Rollin', rollin', rollin'

The next day we kept our feet firmly on the ground, in a manner of speaking. They were either on the ground or inside a giant beach ball, which was on the ground. We went Zorbing.

A Zorb is a giant soft rubber ball that you are put into, and then the Zorb is rolled down a hill. It's sort of life a giant hamster ball, but softer, and you don't generally strap the poor hamster in so he rolls tail-over-toes-over-tail-over-toes all the way down a hill. And hamster owners (kind hamster owners, anyway), usually don't throw a bucket of water in with said hamster when they don't strap him in so he sloshes and slides all the way down. But these are the choices for humans who Zorb.

You could choose to do one or the other, or do it three times for the price of twice. We went for this option. The first time was the strapped in version, which we did in separate Zorbs. To get into the Zorb you have to dive through an opening on its side, which is zipped up once you're in place. For the first Zorb trip I had straps holding my arms, waist, chest and legs in place. They then zipped up the opening and gave my Zorb a gentle push down the hill. I bounced upside down, then right side up, then upside down. What I could see was sky ... grass ... sky ... grass .. . sky grass sky grassskygrassskygrasssky until the ball came to the flat part at the bottom of the hill and rolled to a stop. It was somewhat dizzying, but a lot of fun. When they poured me out of the Zorb (they really do pour you - they open the flap, turn the Zorb opening-down, and you fall out through the opening), I was a little dizzy, but from the Zorbers' offer of help to walk me the few feet back to the building, I gather some people fare worse and might be genuinely disoriented.

But I thought it was good fun. I was eager to go down the hill our second time, which was in a water-filled Zorb. Leslie and I could go in the same Zorb this time, and they threw in the bucket of water before we dove in. I was glad to find it was pleasantly lukewarm water. They didn't push our Zorb this time; we were to stand in the Zorb and walk forward. Which we did, but of course as soon as the Zorb started to roll we fell and slipped and slid the rest of the way down. It was fantastic fun. They describe it as "a combination of a waterslide and a rollercoaster," and that's kind of accurate. You slosh around up the sides of the Zorb, tumble upside down and round and round generally have an absolute blast. The water Zorb (which they call the Zydro) wasn't dizzying at all, just terrific fun.

Do remember Slip 'n' Slides? A Slip 'n' Slide was a big plastic runway that you put out on your lawn and turned your garden hose on (Slip 'n' Slides must have gone the way of the dodo in Stage 3a Water Restriction Australia). You took a run at it and then slid on your knees or behind on the wet plastic with water flowing all around. I never had one, but I had a friend who did, and it's the closest sort of feeling I can think of to a Zydro. Except that instead of just slipping on the ground, you're slipping in all directions. It's like a 3-D Slip 'n' Slide.

The third Zorb was another Zydro, but this time we went separately and the ball was pushed down a zig-zag track. This was the slippiest and slidiest of all, and it was an absolute blast. I laughed and shrieked all the way down (on all three Zorb trips). Leslie kept trying to stand up in his Zorb with absolutely no success. But he enjoyed the falling process. In mine I gave up on standing and just enjoyed the ride.

After we dried off, we drove to Tongariro National Park, which was a bit south of Taupo, to go hiking. Tongariro starred as Mount Doom in the Lord of the Rings movies, and it was imposing, barren and beautiful.

The first part of the four-hour hike was through a temperate forest. It looked sort of like a rainforest, with tall, lush green trees and muddy ground. We encountered a very large group of hikers, who seemed to be part of a giant tour group, coming the other way. When they spoke to us, they invariably asked us the same question: "How far to the car park?" The first ones we met were pleased as Punch when we said "Not far at all, maybe five minutes." But as we went on, our news got less and less good, and the reactions were less and less happy. "Ten minutes? OK, I can make it that far." "Twenty minutes? Really? Whew, all right, that's not too bad." "Thirty five more minutes? You're sure?! That's a long way." "A whole other hour?! Oh my god."

The path was wide and gently sloping upwards. It was well-maintained, and the going was easy. Convenient bridges were built over some of the ravines and streams, and it was a pleasant walk. That was until we got to the steps.

The steps started while we were still in the rainforest area, and they made a steep climb indeed. And they seemed to go on forever. The mud, which hadn't seemed like a problem on the easy slope, was suddenly far more treacherous. All we could see was trees, and the mountain seemed to go on forever. We met some more of the hiking group, who responded to our unpleasant news with some of their own: "There's a lot more stairs that way."

