This is the story of how a stay at the worst hostel I've ever experienced led to a private show put on by the French police.

My friend and I were in Paris for five days. Thanks to our bad planning and some poor communication with hostels, we had to spend a large portion of that time sitting in internet cafes frantically searching for accommodation instead of taking in the sights.

One night the only available place we could afford was a hostel in Garges-les-Gonesse, an outlying suburb of Paris. To get there involved taking the RER train almost to the end of the line, then a twenty-minute bus ride and a short walk. We followed the hostel's directions to the letter, only to find ourselves in a deserted industrial area full of growling guard dogs.

It took another hour of backtracking and asking help from the (not especially friendly) locals before we could get to the hostel, whereupon we learned from the slouching desk clerk that as we'd only booked the day before they hadn't received our reservation. It seemed they didn't even have a computer, let alone internet access, and were faxed all their bookings daily from some mysterious head office.

I hadn't spoken much French since high school, but somehow my rage enabled me to carry out a full-scale argument with the clerk en francais. Eventually he gave in and showed us to our room, which had the most curious bathroom we'd ever seen - a sort of hermetically sealed aeroplane toilet of a space, with no kind of curtain or door for the shower which simply sprayed over everything within.

After settling in, we somehow made it back into Paris proper for the remainder of the day. Later that evening we returned to the station for the long journey back to our digs but found the ticket machines all out of order and the last train about to leave.

In despair we were starting to consider following the example of many of the locals of Garges-les-Gonesse and simply jumping the turnstile. Thankfully we were still dithering when half-a-dozen cops came around the corner.

We explained what the problem was and they let us through the turnstile and offered to walk us to the platform - although when they heard where we were headed they told us we'd be better off sleeping on the streets as we were likely to be murdered in that area (always reassuring to hear).

Then they asked where we were from, and When we said New Zealand they were rapt. "Ah, Nouvelle Zelande! Aka! Aka!"

Next thing we knew they were beckoning us into a side passage of the station.

As we followed six rather burly policemen into the inner corridors, we started to worry that we'd done something really stupid. Especially when we were ushered into a large empty room and they began examining the ceiling, explaining that they were making sure there were no security cameras...

Just as we were about to make a run for it, the smallest of the cops stepped into the middle of the room grinning his head off.

Then he started the most curious rendition of "Ka mate", the All Blacks' haka, I have ever heard. It started off right, but as his memory failed him he improvised both words and gestures. His enthusiasm never failed and when he finished with a triumphant leap we applauded long and loud.

We did make it back to our horrible hostel that night, and despite predictions emerged unscathed the next morning.

It may have been the worst hostel ever, but if we hadn't stayed there we would never have seen that glorious sight, a lone Frenchman haka-ing his heart out.

Find out about Paris.

Read more Yahoo!Xtra adventures.