The morning was cold and bitter when the Topdeck tour bus departed from Cathedral Square of Christchurch. Spirits were high, however, among the 22 souls embarking on the South Island trek. A good half of the group had already been on the tour for the past seven days, and had already started bonding. Meanwhile, us newbies shuffled awkwardly into empty aisles on the bus and nervously avoided eye contact. Thankfully, we went through the familiar song and dance of name introductions, countries of origins, and such. Out of the entire group, we had about ten Aussies, five Irish lasses, three Americans (including yours truly), one Polish girl, a Brit, and one crazyass Dutchman (more on that later). With pleasantries exchanged, we made our way to the pounamu capital of New Zealand.
Pounamu, called greenstone by the first European explorers to reach New Zealand, is known more commonly as jade. The Maori people valued pounamu more than gold, thus it became the lifeblood of the Maori economy. Apart from its beautiful green coloring, jade is a hard substance that can hold a razor sharp edge. It was used in everything from basic tools to tribal weapons. Pounamu artifacts are passed down among Maori families growing in value with every generation. The Maori people believe that the soul of the previous owner of a piece of jade inhabits the piece when the owner passes away. Even if the owner isn’t dead, a piece of the owner’s soul still inhabits the piece. A gift of pounamu is therefore considered semi-sacred because the giver entrusts the receiver of the pounamu with a piece of his or her soul. It’s a lot like a non-evil version of a horcrux.
The little town we visited seemed composed almost entirely out of jade shops. If a building wasn’t an actual jade vendor, then it had some reference to jade in its name. I puttered pointlessly or ambled aimlessly, I forget which, around town and ran into some friends from Wellington roadtripping around the South Island. This would soon become a common occurrence on my tour, but the first time was nonetheless jolting. Out of an entire island and about twenty Australearn people, and I manage to run into two of them within the first four hours of my tour. New Zealand should be a key feature of the Small World ride.
With basking in the glorious green glow of jade out of the way, our ragtag team of travelers departed for the base of Fox Glacier. New Zealand is home to over 3,000 glaciers with Tasmin Glacier (named after Abel Tasmin, the Dutch dude who “discovered” New Zealand) being the largest. Fox Glacier, our destination, is New Zealand’s third largest. The ice would have to wait until tomorrow, however, because the sun began to set as our bus rolled into the inn at Fox Glacier’s base.
Our first priority was scoping out the local bar and enjoying a pint and each other’s company. Life doesn’t get much better than enjoying an ice-cold glass of Tui’s and discussing the various cultures of this great world. I found it slightly comforting to know that bro culture is not exclusively American, but found in pretty much every English speaking country out there, albeit under different names (in Australia they are called lads, and referred to as chavs in Ireland and Britain). Guidos, unfortunately, are solely an American phenomenon. Explaining Snooki to our English-speaking cousins was no easy task. Thanks a lot, Jersey Shore.
We continued bonding when night fell upon the land, and we embarked on a glowworm tour through a nearby forest. Other than the soft bluish-green glow of the glowworms, we were in total darkness. We walked single file through the forest, hands grasping the coat of the person in front of us and shuffling through the dirt. Nervous whispers flew through the night air with each breaking twig as our little group blindly marched on through the night. Most people found the experience of walking through a pitch-black forest unnerving, but my only thought was the possibility of me breaking off from the group to empty out the beer in my bladder. I had seen enough glow worm clusters (they look like hotel bed sheets under a black light) to last a lifetime by the time we emerged from the woods, so without hesitation I found a nearby woody copse to relieve myself. I practically skipped back to the hotel out of relief.
Our lodgings didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I’ve stayed in worse, but not by much. Two beds and bunk beds were the sole furnishings of the room. I placed my bags on the bottom bunk and tested the mattress. Not half bad. Eric, one of the other Americans, climbed up to the top bunk. The beds gave a deafening groan. Very bad. Fortunately, our resident Dutchman, Jack, decided that he would pay for his own room rather than stay in the little boiler room. I wasn’t going to have to lay awake in my bed waiting to be crushed like a bug. Hooray.