Eventually we came out of the forest. We were high up, and I'd say the view was breathtaking, but in reality it was the stairs that were breathtaking. But the view was amazing. We could see several lakes nestled in valleys, and there were mountains as far as the eye could see. New Zealand is a very mountainous country.

But that was not the end of the hike. That was probably the halfway mark of the ascent. The rest of the path cut a gravel swath through scrub land and rocks. It was considerably drier, and the going was a little less steep. But there were still many, many stairs.

We were hiking towards a geothermal hot spring, where huge billowing clouds of steam were erupting out of the mountain. I empathised with Sam and Frodo, as we too were trudging towards Mt Doom. It was a good choice to play the villain's lair - they wouldn't even have needed a smoke machine. The scrubs were low and rough and prickly - it wasn't difficult to imagine orcs and goblins lumbering through the countryside and teeming around the gushing steam.

There were treats for cheerful hikers - or churlish hikers, if it came to it, because the food and water was in my pack. I carried four bottles of water, two bread rolls, a hunk of cheese and a bag of sweets. Leslie carried a camera, two lenses and a tripod. Our packs weighed about the same when we left the car, but mine was considerably lighter when we got back.

The hot springs were not actually a good place to rest and eat, it turned out, as dramatic a vista as they provided. Like all the hot springs we encountered, they stank. The stench made the meal at the top of the mountain somewhat less enjoyable. But then, Mordor isn't usually on people's top 10 picnic spots.

Rack 'n' ruin

We woke up the next day and decided that we just hadn't had enough of heights and fear. Or rather, one of us decided that and the other decided that nothing could be worse than bungy jumping, so any other high-flying activity (except skydiving, which was ruled out due to expense, to the great disappointment of one and the great relief of the other) should be a cakewalk. Such was the theory.

So we slapped on the sunscreen (something we neglected to do the previous day, and we both got mildly sunburned) and hit the road to Taupo again, heading for a high-ropes course called Rock'n'Ropes. Perhaps I should have been offput by one of the testimonials on their brochure, which said something like: "I've done skydiving and bungy jumping before; this challenged me more." But I disregarded this caveat, thinking that it couldn't possibly be harder and scarier, as we weren't nearly as high off the ground, and the goal was in this case to stay put and not to fall off something high.

The instructor and owner of the place, Glenn, was fantastic. He was very nice and funny ("I'm going to have to talk slowly, there's an Irishman here" and "Well, what do you expect from an American?" comments were frequent), but he takes safety seriously. We were given harnesses and helmets. He taught us to belay each other and how to "lock off" the belaying rope so our partners wouldn't fall. He then asked who was afraid of heights. Thinking of the previous day's bungy jumping, I half-raised my hand. "You two, over to the rickety bridge then!"

The rickety bridge was exactly what it sounds like - a rickety wooden bridge suspended between two poles about 35 feet off the ground. The bridge isn't called rickety for nothing - it wibbles and wobbles all over the shop. And there's no handrails. Oh, and you have to go over it twice - once forwards, then a second time - backwards.

Leslie decided I should go first, which made Glenn decide Leslie should go first. He climbed the poll, which is about the size of a telephone poll but has small iron handles in it to be used as handholds and footholds. You climb it as you would a ladder. He didn't seem to have any trouble getting onto the bridge itself, but once he got onto it it began shaking and wobbling. He stayed focused, though, and crossed to the other side, then backwards back to the first pole. I lowered him to the ground then, and it all didn't seem too taxing for him.

When he got back down he said it was a frightening experience since he'd been shaking all over the place, but he recommended keeping your head up, looking at the opposite pole and not looking down at the bridge. "Your feet will find the bridge," he said.

I climbed the pole. It was a lot harder than I thought, just climbing. The first few feet were fine, but when I started getting high my breath started coming shorter, and I felt the fear of being up high. I climbed until I was below the bridge, but the next handhold was over it and I couldn't reach it to pull myself up. Glenn was underneath me and counseled that I should push myself off on my legs without holding onto anything in order to get high enough to reach the next handhold.

That didn't seem possible. I decided I lacked the armstrength and legstrength required for such a task. "I can't," I said. "I'm coming back down." I lowered myself to the next peg down, but the rope Leslie was holding was taught and I couldn't go down any further.

"Oh, no, you're not," Glenn said. "No one climbs down on my ropes course. You can fall off, or you can be lowered, but once you're up there those are your only options." I decided to take one of those. "I'm going to fall," I said. "I'm going to let go. I can't do this." I was trembling.

