The lady at the tourist information desk was surprised. Surprised that we wanted to try a hangi, a traditional Maori meal steamed in sulphur pits, on its own.

That is, without the Vegas-looking dance performance with it.

“I’m sorry, you can only have the hangi as part of a package,” she said.

So began our disappointing stay at Rotorua, one of New Zealand’s top destinations, partly because of the strong Maori presence there. The brochures promise an authentic cultural experience, full of folklore, sing, dance, and food.

But it all comes as a packaged product. And this “authentic” cultural contact costs NZ$100.

We looked again at the brochure. The photos of the music performance reminded us of those galas in Rio they throw for tourists to preserve their idea that feather-decked mulatto girls shake their rears year-long in Brazil.

This can’t be the only option, we thought. Isn’t there a Maori crafts centre where we can talk to artisans? Can’t we watch a rehearsal of the haka war dance at a community gathering? See a young Maori boy get his first tattoo?

Nope. You have to buy the package.

As a lame protest, we went to Whakarewarewa, the cheapest Maori “village” that’s open for tourists. By the entrance is a ticket office with a cafe. You get three options: plain tout with cultural performance, tour with a corn snack, and full tour with hangi. We went with the corn option, which cost NZ$30.

A small bridge marks the entrance to what looks like a hillside village with houses that have vinyl siding and satellite dishes. Some of them have pickup trucks on the driveways. Maori gargoyles mark the roads.

About 25 families live in this village, where boiling geothermal water pits leave an inescapable smell of sulphur in the air. A mustachioed guide with an effeminate demeanour tells us the history of the village and the residents’ traditions.

For instance, the women still cook meals in the big pool of boiling water: food is submerged in the water in muslin sacks and sometimes left for hours while other work is done.

Before and after visitors leave, he said, they fill cement pools with the hot water for communal bathing.

A village resident cooks corn in the boiling sulphur pit.

A tour guide shows the “microwave”, a box over a vent where food can be steamed instead of boiled.

I felt like an impostor the entire time. It was a Disneyworld ride minus the rail car and the animatronics. We hardly saw any actual Maori families that didn’t serve the tourists. And when some did appear – dressed just like we were – they were treated as zoo animals, photographed and ‘oohed’ over.

Yes, we learned about their way of life and their traditions. We understood their relationship with the region, a geological anomaly that is sacred to them. And yes, the performance was wonderful. The music moving, the voices powerful. The haka, a dance meant to rouse men for battle, was one of the most elaborate and arresting displays of masculine power we ever saw.

But we also ate half a corn for NZ$2. In any market, the same amount gets you four whole cobs. That is, we paid an 800% markup.

But the question always remains: do the village residents mind? Is it humiliating to have their culture reduced to a tourist trap? Or are they proud that people form the world over pay to see their ways? Are they happy that many don’t have to work more than a few hours a day during visiting hours?

At the exit, we noticed some plaques remembering the village’s most famous tour guides, residents who showed the Prince of Wales around. Being a guide, we gathered, is a privileged position, and has been since the start of the 20th century.

Maybe we were over-thinking the whole thing. But we don’t think so.

Maori girls watch the tourists watch them.