Wilkinson's World

Archive for the ‘Humour’ Category

As you have no doubt gathered, Rob and I are inveterate travelers and will pack a suitcase at the drop of a hat.  We’ve been privileged to visit many overseas countries (at great expense because of our darned weak currency) and so whilst sipping cool beers on our front patio one evening, we decided it was time to pull in the reigns on all this travel spending and lower our sights a bit.  We would take to camping and explore Southern Africa instead.  This would have a twofold benefit – we would save a fortune and get to know our own and neighbouring countries much better.

Here’s what our first attempt at camping looked like:

A modest start

After one or two these trips Rob got this faraway glint in his eyes and started dropping hints about how nice it would be to have a 4×4 so that we could visit Namibia.  “Not a new car”, he said, “we could perhaps get ourselves a good second-hand one.”

I think Rob must have worked for the CIA at some stage because he then started applying Chinese torture tactics and the hints fell like water dripping on a stone.  The clincher for the deal was when he insisted that we drive my little car (featured above) halfway up Sani Pass.  Anyone who knows Sani Pass knows that it isn’t a road, it is a rocky track designed to remove the bottom of one’s car and chew up tyres within eight kilometers.  After we finally managed to lever my car off a boulder and tie the exhaust back on with a piece of wire, I threw my hands up in despair and said: “Okay, you win, let’s go and find a 4×4!”

And so with great luck we managed to buy an almost new Toyota Hilux in mint condition.  The only snag was that it needed a canopy otherwise we couldn’t store any of our gear on the back.  Things were definitely looking up though.

Then Rob started buying the Getaway magazine which features all the mod cons that are a must for camping, and guess what!  The perfect accessory (according to him) was a rooftop tent.  “They don’t cost much,” he said “and make camping so much easier as they can be put up in minutes.  We’d have much more space in the car for all our gear and utilities.”  This sounded like a plan, but at this stage I had also been paging through the Getaway adverts and saw the ultimate camping accessory – a 40 litre Engel fridge.  Now I had some leverage.  “You get the rooftop tent if I get a fridge.”  We had battled in the heat with cooler boxes and the like, so a fridge, as far as I was concerned was a necessity, not a luxury.  I won!  Off we went to the Safari Centre to buy these TWO items.  What an ignoramus I must have been.

Two hours later we staggered out of the shop with a highlift jack, a compressor, a fridge, two folding chairs, numerous jerry cans, water bottles and an appointment to come back the following week to have the rooftop tent fitted – on roof tracks – next to a roof rack.  “What had happened back there”, I wondered.  “I thought we were getting ourselves a tent and a fridge.”

And we're off

I must give Rob credit though – once we were kitted out, our camping became a delight.  We thought that as campers we had finally arrived!  But wait, what did the latest edition of Getaway come up with?  A drawer system for the bakkie (in Africa we call a truck a bakkie).  These are great because they come with a sliding section for the fridge to come right out of the vehicle and make it more accessible.  Yes, we definitely needed one of those.  No more utility boxes cluttering up the car – we could put all our food and clothing in the lock up drawers.  Perfect.

Anyone who visits Namibia or Botswana knows that there isn’t always a shady tree to camp under and when temperatures soar up in the 30C’s and 40C’s you definitely need some shade.  Getaway was advertising some wonderful canopies that attach to the side of your vehicle.  They pull out about three meters, giving you loads of shade.  Oh yes, we had to have one of those.

The full monty!

The latest acquisition was a GPS as we would be traveling in such remote areas that we could disappear off the planet without knowing which direction we were taking.

So now, let’s get back to those costly overseas trips that we were complaining about.  Let’s work out what this camping has saved us over the last five years:

When we decided to go through the Central Kalahari, Rob started talking about having a snorkel attached to the car because of the dust and deep sand.  Enough is enough.  If I have any say in the matter, the only snorkeling we’ll be doing will be in a shallow lagoon in the Seychelles.  Who are we kidding – this camping lark isn’t saving us a cent!!!    But it will from now on, as we have everything we need – if we stop buying Getaway.

Note to the kids:  If you give Rob a subscription to Getaway for Christmas you will be disinherited!

