What is terrifyingly dark, humid, and full of eels? That’s too easy: it’s the Waitomo Caves! Our latest excursion saw us embark on a blackwater rafting adventure. Although, blackwater rafting is a glorious name given to paddling gently down a placid stream on an inner tube – just as glow worms are actually beautiful maggots.
But I get ahead of myself, this all came about as Kristine and I decided to explore the west coast of the North Island. The must-see attraction is the fabled glow worm caves of Waitomo. The illustrious caves comprise some approximately 900 joined caverns, of which only 300 have been mapped. They are carved from limestone sea-bed by underground streams.
Kristine and I booked a tour with Rap, Raft, and Rock. They have access to pristine caves with very little artifice to spoil the feeling of being trapped underground. We were in a small group with four Chinese tourists and our guide, Stacey. We drove in a decrepit Hi-ace van to the “five-star” changing facilities, which in typical Kiwi humour were actually two metal shipping containers with some outhouses. We were each given a wetsuit that smelled of unspeakable things, a pair of white gum boots, and a caving helmet with a little headlight. We were also fitted with a climbing harness with many flashy clips and official-looking tethers. When correctly worn, it feels like visiting the proctologist and being punched in the stomach.
Stacey gave us a crash course in abseiling, we made our peace with God, and began a 27m descent into the abyss. I went first because the Chinese people were much smaller than I so I was able to easily push them out of the way. What a feeling as the walls of the cave slid by and I descended in to the diminishing light. I alighted unceremoniously in some very chilly water and thanked my lucky stars I’d had the good fortune to be wearing a smelly wetsuit. A half-metre long eel swam lazily around my legs. Kristine came down next and I made sure she was thigh-deep before I notified her there were eels. She was appreciative of my talents of observation.
Stacey led us down some tunnels which started out as large caverns and gradually became quite snug in places. Though there were perfectly acceptable ways where ten men could walk abreast through the caves, Stacey, encouraged us to duck through muddy holes and wriggle on our bellies through uncomfortably slim spaces to get the authentic “caving experience”. I say he was a sadist. I may take this opportunity to note that I am claustrophobic. Only my overwhelming fear of being judged by Chinese people overpowered my other phobia and kept me pressing forward, eager to be the first to subject myself to discomfort.
The ceilings of the caves were spectacular! They glowed with innumerable blue lights that looked like constellations of stars above our heads. These little lights were glow worms, which are actually the maggots of a mouthless cave fly. They lower twenty odd mucus-lined snares and then use their luminescent hindquarters to lure in unsuspecting prey. They are quite fascinating until you come across an overachiever who decided to spin a two metre bait line for you to catch with your face.
The blackwater rafting is really tubing, as I have said. It’s incredibly fun. I discovered that I was much quicker if I paddled backwards down the stream and as we were doing it in the pitch black, I could see no downside. I comforted myself in the dark by singing “Family Affair” in my best Gollum voice. Nasty tour guidessessss…
We found that you quickly lose all sense of time when you are underground and it seemed that we had only just begun exploring when Stacey told us it was time to return. He broke the news to us with a Dairymilk chocolate bar so all was forgiven. I ate mine with some trepidation, remembering there had already been some close shaves where I had barely made it through.
I had imaged that there would be an ingenious, if primitive, elevator or staircase out. Stacey led us back to the same open-air ante-chamber we had abseiled into. He pointed to the rope attached to one wall and said, “Now we come to the rock-climbing.” He showed us how easy it is when you are twenty-two and do it ten times a week for a half decade. I cannot overestimate how difficult it is to climb a slippery rock wall in a neoprene bodysuit and rubber boots. However, Kristine was undaunted and followed Stacey up the wall. I desperately wanted to encourage her but at the same time was terrified that she would look down and realize her perilous perch. In the end Kristine said that a coffee was all the encouragement she needed.
The next day, Kristine and I drove the Forgotten Highway and stopped in the Republic of Whangamomona. Its existence proves that anti-government hillbillies are actually good for tourism. We also hiked the short track to Mt. Damper falls through a farmer’s sheep paddock. The Forgotten Highway ends in scenic Stratford which has and Elizabethan clock tower and a statue of the Bard. We paid our respects and then drove the Surf highway from New Plymouth to Hawera.
*** Disclaimer: If this recollection of our travels portrays the Waitomo Caves in a negative light, it is because you do not have a sense of humour. Or it is because it is Friday evening and I’ve finished a week of work. Or it’s because I am jealous of an insect that has a light-up posterior. I wouldn’t have to know anything if I could do that, and students would still be amazed.
