A Glowering We Go

A Glowering We Go


Making new memories upside down at the bottom of the world  works well, until you attach expectations to events. If you expect something to be fun, festive and illuminating, you raise your odds of being disappointed. Await crap and you may be pleasantly surprised.


 For example, the Partner recently organized an excursion to one of New Zealand's famous glow worm caves. His former flat mate, who works for a tour company, was selling van trips combining caves and carols. For $140 (NZ), the kids, Pete and I could take a comfortable two-hour ride to Waitomo for holiday entertainment combined with those magical glowing worms. Despite the fact the kids and I could make the trip ourselves for about one-third the cost, I said okay. The special holiday event would be worth it. And I'd wanted to see the glow worm caves ever since we arrived at the North Island. Pete said,

"It's one more thing you can tick off your list."

Oh, ye of too much faith.

Pete settled the kids and their booster seats into a middle row of the 12-seater passenger van. I started climbing into the seat behind the driver, figuring a position near the front provided less chance of car sickness on winding Kiwi roads. The tour guide (TG) said,

"Could you sit further in the back? We're picking up some older passengers and it'll be easier for them to be near the front."

Sure thing. The back's fine. It was, until TG cranked the rear radio speakers, making it nearly impossible to talk to Pete. I repeated myself a third time before asking TG to turn down the volume (repeating myself is one of my pet peeves, possibly because my kids, especially Finley, are Mom Deaf. If they ran a Repeat Myself Olympics, my years of training would land me a spot on the medals' stand).

Now, I'm hot. At 3:30 in the afternoon, it's warmer than I'd figured. I'm dressed for cave-sitting in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. Oh my God. I can't feel any air-conditioning.

Pete said, "Do you want to get out?"

This is where my intuition should've kicked me in the ribs, screaming, "YES! GET ME OFF THIS THING!" Instead, I said,

"No, I'm fine. I'll just ask about air con." TG promptly turned it on. Sweet, cool relief.

Only the four of us, plus a tourist, a French woman, sit in the van. I stretch my legs into the aisle, thinking how much more comfortable the padded leather seats of my Honda Odyssey feel than the hard, fabric seats of the tour van. These perches feature the same angle of recline as airline seats, which is two hair's widths.

"We'll stop in Tauranga to get the rest of our group," says TG. I begin writing this blog in my head as we roll into a retirement village. If it doesn't kill you, it's fodder for the blog. Pete helps an 80-something year-old lady into the van. He's an immediate hero.

After an hour on the road, we make a pit stop in Cambridge, a horsey/gift shop/high tea town in the middle of the North Island. Performers are warming up for a Christmas concert in the park. I wonder silently if we would've been better off listening to a free performance here. Nah, after all, we're going to sit in a cave and see GLOW WORMS. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of luminescent larvae await us in Waitomo. That'll make the trip worthwhile.

I see, from the van's window, a sign saying, "Superloo: toilet: 50 cents." I have never paid to use a toilet in New Zealand. Kiwis seem to have a similar public restroom ethic as Americans, which is "We ain't paying to piss." It aligns with my own value system. Surely, we're not going into the pay toilets – not as part of a paid tour. The van pulls into a parking space beside Superloo. I look across the street to the Shell gas station wondering... Oh, hell. Superloo it is. I linger in the ladies' loo with partner-in-time Fiona, who consistently squanders an exceptional number of minutes in the bathroom – voiding, singing, counting squares of toilet paper.

We ride another hour before arriving at the Morepork pizzeria and cafe. Dinner's not included in the tour price. The kids split a chicken nuggets meal, while I devour an antipasto platter and wash it down with a glass of Shiraz. Pete, the kids and I choose to walk the half-kilometer to the glow worm caves to stretch our legs. At least, I think, I can snap pictures of the kids inside the caves.

Only picture of glow worm caves: outside

Our group waits outside a half hour with clusters of other concert-goers. I shush Fiona and Finley and bring them into a small screening room where a movie explaining the caves' origins runs in a ten-minute loop. At least, I think, I can learn something while we wait.

Pete peeks his head inside the room and says, "They want us to stay together. You'd better come outside." Grrrr.

Stay together. Another price you pay for going along with a tour. I don't want to stick with a group. I want to stomp my feet in a huff, then return to watch the movie. Instead, I grab Fiona and Finley and walk outside. I watch the kids run and screech with laughter while other people look on with a mix of bemusement and maybe a soupcon of annoyance. I meet TG's brother and mother, both choir members. I make small talk with the French woman and mostly keep the kids from climbing on anything. TG gives us our entry tickets. She'd explained during the drive that part of the fee is a "koha" to the caves' Maori owners. She doesn't tell us the amount of the koha check. I don't ask.

After 15 more minutes of waiting, a caves employee ushers us to the entrance. She says,

"We'll take you in groups of 40."

A Maori staffer greets our herd and explains the rules: No food, no touching the caves and no pictures or videotaping. No pictures. The phrase arouses my tourist suspicions, causing an involuntary eye-rolling reflex. No pictures. The last time I was ordered not to take pictures was in South Africa, during the kids' elephant ride. I later learned the reason for the policy: the company wanted to sell me a $30 video of the kids' experience. I declined. Even the Louvre in Paris allows photos of the Mona Lisa (without flash).

