The trip only took two hours during which we stopped to inspect a burning smell emanating from the car, which we'd first noticed in Milford Sound the previous week. It dissipated before we could determine the source, so I crossed my fingers and hoped I wasn't traversing mountains with faulty brakes. While we were stopped, we took a quick pic of a particularly NZ's most ubiquitous creatures.
I remember thinking, when still on the North Island, that I didn't know why people said there were so many sheep in NZ. Seemed like more cows to me. Oh, how very very wrong I was.
Anyway, we rolled up to Queenstown in time for Franca to help me get my stuff into my hostel, grab a bite to eat, and hop onto her bus to Christchurch, from where she'd be flying out the next morning. We hugged each other so long and hard, not to mention tearfully, that passersby stopped and giggled. Our twenty-six days together had flown by. We'd barely spent more than an hour out of each other's company, and both of us wished we could stay together longer. I repeat: someone spent 26 days with me, 24/7 and was not running for the hills. I should have married the girl. Damn my lack of sapphic interest!
Upon returning to the hostel, I quickly realized I hadn't seen its equal in New Zealand. Cushy beds, swanky bathrooms, balconies everywhere, a plush lounge area with a huge flat screen TV, and-- best of all-- a kitchen personal chefs would envy.
I settled in and then, after a quick supermarket run, I wandered around town, stopping by the lake to take in the view.
The weather turned on a dime, and it started to pour. My throat had started to feel rather sore anyway, so I took the bad weather as reason enough to return to the hostel and climb into bed early.
I spent the next two days pretty much feeling like crap. I sounded like Carol Channing and felt older. I managed to run a few errands, Skype Franca, and arrange for a pair of extreme sport excursions for Friday, but otherwise, I pretty much slept and worked my way through the second season of Downton Abbey.
I felt better long enough to attend the hostel's weekly Wednesday night dinner. Thank goodness I did because Brendan, the owner of the hostel, cooked up one hell of a meal: braised beef, grilled squash, steamed broccoli and carrots, and yorkshire pudding. I spent the evening chatting about wine, music, history, and linguistics with him and my viniculturist roomies over a couple of bottles I had bought. I'd rarely eaten so well or had such enjoyably lofty conversation over the whole of my trip. And to make the evening truly sublime, we ended the night watching Dave Chappelle's classic stand-up "Killing Them Softly," which holds up remarkably well 11 years on, may I say.
Thursday I felt awful again, but Friday, I rallied my spirits in time to make my early A.M. rafting trip. I enjoyed myself, but I recognized early on that I had overpaid for what mostly amounted to a floating down a lovely but disappointingly gentle river. Honestly, other than one or two tricky passes, I'd gotten more of an adrenalin rush from the bus ride along the perilously steep road into Shotover canyon, where we started the journey. Besides which, the water ran so cold that I couldn't feel my feet and I already felt poorly
The afternoon's excursion, on the other hand, more than met my expectations. I had decided to do the Shotover Canyon Swing, a 60 meter dead drop into the 109 meter canyon, which I had rafted down earlier that day. Unable to do a traditional bungee because of the herniated disc in my back, I had chosen the swing because at the bottom of the drop, you are seamlessly caught up into a 200-meter arc over the canyon, which allows for all the excitement with none of the impact of the snap of the bungee.
I had heard stories of how the Shotover Canyon Swing crew tries to psych out their clientele, and they didn't disappoint. The video shown on the way to the canyon showed people nearly pissing themselves in fear, screaming like idiots, and begging not to be dropped. Once we'd arrived, I volunteered to go first and let my handlers choose how I would fall from the 70-some possible positions. They picked "The Chair," and a few minutes later I sat, all harnessed-up, in a plastic lawn chair with the back two legs teetering on the edge of the platform. As they instructed me on how to tip myself backward and over the edge, they teased me mercilessly, claiming to have forgotten to secure something or other and discussing their lack of experience, but I refused to believe them. I felt duly nervous and excited at the prospect of tumbling into the abyss, of course, but I laughed heartily as they yanked me back up each time I got up the courage to push myself over. Finally, when I least expected it, they let go, and over I went.
(This isn't me, but a couple who went shortly after me.)
I absolutely loved every second of it. I woo-hooed my head off as I flipped over and over before swinging out over the canyon, back and forth. After they pulley me back up to the platform, they pouted about their inability to freak me out: "You're supposed to be scared, crazy girl!" My response: "I want to go again." Luckily, free tandem swings came with each single swing that month, and I convinced a guy from my van to do the "Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood." Basically, you're harnessed so that you're strapped in beside the other person with one hand behind their back, both of you hanging from a rope at your stomachs; then they cantilever you out over the canyon, you invert yourself so that your legs wrap around the cable above and you face down, looking into the canyon. Then they cut the cord. Or release it anyway. You fall straight down, face-first the whole way, and then you can right yourself as you swing. Loved it.
I would have gone again since additional swings only cost $40, but I really wanted the video and I couldn't afford both, so I went with the latter. My handlers offered me the option of going for free if I went naked, as is company policy, and showed me footage of others doing it. But the existence of said footage concerned me and one of the guys skeeved me out, seeming a bit too interested in finding out if I was a natural redhead. Besides, it was cold, and I'd been sick. Still, I rather regret not going for it.
So looking back longingly at the platform, I went to the booth, bought the video, which turned out to be worth the sacrifice, and caught my ride back to town. Sadly, as soon as the adrenalin left me, I felt horrible again, and I returned immediately to bed, where I stayed for the next 36 hours.
On Saturday, the weather and my health had both finally improved, so I decided to test my stamina by hiking up the first section of the Lomond track to check out the view over the town. I took my time, stopping now and then to watch mountain bikers barrel down the adjoining paths and zip-liners flying through the trees above. I felt winded but invigorated when I reached the top, where a ski lift and a luge track testified further to the truth behind Queenstown's adrenalin-junkie reputation.
After a turn around the top, I took the Gondola down, managing to walk right on without a ticket. Bungee jumpers launched off a nearby crane as I made my descent.
I had packed my bags before setting out that morning, so I picked up the car from it's parking space, grabbed my things from the hostel, and drove away.
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Location:Queenstown, New Zealand
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