When you think back over your life, who are the folks that you remember most? It’s not the quiet peaceful guys that stand out in your mind but those unconventional people who did extraordinary things, drove you mad, or made you laugh. It’s these delicious characters who make life colourful and its always a delight to come across them. You’ve probably met quite a few in your lifetime and no doubt they will spring to mind when you read this. Perhaps you’re even one of them! If so, good for you.

My own family has been blessed with crazy souls – I remember my eighty year old father-in-law replacing the entire roof of his house without any help whatsoever. This was an amazing feat for an octogenarian, but sometimes his enthusiasm for the job was so overwhelming that he forgot to dress appropriately and on at least three occasions he was caught working in his slippers which didn’t give him any grip on the slanting roof.  His craziness wasn’t limited to fixing roofs in his eighties, but we won’t go there right now.

You have to be a bit weird to ride a bicycle across continents don’t you think. I have to admit that being married to someone who does this occasionally makes for an interesting life. We met an Australian male nurse one Christmas and told him that Rob had ridden across Australia in just twenty-eight days (see account of this trip and others under his Cycling page on this site) but this gentleman was totally unimpressed, telling us that he had ridden around the whole perimeter of Australia on a horse. Well not exactly one horse – it had taken him four years and numerous horses to make this incredible journey. His hobby was to go around the world and join in re-enactments of cavalry charges of famous battles. I just love these people who travel the road less ordinary.

I could go on about eccentrics and achievers we know, but let me tell you that unusual behaviour is not limited to homo-sapiens. We’ve seen quite a few animals that defy typical behaviour for their species.

Some people take domestication of animals to extremes. We came across this goat at the same place where we met the Australian horseman and were amazed at how this animal was addicted to TV. According to his owner he loved watching sport and would sit on the couch for hours glued to the telly. However, if they changed channels to SkyNews, it would really get his goat (sorry about that) and he would promptly drop off to sleep. This same household also had a beautiful otter as a pet, but it’s toilet training left a lot to be desired. 

Oh no! Not SkyNews again!

We spent last Christmas at a farm in Namibia called Namibgrens and here we came across a tame baboon that had been hand-reared by the farmer when its mother was killed accidentally. Bobby was a real character because he grew up with a herd of goats and didn’t realize that he wasn’t one himself. He spends his days harassing the goats on the farm to such an extent that one has to feel quite sorry for them. Bobby’s fame spread far and wide when he captured the imagination of the editor of a magazine called Drive Out and featured in a little write up on the leader page.  

Bobby thinks he's a goat

At Roys Camp near Grootfontein we were preparing a New Year’s Eve braai when an Eland walked into our campsite and helped itself to half a loaf of bread on the table. Once it had finished eating it came and said hello before disappearing into the bushes. We were left wondering what his story was.  

Rob and the Eland

At most of the campsites we visit we usually find hungry cats and always put milk out for them. They are mostly wild and very timid. However, at Harnass, a wildlife rehabilitation centre on the eastern side of Namibia, we were visited by an enormous ginger cat and his companion, a mongoose. What an unlikely friendship.

Strange friends

If you spot warthogs in the wild they usually run off at great speed with their tails straight up in the air. At the Chobe Safari Lodge campsite in the Caprivi, we were a little intimidated when an enormous warthog came into our space. We needn’t have worried though, as he turned out to be quite docile with a penchant for Romany Cream biscuits!

Warthog at Chobe

Even birds sometimes show their little characters in delightful ways. This crow at Sossusvlei caused much amusement in our party when he aggressively jostled with the bulbuls and sparrows for bread. He didn’t eat it however, but buried it all around the area to dig up at a later stage. I guess that is a survival thing in the desert. We had to hang onto our food as he was quite prepared to grab it off the table in front of us. 

