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.