of geothermal activity, Sunday, I awoke determined to see a geyser. Te Puia is located on the outskirts of Rotorua, it is home to seven geysers, sulphuric pools, hot rocks, and lots of goo - Mikaela's very adept description of bubbling mud pools. It is owned by the Maori, the Polynesian indigenous people of NZ, and provides a glimpse into their past lives and even current ones. We naively opted to purchase tickets to the 10:15 am cultural performance in hopes that Mikaela would be enchanted; instead, I found myself vacating the meeting house within the first two minutes with a protesting toddler tucked under my arm. Later, Dave rejoined us, and reported the performance was good and the Haka, a war dance, quite chilling. We enjoyed the geysers, but alas, we were not treated to one of its fabled 30m spurts. Perhaps if Mikaela could work on her patience so we could wait longer, on the naturally heated stone bleachers, for it next time. On the way out, we again passed by a helicopter scenic ride location but again, I denied Dave's request to take to the skies. We finished the day off with a trip to the Rotorua Aquatic Centre; it was one of those rare moments that I was noticably a minority - not because of my gender, but my pastey white skin. I found it a very odd sensation and wondered if my visible minority friends continue to feel it.

On Monday, Dave took in some of Rotorua's world-renowned Mountain Bikes trails. In his words, it was some sweet single-track, the best he's ever ridden. We capped off the weekend with a trip to a trout farm. Ironically, it was Kate, mother of two, who suggested this child-friendly activity to me - I scoffed at her. I certainly didn't want to see a trout farm. Paradise Valley Farms is more than a trout farm, they have beautiful trails throughout their property and several farm animals, as well as other more exotic animals. The highlight for Dave & I was the daily lion feeding; these magnificant cats are housed in a large chain link enclosure. Silly men and naive children alike can tempt fate by putting their fingers through the fence, Mikaela herself gave it a try. I don't think she understand the dangerous speech I gave her, but she did lose interest and wandered off to quote Dora episodes on a patch of grass. The keeper gave a running commentary on their lions as he tossed chunks of meat into the cage. It was fascinating to watch them leap, roll, and posture for their bits. Terrifying and beautiful at the same time, if ever in the area with a small child, the trout farm is a must-see - and don't forget to purchase the food to feed the little fishies.

All in all, I loved Rotorua. I can't wait to go back. Dave too, we didn't make it to any of the heart-stopping, vomit-inducing activities he wants to try - bungy jumping, zorbing, luging...

Behind the Wheel

As a teenager, Dad took me out to learn how to drive. He taught all the lead-footed MacLeod daughters, one by one. As I recalled those driving lessons today, there was no sense of fear or hesitation, only excitement, adrenaline and my father's exasperation. Today, a decade and a half later, I was the very definition of the white-knuckled driver.

In an earlier post, I described the narrow, winding, up and down road to Piha. As circumstances would have it, it would be on this road that I begin my kiwi driving experience. It was unnatural, I was trying to reprogram my brain while negotiating tight turns, steep climbs, and following the GPS. On one hand I was thankful I was heading into Auckland. This meant the steep, certain death drop-offs were on the other side of the road. I was merely terrified of the non-existent shoulder and deep ditch on my side. And why was that guy trying to crawl up my ass? Fine, I'll find a spot to pull over and let him pass. Yikes! I just left part of our car in that rut. And so it went for the first ten kilometers, and then I began to relax. I was doing it, I was driving on the wrong side of the road!

It was a false sense of security; soon I entered the confusing land of blinkers, wipers, and roundabouts. Why did they have to switch the location of the blinkers and wipers? And why can't that guy behind me understand that fast wiper speed means I'm turning left? Slow wipers=right. What did Dave say about the roundabouts? Am I in the right lane? Crap, I think I'm in the wrong one. Oh well, I made it through...I'm sure I'll do better next time. And I did.

Driving in New Zealand - check.

American? Me? No.

With Halloween approaching, it was time to locate and acquire the perfect novelty tee-shirt. It would have to be adorable, most likely sporting witches, pumpkins, or ghosts, in my wildest dreams - perhaps all three! The height of New Zealand's children's fashion seems to be the appropriately named Pumpkin Patch, so we headed there. The store was a maze or cute summer outfits, swim suits, and sun hats. There was not a pumpkin in the place; was I missing something? As a mom on a mission, I headed directly to the cash to inquire if said novelty tee-shirts existed in New Zealand. I was informed "We don't celebrate Halloween like Americans in New Zealand".

In a knee-jerk reaction, I wanted to correct her; didn't she know I wasn't American? And then, why did it matter if this one sales associate, who I would never see again, thought I was an American? I should note that every American I have every had prolonged contact with has been extremely pleasant and accommodating...yet, I feel that America is perceived as the Big Bully and wish to distance myself from it. In the end, I let it slide and wander away preoccupied with my thoughts. How does the Land of Opportunity become the Big Bully? And is it really perceived as such? If so, why are there still waves of immigrants applying each and every year to live in America? Or is it merely better to be part of the Big Bully in the World's Playground?

This morning at the market, I would again be called an American. This time there was no hesitation - I gently corrected with Canadian. It was not a wish to distance myself from America this time, merely a desire to make my heritage known. With this in mind, I made my way to the Crepe counter et j'ai commandé un crepe d'oeufs et de fromage. C'était magnifique :-)

Party Hat

In the months leading up to our moving, there seemed to always be a reason for a party - Mikaela's birthday, my birthday, Canada Day, goodbye parties - it was one social occasion after another. Additionally, Mikaela is a big fan of Dora who is constantly attending surprise parties, fiestas, and carnivals. Therefore, it was not shocking when she started talking about having a party late last week. She needed a party hat.

Initially, I tried to put her off. Dave's birthday is in a couple of weeks, we'll have a party then. It was no use, now she wanted a party hat, to sing and eat cake. Defeated, I did what any good parent would do, I decided to throw a small intimate surprise party for Dave. To clarify, by intimate, I mean it would only be the three of us.

On Monday, we set out to find our necessary supplies. Party hats were our first priority, it was no contest, we snatched up the Fairy Tale Dora ones. Mikaela insisted on putting hers on immediately and proceeded to wear it for the rest of our errands. We picked up our obligatory candles and balloons, then it was time to chose a cake. Our limited attendance didn't require a full size cake so we selected two individual options; Mikaela selected the American Fudge Brownie, while I chose the healthier option of an Apricot Macadamia Nut Loaf.

At home, an amused Dave put on his Dora party hat and joined in the festivities. There was only one flaw in my party planning skills, we had no matches. Despite my best efforts to light the candles using the burners, this only resulted in smoke and melted wax. Mikaela was non pulsed by this, and carried the cake plate with unlit candles to Daddy while we sang 'Happy Birthday'. She helped him blow out the candles and then requested a second round of 'Happy Birthday'. The party was an overwhelming success, and as I look around, there are still brownie crumbs to prove it.