I didn’t think there was a
chance in hell I’d actually go through with it.
The
preceding sections of the Costa Rica rainforest canopy tour, which had involved
me zip-lining across epic tree-lined valleys several hundreds meters in the
air, had straddled the thin line between wondrous exhilaration and abject
terror. The bit where they lowered me at great speed from a treetop platform on
the end of a dangling cable I had only just survived with the contents of my
bowels intact. But this, a
humungous rope swing entailing a 20 metre free-fall, this brought a whole
new level of fear.
We were instructed to queue along a curling pathway that came to abrupt end with a precipitous ledge some 60 feet above the ground. While I probably should have adopted the old mantra “let’s get it over with”, I instead hovered awkwardly at the back of the line and watched as the other members of my group proceeded to launch themselves from this overhanging shelf one by valiant one and swing back and forth through the forest ceiling like enormous pendulums. Some would scream; others remained curiously silent as they fell. I, for wont of a better expression, was bricking it. As my turn drew closer, my heart began to beat faster and faster. I tried to assess if there might be a way out of it but there appeared to be no other way down and, to be completely honest, I wasn’t prepared to lose face in front of my two accompanying friends, particularly as they had been some of the first to complete their jumps with seemingly wild abandon.
So,
the moment came. I stood there on the edge of the platform in a strange blur of
not-really-happening, and peered fleetingly downwards. It was a bloody big
drop, there was no getting around it. Those who had already completed the swing
looked back up at me from the ground below and I could just about make out
encouraging smiles, but the haziness of their faces only served to illustrate
how sickeningly far down they were. To make matters worse, the instructors
whose job it was to attach our harnesses to the rope, appeared to be barely
older than children. Was I really prepared to put my life in the hands of a
bunch of 12 year olds who didn’t even speak my language?
Yes,
it seems. For I realised pretty quickly that my instincts of self-preservation
would never allow me to initiate the jump myself, and the instructors must have
sensed this, for no sooner had they attached my harness to the end of the rope
that they had kicked my legs from under me, laughing maniacally, and I was
falling, in all my clammy white-fleshed glory, to my untimely death.
Except
that I wasn’t. Instead, I was travelling upwards, the rope having kicked in at
the vital moment, and carrying me high, high up into the treetops. The
trouser-soiling freefall bit now over, I actually began to enjoy the experience
as I swung through the canopy like some feeble Tarzan parody, though only in
the manner that you “enjoy” leaving the dentists after particularly painful
tooth extraction. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before I was lowered back to
earth, cheered on (in my head) by my adoring fans. Supportive to the last, my friends
actually remarked that my freefall had been “the funniest thing we’ve ever
seen” and that I had “screamed like a girl”, a humiliation only slightly
preferable to death. While I felt a certain degree of satisfaction to have
confronted one of my great fears, the words that echoed the loudest in my head
as I lay in bed that night were “never again”. Far from conquering my terror of
falling from a great height, the episode had only served to confirm that my
fear was well-founded. Much as it pains me to admit it, I am simply not cut out
for bungee jumps, sky dives, or indeed any form of freefall adventuring.
It
was just as well that I came to this conclusion before emigrating to New
Zealand, where opportunities to engage in thrilling adventure activities present
themselves as frequently as old stone cottages do back home. Whether it be the
menacing shadow of Auckland’s Sky Tower or the litany of promotional pamphlets
that get rammed down your throat from the moment you step off the plane at
Queenstown airport, the palm-moistening spectre of the bungee jump is never far
away.
Now
I don’t want to give the impression that I am scared of heights per se. I’ve stood at the top of the Empire State
Building and looked out from the summits of massive mountains; planes have
never scared me (well, hardly ever - more of that in my next blog). But there’s
something about the falling
that I find truly terrifying. So having ticked off and, to be honest, not
particularly enjoyed the experience of a rope swing in Costa Rica, I resolved
that bungees and sky dives would be forevermore off-limits.
It
was easy, then, when the same friends who had heckled me in Costa Rica came to
visit in January and tried to cajole me into doing a bungee with them. I knew
the possibility of me agreeing was non-existent, so I was able to enjoy our
trip to Queenstown, the oft-proclaimed “adventure capital of the South”,
confident in knowledge that no amount of wheedling or guilt-tripping would
change my mind. As it turned out, watching other people bungee jump is only
mildly less terrifying than doing one yourself, for I found myself living every
moment of the experience with them, my forehead crowning itself in little
pearls of sweaty terror just at the mere thought.
