Through Rotorua, for a brief stop via another hot pool and a boiling mud bath, and on to Taupo, a town on the shore of the impressive Lake Taupo and named by the indigenous after Princess Tia as TaupÅ-nui-a-Tia / The great cloak of Tia. I had been tempted with a few of the more extreme sports and activities before arriving in New Zealand, a number of my friends who had visited and stayed here had enthused about the abundance of what was on offer. When the tour guide spoke with his Kiwi lisp down his microphone and asked who would like to take on the skydive that afternoon, my arm shot up, as if in nervous reaction. More likely it was raised at such velocity so as to reassure my body that the decision was based on a sound judgement.
The Chief, James and I with pre-dive nerves
My concerns for the dive were eased by a considerate young Dutch girl, who, on seeing my ardent hand pointed up towards the plane that would settle my fate, spoke to me flatly that only two weeks before, at the very centre we were to jump, a skydive instructor and tourist had plummeted to a bloody and instant death once their parachute had not deployed. I may have whispered out a silent prayer soon after this morose discussion. The lighthearted banter of the coach did not reassure me either once we skirted to the gravel of the Lake Taupo Skydive hangar, the jeers and 'Nice knowing you' hollers were wonderful to register.
The Chief and a young Welsh lad called Ollie were fortunate enough to fly out on the first plane ride. James, a lighthearted Brummie, and I were left waiting impatiently in our navy blue overalls and life jacket harnesses for the following voyage, not before we had hesitatingly signed what the instructors declared as, "the death warrants", ensuring that the company were in no way liable to any serious injury or death.
My concerns for the dive were eased by a considerate young Dutch girl, who, on seeing my ardent hand pointed up towards the plane that would settle my fate, spoke to me flatly that only two weeks before, at the very centre we were to jump, a skydive instructor and tourist had plummeted to a bloody and instant death once their parachute had not deployed. I may have whispered out a silent prayer soon after this morose discussion. The lighthearted banter of the coach did not reassure me either once we skirted to the gravel of the Lake Taupo Skydive hangar, the jeers and 'Nice knowing you' hollers were wonderful to register.
The Chief and a young Welsh lad called Ollie were fortunate enough to fly out on the first plane ride. James, a lighthearted Brummie, and I were left waiting impatiently in our navy blue overalls and life jacket harnesses for the following voyage, not before we had hesitatingly signed what the instructors declared as, "the death warrants", ensuring that the company were in no way liable to any serious injury or death.
Hungo- "Do a stern face for the camera"
Stern = High camp, right? The pink plane does not help my waining masculinity either
We couldn't stop our laughter on seeing Ollie's face whilst sat shyly on the plane as it languidly ebbed away from view. His sheepish look (an apt description considering he was from Wrexham) was akin to Gareth from The Office when he was caught in the sidecar of the motorcycle after a regrettable night at Chasers in Slough:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycnhv2znhJY&feature=PlayList&p=57064E6CA1234016&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=1
My instructor, who I would be fastened on to and whose adept skills I would be relying on to preserve my life, was a Hungarian named imaginatively as Hungo. He spoke with the totalitarian authority of Arnie, his mechanical expertise and robotic responses to my twee comments were reassuring. So much so, that on boarding the bright pink plane, I pretended that I was Dillon and he was Dutch in the film Predator, focusing intently on the assignment ahead of us and ensuring that I would not offend Hungo with my pencil pushing.
You've got me, then who's got you? Oh, cool, a parachute
Once we were 12,000 foot in the air and the hatch was opened, with the incoming rush of icy winds, I began slowly to realise the task in hand. I had no time to change my mind and before I knew it, my feet were dangling off a plane, with only the wispy white stratus clouds and haze of green, brown earth below me. Hungo was gentlemanly enough to introduce me to the world of high adrenaline with a 360 degree flip, the first glimpse of the world I could see was the white underbelly of the plane I had just jumped off. The 40-60 seconds of free fall rushed by in a blur, all I can remember was that my face felt like it was being stretched and pulled out of the skull. When I came around, and looked down, all I could muster were huge bursts of laughter and whooping that can be heard on most weekends at the halls surrounding a frat party, as I looked across snow capped mountains to the side of the glistening Lake Taupo as it grew larger and larger in to view. Hungo's first utterance that I could comprehend, once he had deployed the yellow and blue striped parachute was (and remember to read this in an Arnie accent) "So, you have survived. I was dead tired before the jump so am as pleased as you"
I prompted reception to give Hungo another medical once I had landed.
Pilot headware? Winning look.
That night we retired at Taupo Urban Retreat, a smart little hostel where The Chief, James, Ollie and I relived the jump with our fellow travellers. However, my embellished stories of bravery were easily erased by mouse-like Nikki from Nottingham who recalled the time, completely out of the blue, mind, of when her martini was spiked in a grotty underground club and awoke the next day stark naked in her brother's cot. Bizarre people out here.
Day five, and with the epinephrine finally subsiding, we were carted to Mount Tongariro, to retrace the steps of Sir Edmund Hillary and conquer the 19km Tongariro Alpine Crossing. The panoramic scene across the volcanic terrain was breath taking, and to add to the marvel, we passed the dark tracks towards Mount Ngauruhoe, which was set as Mount Doom in The Return of the King. We all predictably spewed out numerous country tinged quotes from Samwise and Master Frodo whilst scrambling over the rocks and dusty rubble leading towards Mordor.
