Day 58, in which we wear no comedy gas masks

The weather has been very erratic lately, and today our much anticipated boat trip out to the active volcano of White Island was cancelled, which means that long standing plans for this blog entry to contain photos of Paul and me wearing ridiculous hard hats and comedy gas masks have been shelved. We apologise for the interruption to our usual service.

We only discovered the boat tour was cancelled once we were about an hour's journey out at sea. The trip had started pleasantly enough, bouncing across the waves in the sunshine, but it was only once the waves started bouncing over us and there wasn't any sunshine that the skipper figured something was up. I had by this point become so seasick I had to go outside into the fresh air, but at times it was difficult to distinguish the fresh air from the sea, and instead of my stomach lurching with every wave I found my entire body lurching across the deck, clinging to the narrow metal railings for support and refusing the crew's kind offer of a cup of fruit punch.

While the skipper thought we might make it to White Island alive, he didn't think we'd be able to leave. As the island is entirely toxic, with a lake more acidic than sulphuric acid, he sensibly decided this was not a place to seek refuge. We thus sailed back and in our two hour boat trip saw only Whale Island – a conservation centre where they killed all of the rats and stoats and introduced 37 very happy little kiwis – and a somewhat workaday statue of Wairaka (pictured above, with hat). Wairaka is a local Maori heroine who – improbable legend has it – saved the lives of all the women in her tribe. According to hearsay, the women were left in the tribal canoe while the men went ashore to forage. Women are not allowed to paddle, so when the canoe started to drift out to sea they all resigned themselves to death and got on with their knitting ... all apart from Wairaka, that is, who declared “I shall be the man!” and single-handedly paddled them all back to safety. Apparently this all translates as “Whakatane”, the name of the town where the statue has been erected, but I find the whole thing very dubious. For one thing, it seems unlikely the Maori men would so proudly embrace a name and legend which immortalises their neglect of one half of their entire tribe, as well as their misogynistic approach to kayaking.

To fill our suddenly empty afternoon, we returned to Ohope beach in the car and then walked along the coast back to Whakatane. We had not expected the walk to be much more than a sunny diversion, but ultimately it took us through some stunning terrain to a hidden beach inaccessible by car and only accessible on foot during low tide. At times we found ourselves clambering around the coastline over shelves of narrow rock while the sea pounded against our feet, and at one point my interest in a hole in the rocks was neatly rewarded when a surging wave simultaneously revealed it to be a blow hole, which dutifully erupted in my face. The walk also offered stunning views across the ocean to White Island, and ultimately we figured we've seen so much geothermal and volcanic stuff in recent weeks that this was enough of a look at White Island to satisfy our interest.

After a spot of cake in a Peejay's Café in Whakatane, a taxi drove us back to the motel (although it is possible to make a return walk through subtropical bush, we've by this point learned that subtropical bush isn't alone worth the diversion). In the evening we dined at The Quay on Pohutukawa Avenue, where I was served steak frites large enough to fill a family of four, while Paul ploughed his way through duck breast swimming on a sea of cheesy risotto. The Quay's portions were absolutely huge, and during dinner we enjoyed the floorshow of a lady shovelling what amounted to two separate platters of fish and chips into her mouth over the course of half an hour. I guess northern Kiwis have giant appetites.