Bread thieving crow

And lastly, this sweet little Trac Trac Chat greeted us on arrival at the Moon Landscape near Swakopmund and followed us around as we checked out the scenery. He was no slouch as can be seen from his dead straight back. I immediately stood more erect in his presence! He so impressed our party that  my brother Vaughan and Mary made up a limerick about him on our drive home.  (This is an abridged version!   Note:  Vaughan and Mary join our list of weird and wonderful people as they make up limericks about everything in sight)

The chat is a quaint little bird
Who lives in a place quite absurd
With just desert and sand
And no food right on hand
He’s thinking of moving, we’ve heard 

Welcoming Trac Trac Chat

These wonderful encounters, both human and animal, make life so interesting and I can’t wait to see who or what will be next to enrich our lives.

I’ve got a strong belief that what you focus on grows. The more thought you give to something, the more it pops up in your life. On a recent holiday I heard (what I thought was) a great Lucky Dube song called Reggae Strong and was delighted when Rob bought me his CD with lots of lively Rasta music. I played it constantly before going to Cape Town for a week and, sure enough, it brought some Rastafarians into my life!

But before I tell you about the Rastas, let me set the scene. I was returning to Windhoek on a luxury bus – something that is always an absolute treat given the stunning scenery that one passes through along the way. Also, it is now late August and the time of the year when the Spring flowers are blooming in profusion. The roadside and hills are covered in blankets of yellow, orange, purple and white flowers and Arum Lilies grow next to all the streams. Never mind the 1265kms that stretch ahead to be eaten up over nineteen long hours, with padded seats that recline practically horizontally and enormous viewing windows, the journey is normally very pleasurable.

I wasn’t unduly concerned when a number of Congolese Rastas boarded the bus and proceeded to take up seats behind me. Admittedly, they are a little disconcerting with their matted dreadlocks and shaggy beards – I took one look at their hair and thought that it would take a sheep shearer or a mat comb to bring it into some sort of order and I wondered when last any water or shampoo had passed over their heads. Although the bus was in immaculate condition, there were no paper anti-macassars that one usually finds draped over headrests on planes and buses. I immediately wondered who had rested their head on my seat before me. Could it have been one of these kind of guys? Mark one against the bus service.

Mark two came very shortly after departure when the TV came on and we were subjected to a couple of hours of religious programmes. This had annoyed me intensely on the journey to Cape Town and to have to endure it a second time was a bit much. I was further riled when an offer came on screen for advertisers to ply their wares via this media as they had a captive audience. Christianity shouldn’t be forced down one’s throat because one is a ‘captive audience’. Shame on them. One old lady, who was seated directly in front of the TV screen ended up putting a blanket over her head in an effort to shut it out.

About ten minutes after the TV was switched off, one of the Rastas decided that it was time for us to listen to his ghetto blaster which he turned up in competition with the sedate piped music of the bus. Mark three against the steward for not asking the Rasta to turn it off.

Things started to get really dreadful on the bus when I put my seat back into the reclining position and tried to take a nap. The Rasta behind me, also in the mood for relaxing, thought it would be nice to take off his shoes. I don’t know how long he’d been in South Africa, but I would hazard a guess that he hadn’t washed his feet since leaving the Congo goodness knows when. The rotten smell that hit my nostrils was enough to shock me into an upright position. I grabbed my knee rug and plastered it over my face. My God! What a pong.

Within minutes the air in the downstairs area of the bus was blue and people were placing their hands over their noses. When the steward eventually came to check up on us, he got an alarmed look on his face and rushed back to the front to put the air conditioner on full blast. This gave us a small measure of relief, but it came at a price as we were now all sitting there freezing our butts off.

Mark four against the bus was the air-conditioning. They have a fancy little switch above one’s head where one can turn it on or off, but this is over-ridden by the main system that gushes out cold air from vents right beside the one that is closed. What’s the point. I then spent the next sixteen hours shivering and hugging my blanket to my face. I was even relieved when we were delayed at the Namibian border post for an hour and a half when two folks had hassles getting clearance to come into the country. It was such a relief to stand outside in the cold winter night and gulp in great dollops of fresh air.

Fortunately once we all got back into the bus my Rasta Rebel kindly decided to keep his shoes on – perhaps his feet were getting cold from the air conditioner. The next seven hours passed without too much pain and I even got to see the wonderful Milky Way from my relaxed position. I almost kissed the ground when I finally got off the bus in Windhoek!