When morning descended upon Fox Glacier, 22 intrepid travelers followed it. The glacier in morning light was nothing short of remarkable. Imagine an entire valley almost filled to the brim with ice as if a flood had stopped halfway through its course.. Shades of gray, white, and blue sparkled in the sunlight, inviting us to explore its craggy terrain. We started our hike at the base of glacier’s ice where it trickled out into a freezing stream. In a single file line we walked up the valley’s sides until we reached an accessible edge of the ice. Our guide distributed crampons (a delightful word, in my opinion) for the coming portion of our journey. Crampons are essentially steel spikes attached to the insteps of a pair of hiking boots. Not only do they help the wearer retain firm footing on slick, icy surfaces, but they have the amusing side effect of forcing them to waddle bow-legged as well. And in that fashion our party began to make its way up the glacier. Our guide led the way, stopping intermittently to hack out a more stable step with her comically large pickaxe. After one hour of hiking, we had barely made a dent in the path to the top. We had never planned on it. Fox Glacier is several kilometers long, so it was out of the question. We did hike high enough, however, to take some nice photographs on the ice, the mountains, our crampons, and anything else we lighted upon. I felt like an astronaut on a different world atop the glacier. Surely, this was not Earth. Or at least not the Earth that we know. I may as well have been standing on Pluto. But when touchdown brought me round again, I was assured that I was still on my home planet by the familiar feel of a café and a chicken sandwich. I had barely put down my napkin (called serviettes here) when we were hustled back on to our bus to depart for Queenstown.
Queenstown, New Zealand is widely regarded as the adventure capital of the South Island, New Zealand, and in some circles, the entire world. Would you care to throw yourself out of a perfectly good plane? You can do it in Queenstown. Perhaps I could entice you to leap out of a metal pod above a canyon and plummet 134 meters while attached only to a rope? Queenstown specializes in that. How about hang gliding? Parasailing? Canyon swinging? All of the above? Queenstown has it all. If you like jumping off of really high shit or just enjoy the thrill of hot, nasty badass speed, then Queenstown is the place for you. And for the next few days, it would be all mine.
My first priority was bungee jumping. When you go to New Zealand, you bungee jump. If you didn’t, it would be like going to China and not going to the Great Wall. It is just something you do.
I figured that if I were to throw myself off a ledge headfirst, I would jump off of the highest ledge available. The Nevis Jump, measuring an impressive 134 meters, is the highest bungee jump in New Zealand and one of the highest in the world. Compared to the original site of bungee jumping, AJ Hackett Bridge (named after the undoubtedly suicidal inventor of bungee jumping), a meager 47 meters, Nevis is a monster.
I arrived at The Station, the headquarters of AJ Hackett Bungy (the world’s oldest and most respected bungee jumping company in the world), early on the first morning of my stay in Queenstown. I had been plagued by dreams of falling and hadn’t been able to stomach breakfast, so I am positive that I looked like hell when I reached the counter.
“I’d like to do the Nevis Jump,” I said to the man behind the counter. He barked out a quick laugh and gave me a wry grin.
“Do ya’ now?” he asked, “Good for you.”
After ensuring the man of my slightly wavering resolve, he presented me with multiple forms asking for my height, weight, next of kin, promise not to take legal action in the event of tragedy, etc. This would be the first of many times that I would sign my life away. He peered over my signature and gave a nod of approval before handing me my ticket. On top of the ticket, in large bold letters read the words “TOE TAG”. Comforting.
I tried to keep my eyes glued to the horizon and sky as the company van took us up a winding gravel road to the bungee site. I didn’t want to know how high we had gone. The van eventually pulled up in front of a clean, sleek metal building where we were outfitted with harnesses and given one last chance to use the bathroom. They had obviously foreseen the very real possibility that I might soil myself.
