Australia, New Zealand and some islands of the South seas

by Frank G. Carpenter

CHAPTER XXXI

THE YELLOWSTONE OF NEW ZEALAND

MARK TWAIN said Pittsburgh looked like “Hell with the lid off.” I have come to a part of New Zealand that looks like “Hell with the lid on,” save that there are a thousand and one holes in the cover, from which all sorts of poisonous gases, malodorous smells, boiling springs, and other infernal manifestations are pouring forth. I am in the Yellowstone Park of New Zealand, a land of volcanoes, geysers, earthquakes, and lakes of boiling mud, a land in which old Mother Earth seems afflicted with perpetual colic and is ever vomiting forth hot paint, or belching out steam full of alum.

This region is situated near the centre of the North Island, one hundred and seventy-one miles southeast of Auckland. It is about thirty miles wide and one hundred miles long, covering almost two million acres. The crust upon it is so thin that in walking or riding over it one seems to hear a thousand devils grumbling and raging below, and almost expects to crash through into Hades at any moment.

Here the face of the earth changes from week to week. Great cracks open, new boiling pools burst forth, and there are frequent earthquakes. One spot is known as Earthquake Flat, because it shivers and shakes regularly every ten minutes. On top of a mountain in the geyser field there is a great hole called the “Safety Valve of New Zealand,” out of which constantly roars a column of steam. Now and then a mountain breaks into eruption. Some of the volcanoes are active, and no one knows when one of those now dormant may spring into life, as Mount Tarawera did in 1886. In that year, on the 10th of June, several native villages were covered to a depth of sixty feet by a deluge of mud. Both houses and inhabitants were destroyed as were those of Pompeii and Herculaneum by the eruption of Vesuvius centuries ago. The bottom of a big lake was blown out and in its place came a roaring crater, which sent up a column of steam to a height of almost three miles. The earth broke open. There was one crack nine miles long. New lakes were formed, clouds of ashes and dust turned noon to night, and throughout the region there was a downpour of water, mud, and stones. The noise of the explosion was heard five hundred miles away.

The eruption destroyed the famous pink terraces of the New Zealand Yellowstone. The terraces were in the form of basins made by the sediment from the mineral waters of a geyser one hundred feet above the lake. They were filled with the clearest of boiling water, blue at the topmost terrace, and changing in colour to a lighter hue as it fell from basin to basin. The walls of the terraces seemed to be made of jewels, some pink, others white. The water played over them in tiny cascades, and when the sun shone the hillsides were alive with showers of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and rubies. Since the great eruption, terraces have not formed again, as it was hoped they would, though small and imperfect basins of similar structure are occasionally seen to-day.

In my journey here from Auckland, the train climbed to an elevation of about one thousand feet above the sea. As we entered the volcanic region the earth seemed hollow, and it rumbled and grumbled as the cars went over it. I saw steam coming forth from the cracks here and there and wondered if the crust might not break and drop us into the bubbling, boiling, steaming mass that evidently lay below.

We passed the village of Koutu, which is almost hidden in columns of steam pouring forth from the ground, and skirted the shores of Lake Rotorua to the town of Rotorua itself. Rotorua is the most famous health resort of the South Seas. The country about it is clouded with vapour from pools of boiling water, each of which has medicinal properties. There are hotels and cottages and all the surroundings of similar resorts in the United States or Europe. The government has charge of the springs and fixes the rates for baths and accommodations, thus preserving the use of the place for the people at reasonable cost.

There are public gardens in which are the great bath houses and other buildings. On the grassy lawns tourists and health seekers may bowl and play tennis and croquet. There are long borders of beautiful flowers. The town is laid out in broad streets shaded by oaks, pines, and gums, through which the blue waters of Lake Rotorua may be seen sparkling in the sunlight. It is no wonder that tens of thousands of visitors come every year to this spot.

Many of the baths have curious names. One, owing to the beauty it gives the complexion, was years ago named after the famous French actress, Madame Rachel. Another is called the Priest Bath, another the Painkiller, a third the Coffee Pot, and a fourth the Blue Bath. The Lobster Bath is so hot that it turns one the colour of a boiled lobster. The names sound queer at first, and when I was told I could have a half hour at The Priest, I felt like protesting I was not a Catholic, but a cast-iron Presbyterian.

Rotorua, the Yellowstone of New Zealand, with its hot springs baths and geysers, is the chief health resort of the Dominion. The hotels and even the sanatoriums are controlled by the government.

Wairoa never plays unless it is given a barrel of soap—then it usually goes up in great style. But except on special occasions the government does not permit it to be dosed, as this weakens a geyser.