I’m now in the process of writing a letter to the bus company. Oh, and I’m also disinfecting my hair. And as for Lucky Dube’s song called ‘Rastas Never Die” – maybe they don’t, they just smell like rotting corpses!

My apologies to any Rastas who might read this who do get to clean their feet more regularly.  This is not about you.

Being a relatively healthy individual (touch wood, of course) I’m no pundit on medicines and how they work, but I have recently developed an interest in the phenomenon of the unconscious and deep sleep state.

One doesn’t hear too often these days of delicate young ladies fainting and swooning like they did in the early 19^th century, although I must admit that this does still seem to happen occasionally at rock concerts.  I rather suspect that we have evolved into a much more robust species due in all likelihood to emancipation and women’s lib.  I can’t imagine that it would have done the image of those tough suffragettes much good if they had been caught swooning whilst tied to their lamp-posts.

We could probably even trace our evolution back to the fearless girls of the sixties who burnt their bras.  They couldn’t possibly afford to swoon or faint into crumpled heaps when going braless – it could have lead to all sorts of fondling and abuse whilst they were non-compos mentis.

Looking at the solutions they used to bring the ladies of yesteryear out of their faints, one often reads of the much-used sal volatile, salt of hartshorn or smelling salts being waved under their noses.  These were highly effective due to the pungent ammonia content of the salts which was initially derived from the antlers of male deer (harts) before being produced synthetically in laboratories.

But before I give women a bad name for being wimps, let us not forget that smelling salts were (and still are) also used to revive robust athletes and sportsmen who lose consciousness when injured on the field or in the arena.  Big hulking boxers, knocked unconscious by their opponents, are brought around by the wonders of white crystalline salts of ammonium carbonate.

How these smelling salts work is by releasing ammonia gas which, when inhaled, irritates the mucous membranes of the nose and lungs, causing the patient to breathe faster and revive.  Perfume is sometimes added to the solution to improve the smell of the salts.   These days, in some medical circles, the chemicals in smelling salts are deemed to be potentially harmful and they are therefore considered dangerous.  Ammonia should only be used in small quantities in well-ventilated rooms as their fumes can be quite toxic in large amounts.

I know that great care has to be taken with animals that are anaesthetized for operations as their little bodies are not able to take the slightest overdose when putting them under.  In my research I haven’t come across any methods for bringing animals back to consciousness, although I heard a joke once describing how a cat was passed slowly past the nose of an unconscious dog to see if there was any reaction, with the owner being sent an horrendous bill later for the ‘cat scan’.

If no equivalent of smelling salts is available yet for reviving animals, then perhaps I can be of help as I seem to have stumbled upon a fail-proof remedy capable of bringing even the most comatose cat out of its slumbering state.  They say there’s none so deaf as those who will not hear and my cat is living proof of this maxim.  When he is curled up asleep on his favourite chair, with his nose buried deeply into his folded paws, no amount of calling or coaxing will get him to lift up his head in acknowledgment.  Even his ears remain motionless, making one wonder if he’s gone deaf whilst lying there or worse still, died in his sleep.

My version of smelling salts is so potent that even if my cat is fast asleep in another room, or outside in the garden, one sniff of my miracle remedy will have him wide awake and clamouring to be with me.  I aught to patent my discovery for the commercial potential is vast, but as I’m in a philanthropic mood and generally have a warm fuzzy feeling towards fellow cat-lovers, I will disclose my well-kept secret for nothing.  Dried Wors (sausage).

This will probably come as a shock to those die-hard rugby supporters who consider dried wors only as essential fare for watching a game, but this incredible sausage definitely has all the properties required to revive cats instantly.  Not only is it harmless when taken in small doses, but one gets to share it with one’s feline friend, thus bonding the relationship even further.

We all know that drugs are tested on animals prior to being unleashed on humans, and, at the risk of having the bunny huggers and green people lynching me for having tested this wonder reviver on my cat, I highly recommend that the smell of the humble dried sausage be replicated in the laboratory and given to the world as the safe replacement for smelling salts.  Whilst at present the smell of dried wors is unknown to a large population of the world, I can vouch that it would waken even the most comatose South African.  I must warn you though, for folks who have left the country for pastures green, it could probably have some unpleasant side effects, like homesickness and depression.

