The Definition of Escapism

You hear about it before you sense it. The smell. Friends, foes, passers-by, they all talk about it. They all know what it’s like. But me? I couldn’t smell it. All I knew, all I saw, all I sensed was the smoke rising from the ground and the warmth it brought.

Rotorua has always been known for its peculiar smell of rotten eggs. In truth, it was not some ill effect of a bad diet the townspeople had. It was simply the smell of the volcanic geysers welcoming newcomers onto their land. Reminding them that they are still existent.

Passing through green-ridden farms covered by tiny white dots that become cows and sheep on closer inspection, we come into Rotorua. On we went, ignoring the bright, blinking lights of hotels and casinos that invite so many into their closed rooms.

With a left turn here and a right turn there we come onto bricked lanes. Not unlike the yellow-bricked road of Oz, my feet tap rhythmically on the ground. In the morning sun filtering through the cold and the clouds, I see the smoke up ahead. Rising above the grounds and into the air. Closer I feel to the beckoning of the ancient Maori entities that surround the air.

I walk under the giant Maori totem pole meant to frighten the afraid and the ill-willed. The totem pole is a vision in itself. Intricately carved into the chocolate brown wood, with gleaming blue, paua shell eyes and a deathly stare.

But the warmth is more inviting. Taking care to walk gently, as if my steps would rumble the bubbling ground beneath, I walk into Waiotapu - the “wonderland” of thousands of years of Mother Earth’s making.

Finally I am lost. I am in.

The smell is peculiar no longer, it is earthen. I am scared of what lies ahead no longer, I am taken.

Somewhere the grey, scalding mud bubbles away. Somewhere the erupting geysers drive water and steam sky high, sending soft, jarring vibrations through the ground. The rocky, mountain-like track teases and tricks you into falling through. But the colours, they grasp you. No less than paintings, the sulphuric hot springs are warmly coloured – oranges, greens, reds – like autumn leaves.

The warmth invites me to stay, to become one with it. But I cannot.

You hear about it before you sense it. The smell. But all I sensed was the warmth hidden inside a freezing, winter town.