The Nevis Jump is situated in the center of a large canyon. The jump station is suspended in the center of the canyon by several steel cords, giving it a levitating appearance. We jumpers were ferried into a gondola and sent along one of these steel cords to the little hanging pod in the sky. I could feel the wires sag under our combined weight as we made our way across. I’m pretty sure I have a few white hairs because of it. The jump station itself was thankfully more stable. The stability came with a catch, though. I could see every jumper. There was essentially no partition to block the view of those waiting to jump and the current jumper. I did my best to steel my nerves, but found it exceedingly difficult when I could plainly see the nice Australian man I talked to a couple of minutes ago vanish with a scream from the platform.
“Maxwell?” a voice asked.
I jerked my head up. I meant to say something along the lines of, “Yes, that’s me. I take it that it is my turn to participate in this activity?” Instead, a barely audible squeak sufficed. The jump master led me to a dentist chair (they really do their best to inspire all kinds of fear, don’t they?) and instructed me to sit while he attached my bungee cord and explained when to pull the ripcord that would pull me upright when I was ready to be hauled back up after the jump. I’ve never listened to instructions so intently in my life. With a few testing pulls on my harness and cords, he deemed I was ready to jump.
I swung my feet and literally inched (my feet were bound) to the edge of the platform, my eyes fixed on the mountains in front of me. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat. I smiled nervously in the general direction of flashing cameras, but nothing in the outside world was registering in my head. The countdown started.
Three.
My heart is hammering.
Two.
I’ve started questioning my sanity. Why the fuck did I want to do this in the first place?
One.
I’m going to kick myself for the rest of my life if I don’t. Need to stop thinking! I just need to bend my legs and jump when he says…
BIG DIVE, MAX!
I launched into the air, my muscles taking control over my body. “EEEEAAAGGGLLLEEE!” I roar as I reached the top of my dive with my arms outstretched like wings. The nervousness, the anxiety, the fear, they all left me as soon as my feet left the platform. Then I plummeted. I plummeted for 8.5 seconds. That’s a long time. Count it out to yourself. Now imagine your stomach being left about a football field and a half above you as you hurtle towards the ground. Then I stopped. I felt myself being hauled back up, like someone had hit the reverse button on my life’s remote control. I bounced a couple more times before giving the cord on my ankle a mighty pull and flipped myself upright. Small bits of snow floated past me as I took in the serene canyon around me. Wow.
After what seemed like an eternity, I was hauled back up to the jump platform. I was cold. I was hungry. I needed a beer. I needed a tequila shot. I needed ten tequila shots. I needed to piss, shit, whoop for joy, laugh like a madman, call my parents and tell them I love them. I settled for a contented sigh and my first genuine smile of the day.
I forgot much of the drive back to Queenstown. I was lost in my own little world, reliving the jump over and over again in my head. Bungee jumping is not something I would try again soon, but one day, one day far, far away, I might take up the harness again. I celebrated my achievement that night at Queenstown’s Minus 5 bar, an ice bar that is constantly kept at -5° C. My mother would have hated it. The hostess gave us big, warm parkas and gloves and escorted us into what was essentially a giant freezer. There were ice sculptures everywhere. Horses. Penguins. Kiwis. A delightfully inappropriate statue of a man with a strategically placed ice chute in place of his manhood. With the exception of the floor, almost everything in the room was made of ice. Our drinks were served to us in cups of solid ice, chilling every drink perfectly. We were allowed thirty minutes to cavort around in our winter wonderland before we were forced to move on to another bar.
As we sat around the fire (a welcome respite from the ice bar) at the next bar, I couldn’t stop smiling. I had just checked off bungee jumping off of my bucket list. And the next day, I would add two more: canyon swinging and skydiving. My Queenstown saga was only just beginning.
No comments:
Post a Comment