BUNGY JUMPING – Gouritz River Bridge (Easter 2000)

Some eight hundred kilometers to the west of Fiji in the South Pacific Ocean lie a group of eighty-three islands collectively known as Vanautu or “the Land Eternal”.  Some of these islands are towering volcanic peaks and others are low-lying coral islands with wide, sandy beaches.  The people who inhabit the islands are, I am told, peaceful, loving and gentle souls who enjoy the sunshine, the sand and the good things of life.

Peaceful, loving and gentle they may be, but it would seem that too much sun gets to some of the men.  On one of the islands, the small island of Pentecost, the men are known to build wooden towers, often in excess of thirty-five meters in height.  They climb to the top of these towers, tie one end of a vine to their ankles and the other to the tower, and jump off.

This they may have done for hundreds of years in order to prove their manhood.  If the vine turns out to be more than thirty-five meters in length, of course, the jump simply proves their mortality.  Same result if the breaking strain of the vine is exceeded by the terminal body weight of the jumper.  If all goes well, they presumably emerge as men of whom their women can be justifiably proud.  Sort of like the circumcision rites amongst the Xhosa of South Africa, except that you get to keep your foreskin.  The tower jumps are also done to ensure a bountiful harvest of yams, although a bucket of fertiliser would seem both safer and more reliable.

On the 1^st April 1979 a group of students from Oxford University in England moved this ancient tradition from Vanautu into the first world, with appropriate hi-tech modifications and jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge after fastening opposite ends of an elastic rope to the bridge and to their ankles.  History doesn’t record the impact of this momentous event on the Cambridge yam harvest of 1979, but presumably it helped to establish the manhood of the participants.

 The rest of the world seems to have taken very little notice of the Cambridge event and it wasn’t until A J Hackett, in June of 1987, connected himself to the Eiffel Tower with a length of latex rubber and jumped off, that the sport of Bungy Jumping was born.  Hackett went on to create the first commercial Bungy Jumping site in New Zealand that same year and the subsequent decade saw the sport of Bungy Jumping spread to many other parts of the world, including South Africa.

The first question that arises as you approach the subject of Bungy Jumping is :  How do you spell the word?  There are at least three variations that are in common use :  Bungy, Bungi and Bungee.  So uncertain is the correct form, that it is not uncommon to see different spelling being used within the same establishment.  Now English logic says that there can only be one correct form.  Americans, of course, are likely to have their own form, which the English are free to sneer at with the disdain that, they like to think, comes from good breeding.  For no sound etymological reason, I shall refer only to Bungy, and snigger at the ignorance of those who dare to choose differently.  Out of respect I shall address it only with a capital letter.

The idea of actually doing a Bungy Jump germinated in Jane’s fertile mind sometime during the early party of the year, although the desire was expressed rather vaguely at that stage.  It was something that she wanted to do, sometime.  It was really out of character and we all considered that it was very unlikely that she would actually attempt a jump, about as likely as the Pope visiting the Rheperbahn, incognito, with a pocketful of condoms, and far less fun to boot!  None of her friends expected her to do it.  But as long as it was a vague dream, it was considered harmless enough.

We planned to visit the Tsitsikamma National Park at the mouth of the Storms River for the Easter weekend.  When we found that we could get a booking for the last two nights only, the plan was hatched to drive past Storms River and on to the Gouritz River so that she could do a Bungy Jump off the old bridge on Good Friday.  We would then stay over in Albertinia on Friday night and make our way to Tsitsikamma on Saturday.  Suddenly there was a definite plan and a definite date.

Jane told many of her family, friends and colleagues that she planned a Bungy Jump and no doubt many of them laughed up their sleeves.  It did mean, however, that it would be very difficult for her to chicken out without looking like an absolute bag of wind.  Although I had expressed an interest early on in doing a Bungy Jump, I was careful not to commit myself and intentionally left the subject vague.

