Soaping Day in Wonderland.

Gisborne Times, Volume VII, Issue 335, 7 February 1902, Page 4

Soaping Day in Wonderland.

(By “ Vandorian.” How does a geyser strike a tourist ? That is not quite the way to put it. The c uestion really is this : How does a tourist strike a geyser ? Well, if he is rather a clever man—clever enough to dodge the law called prevention of eruelty to gevsers—he knocks them about with bars of soap, pots of vaseline, and gallons of train oil. To do this with comparative impunity, he, the tourist, must rise very early and go to bed exceedingly late ; he must also financially grease the palms of caretakers, guides, and other native companions _of the Great New Zealand Order of the Hot Water Bath. Then, having done all this, he may, if he he a vulgar-minded person with a hasty temper, kick himself heroic he roes to bet. AVhy ? Because the oldest inhabitant has said i “It s no no good, old man, if you did sit on ihe edge all day—of course it wouldn’t

W< “But I gave it soap enough to clean ail the streets—well, most of the streets —in Auckland,” says the tourist.” “ A geyser’s a very close preserve—what ’.'—didn't, you know ?” and the oldest inhabitant enjoys liis little joke. “ Ha ! ha ! 3on thought it swallowed soap and vaseline without an order from the Government, did you? Why, they put a net to catch the stuff a touist throws at them; hut there, you don’t understand a geyser, my boy, because you’ve come from Australia.” Put when the Government strikes a gev-er with a bar of soap it generally responds. And a recent soaping day : n Wonderland was the social event of the week. It happened on a Sunday aftera ion—so naturally it was every one’s Sunday out. Ofl we went by coach, cart, pony chaise, and also by the ponies familiarly called “ Shanks,” to the native village of AVhakarewarowa, which every tourist with any respect for his mother tongue calls “Walker” for short. Soaped by order ! AValk up, ladies and gentlemen and see AVairoa play for the company I Blazing hot with a vivid blue sky abovo and clear-cut hills behind us, with soft clouds or white steam very nearly under our feet, and AVairoa gobbling up soap—so much performance per bar—with a heaving breast and a little gurgle of appreciation—then—up she goes 1 Up ! Up ! Up 1 with a roar and rush and a soft sizzling foam working itself into a tempestuous lather, which makes the merry tourist dance for joy, while the snapper snaps, and the long-exposure man shrieks, “ AVill the gentleman in front kindly keep his head out of the camera ’? Thank you, sir 1 ” “ Sit down in front! ” “ Put down that umbrella ! ” “ Are you —er —quite sure that early seats are nothing extra ? ” “ Sit down in front—keep your head out of my cam—my cam—damn !—ra 1 ” Up 1 Upl Up 1 through the bluest blue in the world—the Sunday afternoon dress of a New Zealand summer sky. And what a splendid show it was—AVairoa responding nobly to the soap ! and how we cheered and clapped it! And how someone said—in the excitement of the moment—“ Hear 1 hear 1 ” and how someone else, thinking it referred to another geyser, said, “ Oh ! where ? ” and how linguists plunged into the Maori language and shouted “ Ten-a-koe ” without sufficient provocation ! Then with a soft “ boom boom ” under its seething waters, AVairoa slowly sank to rest in the rocky bosom of its restless home. All Kotorua society was present at the soaping—black, brown, cream colour and white. Tourists in green goggles, silk coats and Panama hats, cyclists in sporting.looking grey tweeds, and nondescript head-gear ; rheumatics, lumbago and sciatica, limping along over the steaming ground; ladies who tattooed their lips, wore short skirts and very little else ; ladies who wore long skirts, silk undergear, and who represented society with a very big S ; babies who hung on behind like small black ’possums, and sucked one corner of mamma’s ear; babies who sat up in state perambulators and sucked their bonnet strings and thumbs ; and the camera man who buried his head in black cloth and said, “ Sit down in front.” Then came the departure. The merry.tourist clasped his guide book and bis umbrella and trotted gaily from the geyser show towards the native village. Ho hurled “ Ten-a-koe ” at everything in a tinted skin and tattoo ornaments, he chipped the pumice stone with his pen knife, and said that it was distinctly volcanic, and trundled to his hotel in Kotorua with a sunburnt nose and a light heart —he had seen a geyser play by order of the Government. Along the straight white road clouds of fine dust covered man, woman and beast; it lodged in the ears and nostrils of society, and it created a raging thirst which would take more than the hot springs in Kotorua to quench. Then we talked it over. The Anglo-Indian took ihe centre of the hearthrug in the hotel drawing-room, and was I inclined to classify geysers into two kinds —wild and tame.

“ Seems to me,” said he, “I’d like to see a wild geyser—not the wash-tub variety.” “ That’s easy enough,” says the civil servant, who parts his hair in the centre, and wears an eyeglass. “ We’ve got ’em in every size—ah—you'd better see Waimangu—it’s rather a shy bird, don’t you know, but it’s well worth a visit.” Just then in comes the discontented tourist.

“ Did you say Waimangu? I camped near it for two days, and it never gave the ghost of a show —give me the tame geyser! ”

We all agree that a tame geyser is the tourists’ friend, and that the next best thing is a mud volcano in a regular line of business, with no half-holidays and no Sunday-closing nonsense about it. “ I’ll tell you what we’ll do to-morrow," says the Anglo-Indian. “ We’ll go to Tikitere and have a good time.’’ “I often wanted to see the Bottomless Pit,” says the civil servant, thoughtfully, and there Hell’s Gates, too.” “We might manage that without a guide,” chips in the chronic rheumatic, who must be forgiven for taking a jaundiced view of Soaping Day in Wonderland.—Star,