"Yes, you bloody well can," he said, and hooking his harness to the pegs as he climbed, he came up after me. He climbed up the pole until he was directly below me, then pointed to what I needed to do. It was the same advice he'd given from the ground, but having him up there with me made me feel safer. And braver - I couldn't very well let go with him standing right there. So I did what he suggested, and I didn't fall. I got on the bridge.

Crossing the bridge was actually not nearly as difficult as getting onto it. It was scary, and it did shake and wobble, but I managed to cross it by keeping my eyes fixed in place on a single knot on the wood opposite me. I baulked again when it came to doing it backwards, but with Glenn still standing on the pole behind me I couldn't very well say I wasn't doing it. And actually, going backwards proved to be easier than going forwards.

When I got back to the ground, I was shaking, but I hadn't fallen. Neither of us fell all day, in fact, and Glenn said it was very rare for people to fall. It did happen, but it was rare. The bridge proved to be the hardest activity, and Glenn said that was the case for almost everyone - the first activity was the hardest, no matter what it was.

The next activity we went to was the easiest, as you got to hold onto something. You stood on a wire, held another wire at about chest-level, and walked sidewise to the opposite pole. Climbing the pole itself was probably harder, as I wasn't sure if my arms, now trembling from my bridge experience, could hold me. But they did, and going across the wire, while scary, wasn't as completely terrifying as the bridge had been.

We then went across a three-wire bridge, where you held onto two wires at waist level and walked across one. Leslie found this one to be the hardest, as the wire shook and swayed wildly as you walked, and if you didn't keep your arms straight out to your sides the modicum of stability provided by the two handrail wires would collapse. I had done an activity like this before at camp, part of a school or chorus bonding exercise. In that case I panicked and brought in my arms, and I fell (not far, as then, like in New Zealand, we were held up with harnesses). I felt vindicated this time, as I kept my arms out and my eyes forward, and I got across the wire without mishap.

The penultimate activity involved climbing a pole slightly taller than the others, then standing on it. From there you had to leap to a trapeeze a few feet away. Standing up on the pole was the most difficult part of this, as you had nothing to old onto or steady yourself with as you stood on the pole. I went first, and when I got to the top, my resolve not to be a sissy wavered. It seemed very high indeed, and standing up on top of a pole with no support seemed ludicrous. "I..."

"If you say you can't, I'm cutting your ropes," barked Glenn from the ground. "Put your weight on your left leg and straighten your right." Having no choice, I did as he said. I did stand, and I was supposed to count to three and leap for the trapeeze. I counted to three and jumped, but I was just jumping off. I wasn't aiming for the trapeeze and it was no surprise I wasn't even close to it. I knew I was safe in my support harness, and I mostly just wanted to be off the pole.

Leslie, however, caught the bar with no problem. When I had stood up on the pole, Glenn had allowed me to hold onto the ropes attached to my safety harness. They didn't provide any stability or make it less likely I would fall, as they were attached to me and would fall with me. But it made me feel better to hold onto something. Leslie got no such coddling.



"Hands off those ropes! Hey, hey, none of that!" Glenn knew Les wasn't as scared as I was, and he was going to make him do it the hard way. But he managed stand up even without holding onto anything, and his leap to the trapeze was graceful. He caught it easily and swung there for a while before being lowered to the ground.

The final activity was jumping off a platform on what they called the "Giant Swing." Your harness was attached to a high point, and you jumped and swung back and forth in your harness. This was slightly uncomfortable, as the harness cuts into your legs after a while, but it wasn't as scary as the rest of the activities, as you weren't relying on your own strength to get you anywhere. It was all out of your hands, which I found reassuring.




After all that clambering around and shaking and sweating, I decided we should take advantage of the area's natural hot springs to relax. It was wonderful to have a nice, hot soak after all that testing of muscles. It stank, of course, as all the hot springs did. But it was worth it, and I think we certainly earned it.

You want me to WHAT?!

We just got back from a fabulous trip to our neighbour to the south, New Zealand. It's an absolutely stunning country, very hilly (Aukland, its largest city, made me appreciate the relative flatness of Melbourne as I contemplated what cycling to work would be like there). We were exclusively on the North Island, and we pretty much stayed put around Rotorua, a geothermal area in the middle of the North Island.

The area around Rotorua is absolutely beautiful, full of steaming lakes, boiling mud and volcanoes, active and dormant. It also stinks. Literally. The stench of sulfur is everywhere, so the entire area smells like rotten eggs. Sometimes it was better than others, but you always knew you were in a geothermal area. The customs official on the way back, when he heard we stayed in Rotorua, laughed and said, "Well, I guess you get used to the smell." And eventually, I guess, you do.