The trek, on average, should take an individual between seven and nine hours. The initial ramble up the South and Red Crater was a challenge, and one that my calves claimed the majority of the burden. Whilst attempting a delicate crab like shuffle up to the summit, the promise of spectacular mountainous views was enough to surge past the sweat inducing barriers. Once at the Blue Lake, almost 2000 feet from sea level, the trail opened up to be more pleasant as we descended with relative ease past splendid meadows, pine green forest and the Ketetahi Hut for a quick rest on the hardened wooden benches to flick the stray jagged stones out of my brown and orange hiking shoes. Welsh Ollie and I decided to push past the ache of our tired limbs and supplement in minimal breaks to finish in the walk in little over five hours. Our hard earned rest at the finish was spent searing our dollars and cents on guessing the order and timings of the remaining contestants in our loose pack. I lost the $1 bet quite comfortably, sulking like a coward as I realised that the loss of the $1 would lead to the sacrifice of purchasing an energising banana on returning to the alpine cabin.
We couldn't stop our laughter on seeing Ollie's face whilst sat shyly on the plane as it languidly ebbed away from view. His sheepish look (an apt description considering he was from Wrexham) was akin to Gareth from The Office when he was caught in the sidecar of the motorcycle after a regrettable night at Chasers in Slough:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycnhv2znhJY&feature=PlayList&p=57064E6CA1234016&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=1
My instructor, who I would be fastened on to and whose adept skills I would be relying on to preserve my life, was a Hungarian named imaginatively as Hungo. He spoke with the totalitarian authority of Arnie, his mechanical expertise and robotic responses to my twee comments were reassuring. So much so, that on boarding the bright pink plane, I pretended that I was Dillon and he was Dutch in the film Predator, focusing intently on the assignment ahead of us and ensuring that I would not offend Hungo with my pencil pushing.
You've got me, then who's got you? Oh, cool, a parachute
Once we were 12,000 foot in the air and the hatch was opened, with the incoming rush of icy winds, I began slowly to realise the task in hand. I had no time to change my mind and before I knew it, my feet were dangling off a plane, with only the wispy white stratus clouds and haze of green, brown earth below me. Hungo was gentlemanly enough to introduce me to the world of high adrenaline with a 360 degree flip, the first glimpse of the world I could see was the white underbelly of the plane I had just jumped off. The 40-60 seconds of free fall rushed by in a blur, all I can remember was that my face felt like it was being stretched and pulled out of the skull. When I came around, and looked down, all I could muster were huge bursts of laughter and whooping that can be heard on most weekends at the halls surrounding a frat party, as I looked across snow capped mountains to the side of the glistening Lake Taupo as it grew larger and larger in to view. Hungo's first utterance that I could comprehend, once he had deployed the yellow and blue striped parachute was (and remember to read this in an Arnie accent) "So, you have survived. I was dead tired before the jump so am as pleased as you"
I prompted reception to give Hungo another medical once I had landed.
Pilot headware? Winning look.
That night we retired at Taupo Urban Retreat, a smart little hostel where The Chief, James, Ollie and I relived the jump with our fellow travellers. However, my embellished stories of bravery were easily erased by mouse-like Nikki from Nottingham who recalled the time, completely out of the blue, mind, of when her martini was spiked in a grotty underground club and awoke the next day stark naked in her brother's cot. Bizarre people out here.
Day five, and with the epinephrine finally subsiding, we were carted to Mount Tongariro, to retrace the steps of Sir Edmund Hillary and conquer the 19km Tongariro Alpine Crossing. The panoramic scene across the volcanic terrain was breath taking, and to add to the marvel, we passed the dark tracks towards Mount Ngauruhoe, which was set as Mount Doom in The Return of the King. We all predictably spewed out numerous country tinged quotes from Samwise and Master Frodo whilst scrambling over the rocks and dusty rubble leading towards Mordor.
The trek, on average, should take an individual between seven and nine hours. The initial ramble up the South and Red Crater was a challenge, and one that my calves claimed the majority of the burden. Whilst attempting a delicate crab like shuffle up to the summit, the promise of spectacular mountainous views was enough to surge past the sweat inducing barriers. Once at the Blue Lake, almost 2000 feet from sea level, the trail opened up to be more pleasant as we descended with relative ease past splendid meadows, pine green forest and the Ketetahi Hut for a quick rest on the hardened wooden benches to flick the stray jagged stones out of my brown and orange hiking shoes. Welsh Ollie and I decided to push past the ache of our tired limbs and supplement in minimal breaks to finish in the walk in little over five hours. Our hard earned rest at the finish was spent searing our dollars and cents on guessing the order and timings of the remaining contestants in our loose pack. I lost the $1 bet quite comfortably, sulking like a coward as I realised that the loss of the $1 would lead to the sacrifice of purchasing an energising banana on returning to the alpine cabin.
After a sound night of sleep, we all took an express journey down to Wellington, where the first sight of warm weather was burst within minutes with the introduction of high speed winds, crashing rain and the promise that the Capital was long overdue a major earthquake. I'll be here for a few days before the South Island calls.
Taupo Song of the Day - Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers - Free Fallin'
Taupo Song of the Day - Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers - Free Fallin'
A touch predictable, but our driver guide played this on the stereo moments before we hopped out gingerly on to the hangar to get the blood pumping in our veins. I forgot the lyrics and situation to throw myself in the euphoric convertible driving scene in Jerry Maguire.
Love it mate. Have done a bit of skydiving in my time and I've found nothing to beat the rush you get from it.
ReplyDeleteGlad its all still going well
Nick
Tell me about it, the freefall was epic and I'll remember the views over Taupo for time
ReplyDelete