We arrived at the Gouritz Bridge at lunchtime and were somewhat horrified at the height of the bridge.  Sixty-five meters doesn’t sound very much, but one is inclined to think horizontally.  When sixty-five meters stretches vertically below your feet it seems infinite.  We were not cheered to see, when several small figures walked out into the water of the Gouritz River so far below us, that it was only ankle deep.  Head first into that after a sixty-five meter dive would take care of all your plans for the future.

Gouritz River Bridge

We watched one or two Bungy Jumpers in action and they made it look so easy.  Jane smiled.  I turned pale and offered to take some photographs of her jump.

We were given an indemnity form for Jane to fill in.  Have you noticed how no-one ever reads these forms?  These guys are going to tie a rope around your ankles and let you jump off a bridge, but they want you to sign a form to say that they are not responsible for any injury that you may suffer.  “No problem!  Where do I sign?”

One hundred and fifty rand was handed over and Jane was asked to step onto a scale.  Her weight was recorded on the back of her hand with a black marker pen, as well as her jump number and a “B” to show that she was a Bungy Jumper.  There are also two bridge swings available, so this distinction is necessary.  Then it was on to be fitted with a safety harness.

The organizers

It became obvious very quickly that the organizers of the jump, Kiwi Extreme, are absolutely superb in their treatment of their clients.  Everyone we encountered was friendly, knowledgeable and totally professional.  Safety is clearly their number one priority and they have seen thousands of jumpers off this bridge without a single serious mishap.  This enviable record is easy to understand once you have seen them in action.  Every step is checked and double-checked, by at least two persons working independently and every step is explained to the client so that he or she is aware of the precautions being taken.

Jane stepped into the harness, which loops around each thigh, over the shoulders and across the torso.  This harness is for backup only and will play no role in the jump unless the ankle harness should fail.  Once harnessed, Jane moved into the queue to await her turn.  I went down to the observation area and found a good position from which to photograph the action.  The observation area is situated on the cliff-edge between the new bridge and the old, facing the Bungy Jump platform.

After an eternity, it was Jane’s turn to be strapped for the jump.  She was seated on a bench and a bright red padded protector was wrapped around each lower leg and fastened with velcro.  A flat nylon strap with, she was told, a breaking strain of 4.7 tons was looped around her ankles, over the protective padding, and then looped between her legs so that the free end faced rearwards.  This was pulled tight, as the operator explained that the loop was designed to become tighter as strain was applied to the end.  He also explained that she would double her body weight at the full extension of the Bungy cord, and that the pressure on her ankles would be similar to the feeling experienced as he tightened the strap.

She smiled and nodded, looked intelligent and heard nary a word through the buzz of her own thoughts.

A safety strap was connected from her ankles to the full body harness to complete the back-up unit.  The operators had meanwhile checked her bodyweight and selected the correct Bungy cord, each of which is colour coded for a particular range of body weights.  These cords are changed after every three hundred jumps, in spite of the fact that they are deemed safe for in excess of one thousand jumps.

Jane stood  and hopped forward to the rail.  The Bungy cord was attached to the strap around her ankles, checked and double-checked, and she was eased through the guardrail and onto the jumping platform, which juts about two meters beyond the edge of the bridge.  A few small hops and her toes hung nervously over the edge.  Nothing between them and Mother Earth but sixty-five meters of air and twenty centimeters of water.  She raised her arms at her sides so that they were horizontal.  As if she was being crucified.

“Five, four, three, two, one, Bungy!!!!”  The crew counted down in unison.  Jane leaned forward, gently supported from the rear by an operator who held onto her safety harness.  On the cry of “Bungy!!!” he released her and she dived forward.

Jane in full flight

For obvious reasons I cannot describe what went through Jane’s mind for the next thirty seconds or so, so allow me to relate my own thoughts, as they occurred the following day, when I jumped off the same platform myself.

Rob ready to jump

I had bounded to the end of the steel jumping platform with a bravado that was well rooted in the safety record of Kiwi Extreme, but then I looked down and it was instantaneous panic.  Standing on that platform with my toes hovering in space provided the most terrifying moments of my life.  Don’t tell me that it’s safe – I know that.  Don’t tell me that Kiwi Extreme have never allowed anyone to get hurt – I know that too.  But it’s not natural to stand on a bridge and dive headfirst into nothing.  It’s not rational.  It’s not intelligent.  The mind rebels at the thought.  “Stuff this,” the mind says, “I’m quite comfortable right here on this bridge.  Why jump?”  No matter how safe Bungy Jumping is, it can’t beat just staying on the bridge.