$140 and I have not a single picture inside the caves. I would've taken one if I weren't part of the tour group. Grrrr.

I console myself with the thought that glow worms probably don't photograph very well, anyways. I'll just have to remember how the Arachnocampa luminosa twinkled from the ceiling. Take a mental picture.

We walk about a half-kilometer into the caves – a twisting maze whose ceilings start low and grow taller as we step deeper into the earth. We follow a well-lighted cement path. A group of children sings carols. Descending one flight of stairs after another, I wonder if we'll take what the website bills as a "world famous boat ride under thousands of magical glow worms." Previous visitors to the caves have told me the boat ride was the highlight of their trip.

No boat trip tonight: We walk under whitish-grey stalactites, finally reaching a place called the Cathedral. Its ceilings are 18 meters (59 feet) high and its acoustics are supposedly superb. Two spotlights shine onto a stage area, where risers await the choir. I'm eager for the lights to switch off so I can see the glow worms.

We claim two empty folding chairs. Someone invites the children to sit "on the mat" (rug) near the choir. Fiona and Finley both scramble to the front. Fiona returns to me five minutes later, saying,

"It's too wet. I want to sit on your lap." Okay, honey.

Once every one's seated, the spotlights dim. I look up at the caves ceiling and see...

Two glow worms. Two. Not tens of thousands, or even two-thousand. Hell, I would've settled for two-hundred. Two. What happened to the glow worms? Did someone poison the rest? New Zealand is big on poison. Entire parks close for a weekend's poisoning, sprayed from the air and hung in trees to eradicate imported pests like rats, possums and stoats (all predators that eat native kiwi chicks – the only land mammal native to En Zed is the bat). Kiwis (the human kind) spray toxic chemicals into their homes to kill flies (in lieu of using window screens to banish bugs in the first place). However, glow worms are unique to New Zealand. Poison would wipe out an entire tourist industry. Maybe the worms are simply hiding tonight? Sigh. Just enjoy the music.

Two choir members present introductions in English and Maori (the language of New Zealand natives) before singing O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They're a well-practiced community group whose baritones, altos, sopranos and tenors pierce the cave's air with clarity and precision. The audience is invited to sing several carols. I cradle Fiona's head against my neck and sing four lines of O Little Town of Bethlehem before memory trumps vocal chords. I start to drop tears into Fi's long tousle of auburn hair. I remember a Christmas, not so long ago, when Sean was alive and well. I remember last Christmas, the first one without Sean, so devoid of expectation that everything that happened in Sydney that sunny, warm day was a sweet surprise.

A children's choir joins with the adults. I tell Fiona,

"Look – some of them are about your age."

Fi sits up in my lap for a song before lying across two folding chairs during the next sing-along, O Come All Ye Faithful.

As the concert concludes, the emcee says she hopes we've enjoyed the show and chuckles while asking us to carry our seats to the back of the auditorium. She's joking. Surely, she's joking.

She's not joking. Pete takes both our seats while I lead the kids from the caves. Outside, we're invited to join the choir for strawberries, cake, coffee or tea. I slurp two cups of tea and chomp a half-dozen strawberries plus a piece of gingerbread cake iced with thick, white sugar. Fuel for the two-hour return trip home. I feel a divider rising between me and Pete. It's the same thickness as the gingerbread's icing. You can nearly see the divider. It goes up when one of us feels bitchy and descends quickly after someone says, "What's the matter?" Neither of us asks this question during the drive home.

Fiona and Finley conk out immediately. I try to get comfortable, but lack of leg room and the icy blast of the air conditioning preclude sleep. I stand to turn off the A/C from a vent that divides the front half of the van from the back.

An hour and-a-half later, Pete helps the elderly woman out of the van at the retirement village. We're the last group to be dropped off. It's after 1 am. I gather our belongings while Pete eases Fi and Finn into our van, where they recline their seats nearly flat to continue sleeping. TG asks me, "Did the trip meet your expectations?"

Ugh. I don't have the heart to tell her,

      "Except for the concert part, NO. I could've enjoyed a free concert here at The Mount. WHERE were the glow worms?"


 It's too late, I'm too tired and disgruntled to say anything, except to ask, "Which cave is best to see the glow worms?"

The glow worm caves are still on the "must-see" list. Somewhere in Waitomo, thousands of Arachnocampa luminosa twinkle amongst the cave cubbies. They're blinking out the message, "Sucker. Shoulda seen us the first time."

The lesson: Even if your Beloved, who's lived here most of his life, organizes an outing, ASK QUESTIONS. Lots of them. For example, if you're offered a wine tour, ask, "Will we taste any wine?" If it's a white-water rafting trip, ask, "Is the raft included?" You've already assumed the title of your tour includes the answer to your question. Don't assume, or risk spending ten hours and $140 on a concert inside a GLOW WORM cave minus the celebrated glow worms.

We'll return to Waitomo next month. On our own. We'll ride the boat, watch the movie, see the worms, and maybe even sneak a photo or two. Then, I'll tick the caves off my list.