I get the feeling that you could just keep having a good time in the out of doors in New Zealand as long as your time and money lasted. We certainly didn't run out of stuff to do.

Of course, when you land in New Zealand you have to sign a contract promising you'll do insane things. It's just part of the NZ experience. And we did plenty - white-water rafting, hiking, kayaking, rolling downhill in a giant hamster ball, swimming with dolphins and yes, bungy jumping. There's far too much to tell in one post, so I'm going to string it out and tell you one or two days at a time. This will also, I hope, ward off some "why haven't you posted in ages, you lazy scamps" comments.

Our hotel was beautiful. It was called the Lakehouse Hotel, on Lake Road, and it had a postcard view of Lake Rotorua outside our window. The hotel itself was built in the 19th century and looked like the site of a shoot-out in a Western. It was full of outside staircases leading to upstairs porches, and you could just imagine gunslingers tripping up and down the steps, bursting in and out of windows and firing off six-shooters.

On the first day we went to Orakei Korako, an area known for its geothermal activity. The Lonely Planet guide says it is "one of the best geothermal areas left in New Zealand," a quote that figures prominently in all of the park's literature. But we figured if we were going to see a geothermal area, it might as well be the best one. I was tempted by the Lady Knox geyser, which erupts at another geothermal area every day at 10:15 am until I learned that it erupts so regularly because they put soap in it to push it along. We decided then to go au naturel and see geysers that erupted off their own bats, in their own good time.

The park was spectacular. The path took us by hissing geysers, boiling cascades, steaming lakes and bubbling mud, as well as down into an impressive cave with jade-green, lukewarm water. The colours in some of the pools were spectacular. Some were bright orange, some deep green, some sky blue and many acid white. We didn't get to see any geysers in full eruption, but the gurgled and sent up billowing clouds of steam accomodatingly.

The boiling mud was particularly impressive, as, well, you don't really think of mud as a bubbling sort of substance. It had a particularly noxious odour, and it made a rather disgusting plop-plop noise. Impressive all the same, though.

The park was near a town about 75km south of Rotorua, Taupo. Since we were close, we decided to poke the head in and see what Taupo was about. The guide book describes Taupo as a must-see for adrenalin junkies. Where's the place for those who are just fine where they are, thank you, but whose boyfriends want to do crazy things, I want to know.

On the way there we visited Huka Falls, a moderately impressive waterfall (NZ spoils you when it comes to natural beauty, and especially waterfalls, due to the aforementioned hills. You get to the point where breathtakingly beautiful waterfalls in any other country become merely moderately impressive) and river.

I was at the wheel when we drove into Taupo, and due to a possible mishearing of a direction from my navigator or a misdirection from the navigator (opinions differ as to this point), I turned left out onto a secondary road instead of right into the centre of town. When Leslie discovered we were going the wrong way, he said I should find somewhere to turn around. Frustrated, and not very good at turning around in cars, I screeched to the side of the road in a blaze of windscreen wipers (the bloody things were on the wrong side, as I was attempting to find the indicators - all is understood, Mum) and told Leslie that if he was such a smarty-pants about directions, he could drive. So I guess what happened after that was my fault, really.

I had completely inadvertently and through sheer dumb luck (whether it was good luck or bad luck is still a matter of some debate, but it was certainly dumb) pulled up outside Taupo Bungy. Leslie, now at the wheel, decided we should go in and see what the bungy jumping was like.

The jump is set up on a platform 47 metres (154 feet for you non-Communists) above the Waikato River. The river is a sparkling blue-green and quite peaceful, and the view from the clifftop was certainly beautiful. But not so beautiful you want to hurl yourself off it so it'll be the last thing you see, in my opinion. We wandered around and watched fool after fool, singly and in pairs, leap off the platform with naught but a rubber band tied around their ankles to ensure they didn't end up in the drink at a speed of 32 feet per second per second, or 9.8 metres squared. Some yelled, some shrieked, some swore, some whooped, and all bounced around like an out-of-control yo-yo.

We wandered out onto the platform as far as non-jumpers could go, and it was a really long way down. The flying monkeys who worked at the joint seemed to have no trouble zipping up and down in skimpy harnesses and bouncing around just as if they weren't suspended high above a river, but my breath came short just by standing on the platform. But Leslie was clearly intrigued. He kept saying things like "when we do this," and what position he wanted to jump in. He said we should jump separately, as he wanted to go by himself. I said there was absolutely no way on God's green earth I was hurtling off such a ridiculous contraption by myself.

