Livin' on the Edge. Some might take this to be a reference to Rotorua's status as adventure tourism capital of the North Island (second only to Queenstown in the South Island for madcap activities like bungee jumping and other crazy shit). But I'm thinking more of the fact that the whole town is sitting on a crust of earth about one metre thick, with boiling torrents of lava just aching to burst forth and wreak havoc.

Thankfully, there haven't been any eruptions here since I arrived from Cousin Al's house in Auckland. But you never know; my bus doesn't leave for another hour...

When I arrived in Rotorua, after a scenic (and sleepy) bus journey south from Auckland (I actually jumped on at a suburb nearer Al's place) through Hamilton and across on State Highway 5, I walked a short way through blessed sun and cursed sulphurous breezes to the Central Backpackers. This turned out to be a bit of a hole, but I stuck with it for the first night.

No sooner had I dropped my bags than I was picked up to go to a Maori cultural evening. This consisted of a short journey out to a "traditional Maori village" followed by some "traditional dancing" and a "traditional feast". The quotes imply that I didn't enjoy it, but that's not the case. The cultural show was a bit cheesy, but the chief of the iwi (that's tribe in Maori) was well aware of this and played up to it. The setting was marvellous: after the dancing and shouting, we went for a short walk through the bush, where we had many plants and trees pointed out to us and put in their cultural context before walking along a pitch black avenue lit only by the blue pinpricks of glow worms in their hiding places under bush. Then we spent a little time at a sacred spring which was teeming with eels and salmon before we headed back indoors to the hangi (that's dinner in Maori).

Hangi is a way of cooking that involves digging a shallow pit, placing the meats and vegetables in, putting a layer of logs onto the food, and finishing off with a pile of rocks on top. You burn the logs, which heat the rocks, which fall through the ash of the spent wood to cook the food. Historically, the Maori would have eaten kumara (sweet potatoes) and various birds, but given that most of the birds are now endangered, we went for a "traditional" meal of lamb, chicken, kumara and potato. It tasted very smokey, as you might expect, and very good. I ate far too much - not forgetting the "traditional" chocolate log and fruit salad dessert! - and felt obliged to have a little post-prandial walk through the nighttime streets before retiring to my dorm and its seven occupants.

The next day, my first task was to find alternative accommodation. This was easily done, Rotorua being a major tourist trap. The new place, Crash Palace Backpackers, had a much friendlier feel. I decided to go crazy and do some activity stuff, but first I went for a walk around the Royal Gardens and the old Bath House, now home to the Rotorua Museum & Art Gallery.

What a fab museum! The building is a fine example of timber-clad European architecture, more in a German mould than an English one (the first balneologist was of German extraction), and there are lots of remnants of its days as a spa centre to be seen. Most amusingly, there is a cheesy cinema presentation of the history of Rotorua, complete with shaking seats to recreate the eruption of Mount Tarawera in 1886. The gallery was small but good, with an exhibition of Maori weaving which was better than I had expected and a collection of the landscapes of Peter Siddell, NZ's most famous contemporary artist, which were all great. There was even a short video by the artist showing how he works, which was most informative.

What fab gardens! On a head of land sticking into Lake Rotorua (a crater lake complete with volanic dome island) there are landscaped gardens, a golf course, native plants and plenty of thermal vents & stuff to keep one on one's toes - particularly if one strays from the marked path by accident and finds oneself inching round the edge of a bunch of boiling hot mud pools, praying that one won't fall in and wishing one were a few kilos lighter, so as not to crack the ground.

And then, the piece de resistance in Rotorua: Zorb. Wow. Wow. And thrice wow. I went for the Triple Bypass combo, which covers zorbing, jetboating and a massive swing ride. First off was the jetboat, which was so-so. Next came the Swoop, where I was tied into a straitjacket, lashed together with another guy, and we were hauled upwards from the small of our backs to a height of 40 metres, before plunging earthwards in free-fall and then swinging out over the countryside. That was pretty good! (But it wasn't a novelty for me; I did the same ride at the American Adventure Park in the West Midlands with Phil from work a few years back - and that one was higher too.)

Last, but quite definitely most, came the zorb. When I drove up to the zorbing area I thought for a moment I had been transported onto the set of that sixties cult TV series The Prisoner: there were people seemingly being pursued by huge white rubber balls! It was far out. I went up to the desk and was told that owing to wind conditions they weren't doing dry rides today, only the Wash Cycle. So I was required to change into some swim gear before I was taken to the top of the 40 metre slope - by a guy who had lived in Queensbury for a few years, up the road from where I grew up!.

At the top of the hill I clambered inside my zorb, a double-skinned plastic sphere which when new may have been completely transparent but now was more like one of those dimpled windows you sometimes get in bathrooms so people can't see in. Then a fat hose was fed in after me and started pumping warm water over my legs. After a bit, the hose was retracted and the small porthole zipped up. Then, without so much as a 'by your leave', I was pushed over the lip of the hill and started careering down in a mad zigzag fashion.

It is absolutely and totally the most fucking hilarious thing I have ever done!! As I bounced my way downhill I was repeatedly dashed against the side of the zorb, but in just really silly ways. The water sloshing about meant there was no chance of gaining any purchase on the anyway completely smooth surface. I was pissing myself with hysterical laughter as I was rolled this way and that, finally succumbing to the zorb and letting it throw me where it would.

My ride, which seemed like an eternity (and in a good way for a change!) but was in reality less than a minute, ended when I came to a halt on a muddy patch of grass and was unceremoniously dumped in a pile of sodden crap as I squeezed myself out of the zorb and back into the real world. I tell you, if the shuttle bus hadn't been leaving there and then, I would have stayed and gone again. It is just too good!! It's how I imagine a foetus must feel when its mum is up on the dance floor having a boogie. And if I'm right ladies, then get out there and shake your pregnant booties because Baby's having an ace time!

After all this jumping about, I was a hungry hippo. I headed to a steak house and munched my way through a good rare sirloin and a famine's worth of roast tatties. Then a mad day came to a calm end at the Polynesian Baths by the side of Lake Rotorua: I opted for half an hour in a private pool of soothing mineral waters, looking up into the night sky and generally feeling at one with the world.