Rotorua ruckus

New Zealand has capitalized on the niche tourist market of those seeking the opportunity to fork over loads of money to do their best to kill themselves. Two years ago when I was here, I jumped off a bridge and out of a plane on back-to-back days. Today, I went zorbing. Basically zorbing is getting into a large inflated ball, in my case filled about ankle deep with water as well, and then rolling yourself down a big hill. You take a Superman dive into a small hole to get in, line yourself up at the back of the ball and then run as quickly as you can and crash into the opposite wall to send the ball hurtling down the track. I chose the track that was zig-zagged -- as opposed to just a straight shot -- and went bouncing off fences and grass hills and whatever random crap those crazy Kiwis could come up with. The object is to stay on your feet all the way down. I managed that for about all of five seconds. For the rest of the time, about a minute and a half, I was just getting throw around on my back, splashing around in the water and generally having no clue where I was or what direction I was moving in. Zorbing was invented here in Rotorua, New Zealand. These Kiwis are absolutely deranged, but in a brilliant sort of way.

Last night I had a bit of a model UN night, sitting around at a bar table (we just invited everyone in the bar to join us) with two Aussies, another American, three Germans, one Irish girl and a Scottish girl. It was the type of chill night that I, along with the Irish and Scot had been planning on the night before.

The three of us met that day on the bus from Waitomo to Rotorua and figured we'd get together for a brew or two and get to know each other and call it a night around 11 or so. By the time happy hour was over and we had cashed in our 2 for 1 pint coupons, those plans were done. Right around when the first bar was closing at midnight, we met these local Maori blokes who invited us to another bar around the block. It was a total dive, but it was a brilliant place. It was the three of us, about five or six locals (mostly Maori) and two Irish girls. The locals were all genuinely nice -- just wanted to talk and see what we were all about, invited us to their places and all that stuff that friendly unassuming people do. The two Irish girls -- Northern Irish to be exact -- were, as the Irish say, "cracked." Like proper Irish girls they were both quite inebriated and just running amok around the bar. When it was time to go we were all just hanging out on a bench outside the pub and trying to figure out what was going to happen next. One of the Irish girls, Bruna, a heavyset girl with an unusually deep voice, was slouched on the bench looking like she was about to pass out at any second. Out of nowhere, she just broke into a Fat Bastard routine, with the accent and voice down to absolute perfection. None of could barely stand we were laughing so hard as she sang over and over again, "I want my baby back, baby back, I want my baby back, rrrrrrribs."