Bunny Torture Rack

My first impressions of New Zealand have been, well, odd. In fact, my first impression was actually back in Australia, when I boarded the plane next to a Kiwi woman and her braced-laded daughter. It took all of my power not to laugh at their horrendous accent, but on top of that, they were the most shallow, needy, irritating jap bitches I've ever found outside of Long Island. Bad start.

The airport was normal enough, if you ignore giant Maori wood carvings and a jungle soundtrack next to the carousel, or dipping my shoes in antibiotics. Let me just say that between Auckland and Brisbane airports [back in Oz, they couldnt find my ticket in the records, passport check took forever, and I almost missed the plane, which still managed to be an hour late], I'd really be happier never going to an airport ever again. Bonus if it means I get to stay in Middle Earth.

If you get German TV on your digital cable, you may find me in a few months. The airport shuttle to my hostel also happened to double as a movie set for a German travel documentary starring two overpierced young ladies of the Reich. But the cameraman was actually pretty funny, and I think he rewarded me by taping me chatting with the two girls. I'm about to cash in 20 more seconds of my 15 minutes.

Auckland is a pretty mediocre city. Its got 1.5 million (a third of NZ's total), and yet, its most thrilling aspect is just how close you are at any given moment to a kebab shop. Like every city I've been to down here except Sydney, it was basically pointless. So I continued my tradition of takeout asian noodles, and called it a night.

The tour bus came to pick me up the next morning, but I think I'll save the details of its passengers for another post. Lets skip to the Sky Tower.

I lied. There is one thing of interest in Auckland. Sky Tower, the largest tower in the southern hemisphere. It does not have much competition. An elevator up to the top gives you some pretty nice 360 views of the city and harbor. There's also a cafe. There's also a camera you can operate that can zoom in all the way in on people's faces in the streets below. You can also jump off it with a rope tied to your feet, from about 200 meters up.

Generally speaking, the rule of thumb in New Zealand is "If it's tall, you can probably jump off of it."

Escaping the city as fast as our little diesel engine would take us, we hit the road for a hot spring Maori village called Rototura. The town sits over a geothermal hotspot, so plenty of hot pools, boiling mud, and geysers to go around. While waiting for dinner to cook, I decided to go nosing around the steam vents, clamoring over hot sulfur rocks and poking my head over the steam holes. It's not a death wish; its just a scientific curiosity flavored with a healthy dash of reckless stupidity.

We returned to the village the next day to get a guided tour from an older Maori woman with a sharp sense of humor. In fact, everyone in the village does. They gave us a rather fun song and dance performance, where the performers would be playing with the kids, fucking around with each other, and making stupid poses for the cameras. This is called a Haka. They also cooked us a pretty spectacular lunch in their underground geothermal ovens (Maori Microwaves). It was actually a pretty enjoyable time, though it wasnt worth missing Zorbing for. I will always regret this.

The next day, we made our way to Waitamo caves, infamous for Blackwater Rafting, where you cruise on an inner tube down a river in a pitch-black cave. I didnt go tubing. Instead, I went on something called the 'Haggis Honkin' Holes', which is essentially a taste of spelunking. Starts off by squeezing underground through a narrow hole, then abseiling (dropping down a rope) down a 100 foot or so cliff to the cave floor. Easy enough. Then you crawl around through a few other low celings and wade across some puddles. Also no problem. Then another abseil.

This one was far shorter, only 20 feet or so. Only problem was that this cliff happened to double as a waterfall. I strapped myself up, leaned over, and jumped off. My feet went up to find purchase, but slipped off, where upon my helmeted head bashed into the rocks and the icy waterfall filled every wrinkles in my clothing. Smooth. I instead opted to slowly lower myself down the rope manually while periodically slamming my head, hips, or knees into wet pointy rocks and desperately gasping for air, before finally settling into (splashing down into) the plunge pool in the bottom.

Because I'm an apparent masochist, this was the highlight of the cave trip. But points for getting to see glowworms (carnivorous cannibalistic maggots with bioluminescent feces that catch prey with fishing lines of sticky mucus) up close. They make the roof of the cave shine like a sky of stars, which is quite pretty, even if they're horrifying and hideous up close.

After caving, we had time to kill before the bus. We didnt have time to watch the competitive sheep shearing competition, so we settled on rabbit shearing instead. If you think that sounds odd... you'd be right. These werent just any rabbits, but genetically mutated freaks that belong on "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". Soft though, with cute little noses and a heart beating a thousand miles an hour in anticipation of what comes next.

The woman who works the shop picked up one of the rabbits, and set it down on the shearing table, where a set of electric shears hung from a missing panel in the ceiling. Very James Bond-esque. It looked absolutely terrified, but stood still. This was not good enough for the shearer. She grabbed its back legs, and yanked them out. Then, to our group's collective curiosity and mortification, she tied ropes around the rabbit's back legs, securing them to hooks on the shearing table. She repeated the process with the front legs, then began to turn a crank, which raised the rabbit and stretched it out over the platform like a Jew during the Spanish Inquisition. Then, just for good measure, she spun it over like a pig on a spit.

The rabbit, overheating from an insane amount of fur and held captive by a strange woman, tied by its arms and legs, stretched out and suspended upside down, looked like it was about to die of a heart attack. It looked at us with pleading eyes. The woman began to shave its stomach.

When she was done, she took the rabbit off its torture device, set it rightside-up, and let it hop around on the floor in peace. The only problem was that "when she was done" was only when the rabbit was half-sheared; half giant fuzzball and half bald is simply too avant-garde for even New Zealand.

So basically, after Day 3, I've decided that the Kiwis are just totally fucked. I love them, but they seriously need help.