“Yeah, he’s a hair-sniffer,” Sarah, one of the Aussie girls, told me casually when I inquired about the eccentricities of my Dutch roommate in Queenstown, Jack.
In addition to being a hair sniffer, Jack was an odd guy (although I believe that hair-sniffing alone would put him in that category). If he wasn’t drunk or hungover, he was sleeping. I had heard that he had been a banker back in the Netherlands (it would certainly explain his extremely nice clothes) but only through hearsay. Within the first ten minutes of moving our bags into our room in Queenstown, he casually informed Eric, the other American male, and me that he was on this trip because his girlfriend had died recently. Whether the trip was out of mourning or celebration for her passing away (I never did learn the circumstances of her demise either), I never did discover, but he enthusiastically showed us pictures regardless. I don’t think he caught on to our discomfort. In fact, he never seemed to catch on to any of my discomfort. I don’t consider myself easily embarrassed or anything like that, but Jack made me call that ability into question. Not once, not twice, but THREE times did I have to stop him from creeping up behind me and stroking my hair. I’m pretty sure he got a good whiff of it as well. Damn my use of fragrant shampoo and conditioner! I believe he tried to make up for his earlier displays of affection toward my hair by offering me a seat on his knee in an otherwise chair-less bar. I politely declined. That’s why the morning after my foray into bungee jumping I tried to leave my room as quietly as possible so as not to wake the crazy Dutch bastard in my living room.
I found myself feeling surprisingly relaxed as the little van rumbled down the road to Shotover Canyon. My new friends from my tour were of a similar state, but due more to being hungover or still drunk than the Zen-like state of mind I was experiencing. The drop from Nevis Jump was 134 meters, and the drop for the canyon swing was only 90 meters. The swinging arc, however, totaled 200 meters and reached speeds of over 150 kilometers per hour. The real difference, to me at least, was in the takeoff. For bungee jumping, I had no choice but to be strapped in by my feet in order to dive off of the platform headfirst. The canyon swing allowed for over ten different release styles. I could sprint off of the edge. I could fall backwards. I could do a handstand walk off of the ledge. I could be strapped to a chair and pushed off. With two turns on the swing, I had to consider carefully. I eventually settled on a release called “Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood” and a backwards tandem jump.
So what is a “Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood”? Other than a great and colorful name for a cocktail, the “Gimp Boy” (as it is known to the employees of the canyon swing) involves the participant being strung up by his feet and hung over the edge looking straight down at the canyon. On the company’s scale of scariness, the style is rated 5/5 pairs of soiled underwear, the most frightening of the frightening. I asked why the reference to a gimp in the title and, ever the wiseass, queried whether the jump involved wearing a gimp mask. The man strapping me into my harness gave me a big smile, thanked me for asking, and pulled a gimp mask over my head. To top off my disturbing appearance, the jumpmasters attached a gimped out teddy bear to my harness. I had so, so many questions, but the last time I asked one I ended up being put into a piece of S&M gear. Besides, the time for asking questions was over. It was time for action.
I stepped to the ledge and had the two jumpmasters string me up over the lip of the canyon. I closed my eyes. There was no way I was going to open them until the release. I heard one of the men tell me to have fun and then heard the soft purr of a sliding rope. My eyes shot open. Imagine looking through the lens of a camera and zooming in on a canyon floor. Now imagine that instead of just looking, you are experiencing the zoom. My eyes watered with the speed of my descent. Then suddenly I was flying like Superman, if Superman were into leather, whips, and chains. I felt like I could break the sound barrier. Just when I was about to reach the other end of the canyon, I started moving back. I moved like a pendulum until I was hauled back up to the platform. Once again, I was grinning like a maniac as I was taken out of my harness.
