On the way back to Taupo, I notice some beautiful scenery – and maybe some logging debris? By mid-afternoon, I’m back at the lake.

What now? I need a hotel for the night, but I don’t feel like looking for one yet. There’s a sign for Waikato Falls: let’s go see what that looks like.

Hmm… more of a rapids, really. It’s nice, but I’ve seen a larger one, somewhere, haven’t I? Oh well – there’s still daylight. Let’s go look at some volcanic activity! Everyone says to visit Rotorua for volcanic activity, not Lake Taupo, but I’m stubborn. I think I already mentioned that Lake Taupo was formed by a giant volcanic explosion, and there are still lots of reminders in the area. You can drive along the highway and see plumes of steam rising in the middle of a sheep pasture. I suppose it keeps the sheep warm.

Just across the road from the Waikato Falls overlook is a narrow lane leading to the Craters of the Moon, run by the NZ government. Most of the volcanic areas seem to be private.

Nice fumaroles – it’s a shame about the trash. I suppose a private park might pick some of that up, but then again maybe not. At least there’s a wooden footbridge. But there isn’t much else: the vulcanism consists mainly of holes in the ground, with steam rising up. The steam carries minerals, I suppose, and also harbors some interesting flora. Hey, there’s a fantail! That’s probably the best picture of a fantail that I have: they’re too fidgety.


Ah, it’s good to see that Americans aren’t the only ones with bad taste.

The sun is setting, so it’s time to find that hotel.

Have you noticed a faint PG Wodehouse theme in this trip? New Zealand feels very much like the English countryside does, and it’s difficult to avoid musing on Threepwoods and Finknottles, as one carooms along the wrong side of the country lanes. Unfortunately, while I suspect that Bertie’s food was often fouler, I also suspect that he got to drink better beer.

Napier, though, fits right into Aunt Agatha’s Age of the Blisters. An earthquake in 1931 destroyed the colonial British town, and it was rebuilt almost entirely in the Art Deco style. I’m a little late for the February festival, but happily they don’t put the buildings away during the winter – only the people disappear. It’s a little less ghostly that last night, but I still can’t help feeling that this isn’t the social hotspot of New Zealand.

Shrugging off my malaise, I stroll up to the central square and start the self-guided “art deco walk”. There seem to be a lot of buildings that I’d like to photograph: out of at least 100, I’ll cull a few specimens.

Have you noticed the awful awnings, yet? They’re nice when it rains, and probably nice when it’s sunny too, but they make it almost impossible to look at the buildings – unless you’re on the opposite side of the street.

On a more positive note, observe the streetlamps. They buried all the power and phone lines after the earthquake, so there weren’t any poles to hang lights off of – nor any poles for street signs.

The seafront itself reminds me of the Palace of Fine Arts. Well it would, wouldn’t it? Plus, there’s mini-golf!

There’s a fine line between art deco and kitsch, but to my keen eye the distinction is clear.

You’re probably sick of art deco by now, but there’s an interesting bank that mixes in Maori motifs.

And so I bid a fond farewell to Napier, the Art Deco City (TM). Note the kiwi on the city arms.

Now that the weather is nicer, maybe I can get back to Taupo by noon.

I reach Taupo around lunch time, but the rain is still bucketing down. The storm drains remind me of Foster City, but these are more stylish.

Taupo sounds like Tahoe, and that’s no accident. They’re both mountain lakes, but Taupo is the result of a gargantuan volcanic explosion, not so terribly long ago. So it’s like Crater Lake in Oregon, only much bigger. From the air, it looks like africa.

After a tolerable pinot noir and a bite of fresh fish, I decide that the weather might be better in Napier. So I continue on the highway, south-east. There are some semis sharing the road, so I pull off frequently to take pictures. There’s a pretty little waterfall coming down from the lake. You don’t think it’s so little? Visit Iguazu.

Driving on, the sun comes out. I stop to take pictures of sheep, grapes, and bait. Look, I’ve never seen a BP station selling bait before. The girl behind the counter seems pretty insecure about: I half-expect her to try to confiscate the camera.

I arrive in Napier as the sun sets.

Have I mentioned why I’m in Napier? Besides the restraining order, barring me from Wellington? No? I guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. It’s on Hawke’s Bay, which looks quite a bit like Monterey to me, but that isn’t the reason. I check into the Bella Vista motel: it’s a local chain. The price is a new high at NZ$110, but that’s still cheap for the US, and it comes with internet access. Ah, this is why I brought the Airport Express: there’s nothing like wifi in a tiny motel room. So I check email and post, before going out for a beer.

Napier seems to be deserted tonight, but there are rednecks – excuse me – fishermen at the Thirsty Dog (no pictures). On the way there, a love-lorn local accosts me to ask “why do they do it?”. This is deep philosophy: there are, perhaps, as many answers as there are people. I tell him that, and advise another beer.

I get a pizza from a local chain called Hell, and an illegal bottle of Argentinian Malbec. This is possibly the worst meal I’ve had in New Zealand, but it’s still pretty good. And if I’m bored, there’s always tango. No, really.