We'd sort of discussed doing a bungy jump later in the trip, and while it was all in safe amorphous "someday" territory I came around from "you think I'm going to do a damn fool thing like that you got another thing coming" to "perhaps, maybe, we'll see." Although as any parent knows, those two things aren't actually so far apart - "we'll see" almost always means "not if I can come up with an excuse to weasel out of this." Actually standing on a shaky platform more than a hundred feet over a river put me squarely back in the first mindset. But Leslie was determined.

He talked me round. It was like a ride at Six Flags, he said, and even though I always thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea right when I got up to the top of the queue, I always had a good time, didn't I? And nothing could go wrong, look at all those people who were successfully leaping from this yoke without dying. I gave in, and we bought a ticket for a tandem jump.

When we got on the platform, though, and through a gate ominously signed "Jumpers Only", it suddenly did not seem anything like a ride at Six Flags. I felt panicky, and I was unable to slow my breathing. I was on the verge of completely losing it. The flying monkeys had us sit on a bench ever so close to the edge and attached a harness to our ankles, the other end of which was attached to a surprisingly heavy bungy cord. By this point I was shaking badly and on the verge of hyperventilating. They had us stand up and shuffled us towards the edge. I started shaking my head, "I don't think this is a good idea, no really, I don't think I want to do this..." Leslie tried to reassure me, telling me it was OK. It was difficult to believe him, though, when all of my senses were screaming that it was definitely not OK, and I should not be walking to the edge of a 47-metre drop.

The bungy cord at our feet felt as if it would drag me over, as its weight snaked over the edge and exerted force. The small rope separating jumpers from the Great Beyond was removed, and then I lost it. Paralysed by fear, I could not make myself go towards that edge. "No." The word was soft, but decisive. "I am not doing this. I am absolutely not doing this, get me down from here." My heart was pounding, I could scarcely breathe and all my limbs were shaking uncontrollably. Tell me again the fun part of this?

One of the monkeys disconnected the rubber band from my feet and asked Leslie if he wanted to jump by himself. As that's what he'd wanted all along, he readily agreed. The monkeys radioed to those back on terra firma: "Cassidy is DNJ." In an instant I had gone from game to that most contemptible of creatures, a DNJ - did not jump. I scarcely cared. With tears welling up I got off the platform as fast as I could.

I went to the viewing platform and watched Leslie tumble over the edge. I felt miserable. Now that I was in no more immediate danger, I was ashamed of my cowardice, but still shaking from my fear. All those people did it, why couldn't I? Why couldn't my rational mind overcome my basic senses, that this was, contrary to all appearances, a safe activity?

The mother of the kid who went before Leslie came over to me. "I saw you up there - did you jump?" I knew that if I spoke I would start roaring crying, so I just shook my head. "It's really high." "Yeah, I was too scared." Mercifully, seeing the tears in my eyes, she left me alone after that.

Leslie returned, safe and exhilarated from his fall. He said I didn't have to do it and he hadn't known how badly scared I was. But by this time (as you leap off a cliff, it takes some considerable time to climb back up it) I was no longer so scared, just angry at myself and humiliated.

I gritted my teeth. "I have to do it now," I said. He said I didn't have to prove anything, but I did. If everyone else could do it, I could do it. If I left without doing it I would feel like a failure. We went back into the office and asked if I could give it another go. I had to identify myself as "the DNJ," but they were encouraging. They said I could try it again.

Les and I once again went out on the platform. I smiled shakily at the flying monkeys. "I know I gave you trouble before, but I'm good now." They attached the harness as before and brought us to the edge. Once the rope was removed and the pull of the cord was dragging at my ankles, I again felt panic welling up. But my determination forced it down. I made myself shuffle to the edge, though I didn't want to get too close. One of the monkeys made sure we were all the way at the edge, toes hanging into space.

Leslie says he remembers jumping at that point, but photographic evidence documents the fact that at that point the monkey pushed us. I had my eyes closed pretty much from the time we got close to the edge, and I'm pretty sure I didn't jump.

However we got off that platform, though, in a second we were hurtling towards the river. I opened my eyes as we hit almost the bottom of our descent, and the actual falling wasn't at all scary. We bobbed up and down for a while, swinging crazily high up and swooping towards the river again. The thing that stays in my mind most about the actual experience is that it gives you a headache. Which makes some sense, given that you're suspended upside down.

But I did it.