The grinning stopped when I was strapped in again, this time for my tandem jump. I had jumped less than twenty minutes ago, but I was still nervous. Falling from the edge of a chasm in the earth makes most people nervous. It’s healthy. Plus, this time I wasn’t going to be able to see where I was falling. I waddled to the platform with my Aussie friend Sarah, grateful that she was more nervous than I was. The men at the canyon swing are notorious for toying with their customers and once they saw me come back for round two, they made no exception. They chatted with us amiably about our lives, the weather, and everything in between while we leaned back over the edge suspended by a single rope. Mid-question they dropped us. Bastards. The flying feeling returned. I could get used to this. Alas, my flight stopped all too soon. We were pulled back up to my now sober colleagues, and I braced myself for the biggest jump of my life.
My first thought upon walking to the headquarters of the skydiving company, N-Zone, was that I was hungry. I knew I couldn’t have taken one bite, though. The idea of jumping from a plane tends to kill the appetite. I signed my life away for the umpteenth time as I sat in a waiting room watching an instructional DVD with about twenty other terrified looking individuals. I rode out to the company’s airfield with two of the Irish lasses (and rather comely ones might I add) from my tour group and resolved to be a man and hide any sign of fear or anxiety. When we arrived at the airfield I squinted into the sky and could just barely make out the tiny outline of a plane and an even tinier human. The whole showing no anxiety thing wasn’t going well.
After an eternity of waiting, we were eventually led into the hangar to jumpsuit up. The full regalia made us look like the henchmen of a James Bond villain. For some odd reason, this comforted me. I was then given a brief, but thorough run-through of what to expect in the plane with my tandem master, Marius. Marius was an experienced skydiver with over eight years of experience and at least 5000 jumps under his belt. I was in good hands.
The moment of truth arrived. Our tandem masters grabbed us by the belt (maybe they are afraid we would bolt?) and led us into a plane a little larger than a boiler room. Miraculously, all three customers, the three tandem masters, and three photographers managed to fit. With a labored effort, the plane managed to take off. My anxiousness rose with our elevation. I wanted to jump, but I couldn’t stand thinking about it. Fortunately we had preparations to take my mind off of things. Unfortunately, this involved me sitting involved on Marius lap while he secured our harnesses. The other two gentlemen tandem masters seemed pleased to have two bonny babes on their laps. I felt that I should have apologized to Marius. Something along the lines of, “Sorry for being a dude, bro,” or possibly something more eloquent. Neither of us enjoyed the experience.
Before I could come up with the words, I looked up to the plane’s door and noticed that one of the Irish girls was gone. By the time I registered the fact that she had jumped, the second one was out the door. I was next. I dangled outside the plane, looking at the ground 12,000 feet below as my photographer took a picture from the wing of the plane. “Wow,” I thought, “I’m actually jumping out of a-“
I didn’t have time to complete the thought. A surreal feeling overcame me as I looked back and saw the plane fly on without me. The thought of panicking briefly crossed my mind as my ride flew off without me, but I quickly dismissed it as pointless. I was soaring through the sky like Icarus before his fall. I’m pretty sure I turned red and started sparking because of the speed at which I was descending. Cold air streaked off of me snapping all my senses to attention. After thirty seconds of freefall, the thought finally hit me that I was actually skydiving, that I was rocketing toward the ground crotch-first at over 200 kilometers per hour. The thought made me smile, or it would have had the air blasting against my face not forced it into one expression. And after forty-five seconds, the parachute deployed, and I was upright.
This was my first chance to look at the land below me as the freefall had otherwise occupied my mind with other thoughts. I am going to see if I can get credited for discovering paradise, because that is what I saw. From snow-capped mountains to sparkling rivers and lakes to lush green forests, every treasure of this little planet of ours was spread out beneath me. I was all at once detached from the land and yet never felt closer to it. There was something profoundly Zen-like about the moment. Apart from my harness straps cutting off the blood supply in my thighs and the fact that I was attached to a dude, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relaxed.
