Rotorua is best known for its bubbling geothermal pools. But beyond that, the region is a growing adventure hotspot and an example of manaakitanga in action—reciprocal care, kindness and generosity. Writer Frankie Adkins takes a trip to Aotearoa New Zealand’s North Island to meet with local guardians on the ground.
At the crest of Mount Tarawera, one of Aotearoa New Zealand’s most sacred dormant volcanoes, Rangiora Inia begins a karakia—Māori prayer. Low, melodic, reverent, he sings out for spiritual guidance and protection from his ancestors who rest in the volcano’s ochre and black basalt sand.
Inia, a guide at Māori-operated Kaitiaki Adventures, has ferried our group more than 3,600 feet (1,100 meters) up a bumpy four-wheel-drive track to begin the two-hour hike around the summit. As we hug the crater’s ridge, sliding through scree, he gestures to Rotorua below, a small city in the heart of the North Island, encircled by lakes and ancient forest.
For Inia, guiding is in his blood. “It’s a duty to our ancestors—they were doing tours on this mountain long ago,” he says. In the 1800s, Māori would canoe foreign visitors across Lake Rotomahana to bathe in the fabled Pink and White Terraces, known locally as ‘Te Otukapuarangi’ (Fountain of the Clouded Sky). These natural silica hot springs, once reported to be the largest silica sinter deposits in the world, were buried by a volcanic eruption in 1886.
Inia’s calling to share the significance of Mount Tarawera, where his ancestors are buried, is part of a core Māori principle— ‘manaakitanga’, which loosely translates as extending hospitality and generosity to others. Kaitiaki Adventures is the only tour group with access to the mountain, with profits used to care for the storied landscape. “Our mountains are our bigger ancestors, they’re alive to us,” Inia says. “Visitors bring energy to our mountains. That’s the biggest thing for us as Māori, the spiritual concept of having people here.”
The geothermal wonders of Rotorua, on New Zealand’s North Island, have long been a magnet for travelers who come to admire the billowing geysers or soak in the mineral-rich waters. Today, the region is also carving out a name as an adventure destination, with its world-class biking routes, hiking trails and wildlife sanctuaries. But beyond that, Rotorua is a lesson in reciprocal kindness and the welcoming, open-door spirit of manaakitanga.
“We have purpose built trails on amazing soil, offering year round riding in any weather conditions. From cross country, downhill, beginner to elite,—I’ve never experienced a place that’s as inclusive of all levels of bikers.”
- Marcello Ojerio, Mountain Bike Rotorua guide
On my first day I start at the source: The bubbling hot pools of Hell’s Gate. Treasured by Māori for over 800 years, the reserve, and its 24 thermal pools, is known as Tikitere, inspired by the legend of a princess who threw herself into a boiling pool to escape an unhappy marriage. In 1934, Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw remarked that the seething mud and billowing steam could be: “The very gates of hell.” It was since renamed, and now the commercial spa attracts tourists from across the world to soothe their eczema, arthritis and muscle aches.
“This pool here is called ‘the bath’,” says Mark Fraser, a guide at Hell’s Gate, pointing to a gurgling sulfuric acid pool. “It’s 98 degrees celsius (208 °F) and has a pH of one. Unless you want a chemical peel, I wouldn’t try it,” he jokes. Fraser leads me to a scattering of hot pools with more bearable temperatures, where I cake my body in thick, mineral-rich mud. “The beautiful smell is hydrogen sulfide,” he adds, commenting on the rotten-egg aroma that will cling to me for the rest of the trip.
After a 15-minute drive along the sunlit shores of Lake Rotorua, I visit another natural wonder: The Whakarewarewa geothermal valley. This time, it’s for my first taste of geothermal cooking—and generous Māori hospitality—at a traditional hāngī buffet.
Whakarewarewa is still home to a living Māori village, where around twenty families tap into the natural geothermal resources to cook, wash and heat their homes, following a long line of Māori who harnessed this sustainable source of energy. In the valley’s Pātaka Kai restaurant, kai (food) is wrapped and steamed slowly for hours, covered with hot stones in an underground pit. Although this process happens at the crack of dawn, the cuts of chicken and ham still hold their deep, smoky flavor.
Pātaka Kai is buzzy and popular, so I opt for a table next to some floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Looking out at the simmering geothermal valley below offers a rare connection to the food—the sweet steamed pudding I’m eating was cooked slowly in the ground near my feet.
It seems fitting that my base while in Rotorua is All About Bikes—a quirky, off-grid eco-cabin at the foot of Whakarewarewa Forest. With an ornamental steel penny-farthing outside, an ivory pedal bike hanging above my bed, and even a bike frame above the shower, the tone is set for a day on the trails.
Rotorua may not be as well known for cycling as hotspots like the Colorado Rockies or French Alps, but the area is becoming a sought-after destination for biking enthusiasts—even hosting an annual leg of the world’s largest mountain biking series, Crankworx.
