It is easy to tell if you are on the right road to Rotorua. A full 15 minutes before town, everyone is leaning out of the car window frantically sniffing the wind, hoping to be the first to confirm the road map.
Rotorua smells like rotten eggs. Not just the normal kind of countryside pong, more the sulphurous stench left lingering after 2B have taken double chemistry. The pervasive aroma is, however, a by-product of the attraction we had driven for six hours to experience. Rotorua is one of New Zealand's most active volcanic sites with a plethora of naturally-heated pools, angry geysers and rainbow-coloured lakes. Some are simply grey cavernous holes sporting names like Satan's Lair and Devil's Pit, others as colourful as melted plasticine.
Among the rolling wooded hills, expansive pools of boiling mud bubble and gurgle, partially hidden by the mist of sulphurous vapour.
My appointment with an erupting geyser was at 10.15am sharp. Eagerly expectant, the crowd sat quietly around a rather pathetic looking cone as the "geyser-master" emptied a bag of soap powder into the top to break the surface tension. Seconds later, we heard a groan, and a jet of boiling water sprayed skyward forcing the attendant to beat a hasty retreat.
Rotorua is also New Zealand's adrenalin capital. From an array of adventure sports including tandem bungee jumping, jet-boat racing and flying foxes, we chose the Zorb. This local invention comes in two, equally bizarre, flavours. A Dry Zorb involves being strapped inside a 10ft plastic ball and rolled screaming down a hill. A Wet Zorb is a less solitary experience, with three people trying to stand up in knee-deep water, then being rolled screaming down a hill. Trapped inside the steamy interior as the Wet Zorb rocked back and forth at the top of the hill invoked a mixture of amusement and apprehension. Ten seconds later, three drowned hamsters emerged from their spinning ball dizzily euphoric despite the bruised ribs.
Bathing in Rotorua is also big business, and the experience ranges from a quick dip at a grubby campsite to something befitting a Roman emperor. We opted for the second option in the Polynesian Pools and were rewarded with seven baths ascending in temperature to a finger-shrivelling 43C.
As the sun dropped in the sky and the mineral-enriched water worked its magic, I realised why the inhabitants of Rotorua learn to live with the town's smell. Genuine relaxation must come at some price. Even the sight of a confused tourist parading in the nude between shower and cubicle barely raised more than a flicker of a smile. My muscles had all gone to sleep.