Moment of terror!

On the cry of  “Bungy!!!” the operator released me and I dived forward.  No, I exaggerate, I fell forward more than I dived.  Collapsed, really, with a little kick attached.  Then the ground and the shallow water of the Gouritz River rushed upwards at an amazing speed as I toppled into a head-down position.  The rubber duck with its two attendants, so small when seen from the bridge, increased in size at an astonishing rate as the sides of the gorge whizzed by and the distance between us vanished.  My mind grappled inevitably with whether or not the cord would hold.

I don’t think that I screamed on the way down.  If I did it would have been an obscenity or two that escaped from between tightly clenched teeth.  Nothing more.  I should have closed my eyes to keep out the rising earth, but I am sure that fear had my eyeballs protruding too far by this time.

“Did you hear the wind whistling gently past your ears?” you ask.  “That quiet rush of air that so many jumpers describe?”  Give me a break!  I don’t think that I would have heard Krakatoa erupting if it was a few meters away.

Just a few seconds of falling that lasted an eternity.  Just twenty-five or thirty meters of free falling and the Bungy cord came into play, stretching itself comfortably under my weight.  No jerk.  No noticeable feeling of pressure around the ankles.  No retina-detaching jolt.  Just a slowing of the rapid descent until the elastic cord reached the limit of its extension, and then I was on my way up.

Good grief!  The underside of the bridge approached me at what seemed to be a faster rate than the ground had done just a moment earlier.  My mind latched onto the fact that there was nothing to stop me hitting the bridge, save the force of gravity.

“You won’t hit the ground,” I had been assured earlier with a derisive chuckle.  “The Bungy cord will never break.”

Okay I accept that.  Just proved it, in fact.  But what’s going to stop me hitting the bridge?  How come I hadn’t thought to ask anyone this suddenly vital question?  Is there some obscure rule somewhere that insists that you will never rebound to a height approaching your starting point?  I blinked.  Okay, it was a long blink.  In fact I didn’t open my eyes until I was on my way down again, after not hitting the bridge.  I was rotating like a top and the sides of the gorge processed in and out of view in an orderly fashion, but this gradually slowed.  The bouncing also grew less and finally they both stopped.

I looked up at the bridge, then down at the ground.  What a ridiculous position to be in, I thought, more than a little relieved at finding I was not to be the one to spoil the operator’s perfect safety record.  Hanging by my ankles, suspended somewhere between the bridge and the ground on a piece of latex rubber.  And I had paid good money for this?

Slowly I was lowered to the floor of the rubber duck, onto my back, and unstrapped from the safety harness.

“Now wasn’t that great?” the boatman enthused.

Now that it was all over, well, yes, I suppose it was great.  Not great enough for me to want to do it again, mind.  I felt foolish at the few moments of terror now that I was safely on the ground.  It is illogical to be fearful of something that is patently safe.  But then, fear is not always rational.  Why are so many people fearful of non-poisonous snakes or spiders?  Or the dark?  Or roller-coaster rides?  Or, I thought, Bungy Jumps?

I sat in the boat and watched the next jumper come hurtling down, a young girl who became garrulous with released tension now that her first jump was over.  She wanted to do it again.  She wanted to do the bridge swing.  If only her boyfriend wasn’t so scared.  She wanted to do somersaults off the bridge next time.  Well, why not?  Having done a Bungy Jump makes some people feel that they are ready to tackle just about anything.

The following jumper showered us unintentionally with the coins that he had not removed from his pockets, which was not only silly, but also dangerous.  Having survived a Bungy Jump, death by a cranium crushing fifty cent piece was an irony I could happily do without.  Once the third jumper was safely in the boat we were pushed across to the bank where we disembarked.

The climb to the top of the gorge was a steep one, with ladders and ropes being provided to assist the climbers over the more difficult sections.  At the top I collected my certificate and video, and the jump was complete.