Joking aside, the baths are wonderful. The Rachel is a boiling cauldron of enormous depth with a flow of fifty thousand gallons daily. The water evidently contains much sulphuretted hydrogen, for a smell of bad eggs fills the air all around it. The visitor is usually disgusted until he steps into the pool. Then his skin seems to have turned to satin, and he is as comfortable as though on beds of rose leaves. The Coffee Pot pool is covered with an oily slime and the water is thick, brown, and muddy, but it gives great relief to any one suffering from rheumatism. In the Spout Bath, the patient goes down into a sort of cave, where the warm water pours on him from a spout above. The boiling water from one of the springs is mixed with waters of a cold lake to make the temperature endurable. Others of the baths have such strong mineral properties that one must be examined by a doctor before he can enter them.

For my guide in visiting the geysers, I have one of the Maoris, many of whom live in this region. I chose a woman who spoke fair English to take me through the crackling, steaming, rumbling, spurting region about me. She leads me from one wonder to another. Here is a pool of boiling, bubbling mud which now and then shoots a column high into the air. That great round vat with the white walls is made of the silica and other minerals thrown up by a geyser called the Brain Pot. That vast pool in which the yellow fluid seethes and boils is known as the Champagne Pool; its contents fizz like so much champagne, and the gases now and then throw the water up to a height of six or eight feet. The walls are of different colours, here white, there dark red, and there yellow with sulphur. We go to see the Pohutu Geyser, which formerly twice a day sent a majestic column of water high into the air for from twenty minutes to three hours at a time. But today Pohutu sulks and is entirely unreliable, though a way has been found to make it perform on demand. When some distinguished visitor comes along, the officials give the geyser an emetic of several barrels of soap, and then it plays up in great style. And that reminds me of the Pack-horse Mud Geyser, so named because it was not active until one day a pack horse fell into it. Before that it was simply a quiet pool of mud containing sulphuric acid.

One of the most remarkable of all the geysers of this whole region was the Waimangu, which during the years of its activity was undoubtedly the greatest wonder of the kind in the world. It was not discovered until 1901 and for five years after that it played almost every day. It was fierce “play,” though, for, unlike the ordinary geyser, the Waimangu flung up black mud and stones, as well as scalding water, sometimes to the height of fifteen hundred feet. Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, it stopped, though it is believed that it may at any time break forth again. Once two girls and a guide were caught in the flood of scalding mud and were killed. Now one sees there only a hollow of some two acres covered with black, steaming water.

But come and take a trip with me into the mouth of Hell itself. This is a region about twelve miles from Rotorua. We sail across the lake, passing over what was evidently once a volcanic crater, then take horses across country to Tikitere. As we near it we see great columns of steam rising into the air. We tie our horses and, staff in hand, plunge into the vapour. We are in the midst of acres of boiling springs separated by thin walls upon which we walk, looking down into the terrible commotion below.

Here is a whirlpool. The water is as black as ink. It boils and steams and bubbles and spits. It is hotter than the “burning fiery furnace” into which King Nebuchadnezzar cast Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Watch out, for if your foot slips you will be scalded to death.

Now we are on a great yellow mound looking into a sulphur pool, the gases of which almost sicken us as we stoop over. The pool is filled with boiling mud. The steam is so thick we can hardly see through it. Be careful where you step. A girl slipped into that vat the other day and came out cooked.

Look at this hole! See how it churns up mud and oil. It makes a noise like running machinery and the Maoris have named it the Donkey Engine.

See the white stuff on which you are standing. It looks like salt. You have passed out of the sulphur fields and are now on hills of snow, which glisten in contrast with the boiling mud about you. Pick up some of the snow or salt and taste it. How it puckers your mouth! Your lips and tongue wither as though you had bitten into a green persimmon. The stuff is neither salt nor snow. It is alum. There are bushels of it here, mixed with other minerals, and in some parts of New Zealand there are cliffs of alum and springs that flow alum water.

But let us take a look at the Inferno. We walk through a stream over a thin crust of sulphur and gaze down into a great vat twenty feet deep and so large that you could drop a native house into it. It seems to be filled with boiling paint, and as it seethes it now and then throws up a column of mud. The odour is nauseating and we give our hands to the guides and beg them to lead us away. We go out through clouds of camphor steam from the Devil’s Punch Bowl, and on into the open, where there are green hills, blue sky, and the good earth of every day.

White Island is a roaring, steaming sulphur pit, and has a lake of hot, acid water. The earth is treacherous and corrosive, and there is no sign of life except the birds of the air.

The government restaurant at Lake Taupo is designed after the typical Maori house, with its wonderfully carved columns, walls, and rafters. Such houses took years to build and were often fifty feet long.

Much of the charm of the poi dance comes from the flash and play of light fibre balls on short flax strings. The balls are swung in time to the soft crooning of the Maori women as they dance.

In the hot springs district Mother Nature helps the Maori housewife by providing outdoor fireless cookers. Vessels of food are placed over holes or in the hot pools—and that is all there is to it.