To help me navigate the forest’s 110 mile (180 kilometer) warren of trails is Marcello Ojerio, a guide at biking hub Mountain Bike Rotorua. Ojerio’s move from the United States to Rotorua 18 years ago was a no-brainer: “We have purpose built trails on amazing soil, offering year round riding in any weather conditions,” he tells me as we mount our bikes. “From cross country, downhill, beginner to elite, I’ve never experienced a place that’s as inclusive of all levels of bikers,” he says.
We bike a section of the Forest Loop—a 20 mile (33 kilometer) trail that showcases the true diversity of the Māori-owned Whakarewarewa Forest. After opting for e-bikes to cover more ground, we fly past towering Californian redwoods, feathery silver ferns and bushy eucalypts, weaving past story-book streams and heather-tufted paths.
Unlike other adventure sports—such as surfing, bouldering or skiing—where some of the best spots are closely-guarded secrets, with biking there’s little gatekeeping. The labyrinth of trails is free for all ages, and throughout the forest, signage encourages riders to care for each other. One placard reminds riders to check in with people who are seen consulting with a map, just in case they are lost. It soon becomes our cue to bond with strangers over their favorite trails.
The hatchery itself is incredibly high-tech—filled with egg incubators and the latest hatching equipment. As the world’s largest kiwi conservation center, over 100 chicks are hatched here annually and are released into the wild.
The forest is also a refuge for key native bird species, from the ruru (New Zealand owl) to the kārearea (New Zealand falcon). As we ride, I’m struck by the responsibility we have to protect their forest home.
I’m reminded of this again at the neighboring man-made glow worm cave, which is home to a colony of around 5,000 flickering glow worms. Turanga Merito, a Māori guide, leads me into the dripping cave with a torch, wearing a wide-brimed hat, with long glowing beads streaming down his back, inspired by the bioluminescent larvae inside.
Created with expert entomologists, the constellation-like patterns inside the cave are more than a natural night’s sky—they’re an education about the short, fragile life-span of a glow-worm. Highly sensitive to environmental changes, they are easily disturbed by human presence like touch, vibrations, noise and bright lights. “I never thought I could love a maggot, but that’s the Māori idea of caring for others,” says Merito, urging us to turn off our torches as we enter the cave.
A trip to New Zealand wouldn’t be complete without a run in with a restless flock of sheep and an overzealous cattle dog. As I drive through the gates of the Agrodome, a 350-acre farm on the northern outskirts of Rotorua, it’s a post-card-worthy picture of pastoral New Zealand, with lambs, alpacas and the occasional tractor roaming the fields.
But the national treasure here is the National Kiwi Hatchery, a cradle for the elusive kiwi bird—a compelling emblem for eco-guardianship. According to the Hatchery, which is owned by Ngāi Tahu Tourism, a Māori tour operator on New Zealand’s South Island, the brown kiwi population is steadily declining by about one to two percent a year due to introduced predators and habitat loss. Without continued support, experts estimate the brown kiwi will be extinct in the wild within two generations.
This is where the hatchery steps in. The hatchery itself is incredibly high-tech—filled with egg incubators and the latest hatching equipment. As the world’s largest kiwi conservation center, over 100 chicks are hatched here annually then released into the wild.
By donating a little extra, visitors can take part in a behind-the-scenes experience, gaining rare access to a kiwi up close. I’m led to the outdoor crèche to meet Gator, a fluffy, chestnut-colored kiwi chick who has graduated from the cozy indoor hatchery to an outdoor pen as part of ‘Operation Nest Egg’.
Here, Gator will prepare for the wild until he reaches his weight of 2.2 pounds (1 kilogram), at which point—because of his strong start in the Hatchery—his survival rate will increase from the standard 5 percent to an impressive 65 per cent. There’s no exact timeline for when this may happen, but I’m reassured that Gator is tracking well, and will soon be ready to fend for himself.
I’m thinking of this care and respect when we reach the blustery summit of Mount Tarawera. “Maori people do our best to make sure everyone—and every thing—is looked after,” says Inia. “That’s the bigger picture, it’s upholding the standard of our culture.”
Manaakitanga doesn’t discriminate—whether it’s the mountain, the forest, an endangered bird or fragile glow-worm. Perched on top of one of New Zealand’s most sacred and storied volcanoes, I can see the crater, lakes and valley reshaped by natural forces over thousands of years. Manaakitanga, I realise, runs as deep and powerful as the geothermal energy flowing through Rotorua.
Explore more of Rotorua’s cultural and outdoor experiences at Rotorua NZ.
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Frankie Adkins is a freelance writer who has recently moved from the UK's windy surf coast to sunny Sydney. She writes about oceans, nature and slower travel for a variety of international publications with bylines in The Guardian, BBC, Wired, The Independent, National Geographic and Condé Nast Traveller.