For
all their initial bravado, my friends were not quite the fearless thrill-seekers they made themselves
out to be. As the day of their pre-booked Karawau Bridge jumps approached their
burgeoning angst became increasingly apparent. On the night before, one of them
became so fidgety and pallid of hue that I thought he might do a surreptitious runner back to England. Still,
their determination to go through with it ultimately won through, not least
because they’d boasted of their intention to do a bungee in the now-distant
comfort of their offices back home, and losing face to one’s colleagues was
surely an even worse outcome than the plunge itself.
As it happened, they both went through with
it and actually came out saying they’d loved it. For me, though, an observer on the visitors’ viewing
platform, the whole thing appeared every bit as horrific as I’d imagined. I
watched with a slightly stunned disbelief as the jumpers were led to the
sheer-dropping edge of the bungee platform and asked to “give the camera a
wave” before leaping into oblivion. The oddest thing was the way their bodies
fell, less graceful Olympic divers, more rag dolls on a string. And then,
having fallen, the way they bounced back up, as if boosted by some theme park
trampoline, before being lowered into a small raft waiting for them in the
river below.
My resolve never to attempt a bungee myself
was only strengthened by seeing my friends thrown around like a pair of
volleyballs. They said it was an “amazing” experience, of course. And I know
from Costa Rica that those few seconds after the initial freefall, when you
realise you aren’t going to die and you get that wooshy sensation as you fly
through the air, are pretty
cool. Especially when your backdrop is as spectacular as the Karawau Gorge with
its crystal clear river and time-worn rocks. Me, though, I still prefer to
enjoy the scenery from the ground up.
Now, believe it or not, when great heights aren’t involved, I do actually enjoy the odd rush of adrenaline. Otherwise, I’d probably find my stays in Queenstown rather dull. And I was fortunate to return to the town this year with some semblance of pocket money. On our first visit in November 2010, soon after our arrival in New Zealand, we were close to penniless from our European travels (not to mention our complete and utter lack of saving), so we had to do Queenstown very much on a shoestring. We stayed in a budget backpackers, walked up the mountain to avoid paying for the Skyline Gondola, and took the scenic but nevertheless sedate steamship cruise across Lake Wakatipu rather than forking out for an expensive jetboat ride. So while it was possible to enjoy the place, and certainly its scenery, without wads of cash, our budget definitely precluded us from partaking in Queenstown’s more thrilling activities.
This time, my personal mission was to ride
the famous Shotover Jet, a high-speed jetboat that propels visitors down a
particularly beautiful stretch of the eponymous river. Though I still felt a
pang of annoyance that I had to hand over close to a hundred dollars for the
privilege, I soon came to appreciate the value in the activity. The staff at
the booking centre were welcoming and friendly, and the whole thing was slickly
organised, with a prompt bus transporting us the 15 minute drive to the jet
site to the north east of Queenstown. The neck-to-ankles waterproof jackets we
were instructed to wear might have made us look like a Darth Vader tribute
band, but at least they helped to keep our jeans and cameras dry. The ride
itself lasted longer than I expected, and significantly longer than the mere
seconds of adrenaline-pumping action you pay for with a bungee jump. It must
have lasted 20 minutes in total, which was the perfect amount of time to soak
up the views without feeling the discomfort that would have developed if we’d
spent any longer travelling at such high speed, so close to jagged rocks, and
with the ice cold air stinging our exposed faces. Our skipper was your typical
Kiwi bloke, friendly and with a line in dry wit and shamelessly in love with
the great outdoors. And with such stunning surrounds, it was hard not to feel a
twinge of envy for such a simple life, driving excited travellers up and down
this glorious stretch of New Zealand landscape beneath cloudless blue skies.
As if sheer speed was not enough of a
thrill, the ride also featured a series of super-fast 360 turns at the wider
points of the river, much to the whooping delight of the passengers. Here was
adventure in manageable form, and without the petrifying build-up you get with
a bungee jump or rope swing. With the Shotover Jet ticked off, I was happy to
spend the rest of the trip in more placid mode, taking in the breathtaking
scenery of Queenstown and its surrounds without the need to resort to perilous
dare-devilling. My more dauntless friends were inevitably of a different mindset,
and proceeded to partake in horse riding, black water rafting and paragliding
before their trip was over. Me, well, even if I never relent and leave the
bungee jumps and skydives to the more audacious of you out there, at least I’ll
have the satisfaction of knowing that I, just the once, that time in Costa
Rica, stared my fear in the face and won.
This blog is dedicated to my dear cousin Vicky McWilliam, who passed away suddenly on 26th April 2012.
Jonny