Marius and I spiraled lazily toward the ground while he gave me a tour of Queenstown and the South Island from the air. The whole time I wondered if he still felt the thrill of skydiving when he jumped. Was every trip into the sky a thrill or just another day at the office? For his sake, I hope it was the former. I may have started my descent in what would have been the largest recorded pelvic thrust in history, but I ended up landing square on my ass. A few hundred yards from the ground, Marius told me to lift my legs so that he could take the brunt of the impact. There was no way I was going to get a sprained ankle and ruin the rest of my time in this majestic country, so I dutifully obeyed. We slid more than landed onto the soft grass of the airfield, and I somehow ended up sitting cross-legged in front of my smiling cameraman. Even the French judge would have given that landing a 10.
As I was escorted back to the hangar with my two Irish companions, all we could talk about was the jump. I was tempted to go into the reception area and sign up for a second jump. Alas, time and my wallet were against me. The girls and I were only allowed a few minutes to relive our experiences before the company van whisked us back to Queenstown. My adrenaline adventures were over, and I still had all my limbs and vital organs. It was time for a celebration.
I might have been understating what happened that night when I said a celebration was in order. I celebrated. My new friends partied like fucking Caligula. I estimate that about half of our group showed up at the bus wearing sunglasses and the previous night’s clothes. Among other things that happened, my friend Eric kicked down a door (because that’s what America does), one of the Australian girls almost ended up in a fistfight with a man who looked like a Miami Vice extra, and Jack the Dutchman took a “nap” in the local cemetery. I’m positive that Queenstown was glad to see us leave when we did. She certainly did give us a grand farewell. The weather, however, was not so kind.
As we departed the adrenaline capital of the world and made our way toward Mt. Cook, we experienced the first snowfall I have seen in New Zealand. Now I had seen a lot of snow on top of mountains and literally tons of ice (an entire goddamn glacier’s worth), but aside from a few scattered flakes here and there, this was the first flurry. Some of the Australians had never seen snowy weather, and were remarking on its beauty. Meanwhile, I was marveling at the fact that I was experiencing snow in September. Normally I would associate Labor Day weekend with BBQs and such, but there I was standing in the middle of a September snowfall. Before I had time to further ruminate on my situation, I was whisked away to the bus.
The last stop of tour was a little place out in the country called Morelea Farm. Apparently no tour of New Zealand is complete without a trip to a family owned sheep farm. The owner of the farmer, a man named Stan, met us outside of the barn. The man looked an awful lot like what one would expect a sheep farmer to look like: gray hair, sheep dog following him, a hybrid cowboy/farmer’s hat, a way of moving that was more moseying than walking. He was even wearing a wool sweater from the wool of his sheep. He guided us into the barn and explained his family’s history in the sheep farming business, and how the industry has changed. As a result of Stan's conferred wisdom, I no longer wanted to be a sheep farmer (not that I actually ever had the desire to be in the first place). He did, however, enthusiastically show us one of the newborn lambs and let us pass him around the group. I am willing to sacrifice some man-points to admit that it was adorable. After everyone had their turn cooing, Stan brought out one of the adult sheep for a shearing demonstration. That part was graphic. I think Guantanamo Bay interrogators are gentler than Stan was. Then again, the sheep didn’t seem to care about the manhandling. Less than half a minute later, the sheep was shivering and Stan was grinning over a big pile of wool. We concluded our tour of the farm with scones (pronounced like the “sc” in scald and “awns” in dawns) and jam with Stan’s wife Angela in their farmhouse. So with full stomachs and the resolve to not eat lamb again (at least for a while) after holding a baby lamb, we departed for Christchurch.
My holiday had been a pleasant one, a marked success in my book. No lost luggage, no hospitalizing injuries, a trip free of major disasters. I was so pleased with my vacation that I decided to order a steak for dinner that night to celebrate my good fortune and the end to my adventures in the South Island. It would take me another day to learn a valuable lesson: don’t celebrate until you’re out of the woods. I can really be a fucking idiot sometimes.
Wonderful post and I'm definitely jealous!
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