At Roto-rua, as at other spots in the zone, you are in a realm of sulphur. It is in the air as well as the water, tickles your throat, and blackens the silver in your pocket. Amongst many compensating returns it brightens patches of the landscape with brilliant streaks of many hues—not yellow or golden only, but orange, green, blue, blood-red, and even purple. Often where the volcanic mud would be most dismal the sulphur colours and glorifies it. Alum is found frequently alongside it, whitening banks and pool in a way that makes Englishmen think of their chalk downs. One mountain, Maunga Kakaramea (Mount Striped-Earth), has slopes that suggest an immense Scottish plaid.
WAIROA GEYSER
But more beautiful than the sulphur stripes or the coloured pools, and startling and uncommon in a way that neither lakes nor mountains can be, are the geysers. Since the Pink and White Terraces were blown up, they are, perhaps, the most striking and uncommon feature of the region, which, if it had nothing else to display, would still be well worth a visit. They rival those of the Yellowstone and surpass those of Iceland. New Zealanders have made a study of geysers, and know that they are a capricious race. They burst into sudden activity, and as unexpectedly go to sleep again. The steam-jet of Orakei-Korako, which shot out of the bank of the Waikato at such an odd angle and astonished all beholders for a few years, died down inexplicably. So did the wonderful Waimangu, which threw a column of mud, stones, steam, and boiling water at least 1500 feet into mid-air. The Waikité Geyser, after a long rest, began to play again at the time of the Tarawera eruption. That was natural enough. But why did it suddenly cease to move after the opening of the railway to Roto-rua, two miles away? Mr. Ruskin might have sympathised with it for so resenting the intrusion of commercialism; but tourists did not. Great was the rejoicing when, in 1907, Waikité awoke after a sleep of thirteen years. Curiously enough, another geyser, Pohutu, seems likewise attentive to public events, for on the day upon which the Colony became a Dominion it spouted for no less than fourteen hours, fairly eclipsing the numerous outpourings of oratory from human rivals which graced the occasion. There are geysers enough and to spare in the volcanic zone, to say nothing of the chances of a new performer gushing out at any moment. Some are large enough to be terrific, others small enough to be playful or even amusing. The hydrodynamics of Nature are well understood at Roto-rua, where Mr. Malfroy’s ingenious toy, the artificial geyser, is an exact imitation of their structure and action. The curious may examine this, or they may visit the extinct geyser, Te Waro, down the empty pipe of which a man may be lowered. At fifteen feet below the surface he will find himself in a vaulted chamber twice as roomy as a ship’s cabin and paved and plastered with silica. From the floor another pipe leads to lower subterranean depths. In the days of Te Waro’s activity steam rushing up into this cavern from below would from time to time force the water there violently upward: so the geyser played. To-day there are geysers irritable enough to be set in motion by slices of soap, just as there are solfataras which a lighted match can make to roar, and excitable pools which a handful of earth will stir into effervescence. More impressive are the geysers which spout often, but whose precise time for showing energy cannot be counted on—which are, in fact, the unexpected which is always happening. Very beautiful are the larger geysers, as, after their first roaring outburst and ascent, they stand, apparently climbing up, their effort to overcome the force of gravity seeming to grow greater and greater as they climb. Every part of the huge column seems to be alive; and, indeed, all is in motion within it. Innumerable little fountains gush up on its sides, to curl back and fall earthwards. The sunlight penetrates the mass of water, foam, and steam, catching the crystal drops and painting rainbows which quiver and dance in the wind. Bravely the column holds up, till, its strength spent, it falters and sways, and at last falls or sinks slowly down, subsiding into a seething whirlpool. Brief, as a rule, is the spectacle, but while the fountain is striving to mount skyward it is “all a wonder and a wild desire.”
COOKING IN A HOT SPRING
Two Maori villages, one at Ohinemutu, the other at Whaka-rewa-rewa, are disordered collections of irregular huts. Among them the brown natives of the thermal district live and move with a gravity and dignity that even their half-gaudy, half-dingy European garb cannot wholly spoil. Passing their lives as they do on the edge of the cold lake, and surrounded by hot pools and steam-jets, they seem a more or less amphibious race, quite untroubled by anxiety about subterranean action. They make all the use they can of Nature’s forces, employing the steam and hot water for various daily wants. Of course they bathe incessantly and wash clothes in the pools. They will sit up to their necks in the warm fluid, and smoke luxuriously in a bath that does not turn cold. But more interesting to watch is their cooking. Here the steam of the blow-holes is their servant; or they will lay their food in baskets of flax in some clean boiling spring, choosing, of course, water that is tasteless. Cooking food by steam was and still is the favourite method of the Maori. Where Nature does not provide the steam, they dig ovens in the earth called hangi, and, wrapping their food in leaves, place it therein on red-hot stones. Then they spread more leaves over them, pour water upon these, and cover the hole with earth. When the oven is opened the food is found thoroughly cooked, and in this respect much more palatable than some of the cookery of the colonists. In their culinary work the Maoris have always been neat and clean. This makes their passion for those two terrible delicacies, putrid maize and dried shark, something of a puzzle.
Life at Roto-rua is not all sight-seeing; there is a serious side to it. Invalids resort thither, as they do to Taupo, in ever-increasing numbers. The State sanatorium, with its brand-new bath-house, is as well equipped now as good medical bathing-places are in Europe, and is directed by a physician who was in former years a doctor of repute at Bath. Amid the embarras des richesses offered by the thermal springs of the zone, Roto-rua has been selected as his headquarters, because there two chief and distinct kinds of hot healing waters are found in close neighbourhood, and can be used in the same establishment. The two are acid-sulphur and alkaline-sulphur, and both are heavily loaded with silica. Unlike European springs they gush out at boiling-point, and their potency is undoubted. Sufferers tormented with gout or crippled with rheumatism seek the acid waters; the alkaline act as a nervous sedative and cure various skin diseases. There are swimming baths for holiday-makers who have nothing the matter with them, and massage and the douche for the serious patients. Persons without money are cared for by the servants of the Government. Wonderful cures are reported, and as the fame of the healing waters becomes better and better established the number of successful cases steadily increases. For the curable come confidently expecting to be benefited, and this, of course, is no small factor in the efficacy of the baths, indisputable as their strength is. Apart, too, from its springs, Roto-rua is a sunny place, a thousand feet above the sea. The air is light even in midsummer, and the drainage through the porous pumice and silica is complete. In such a climate, amid such healing influences and such varied and interesting surroundings, the sufferer who cannot gain health at Roto-rua must be in a bad way indeed.
THE CHAMPAGNE CAULDRON