Queenstown - Adventure Capital of the World

Attention Adrenaline Junkies!

"Don't look down!"

I was petrified. My eyes were frozen open in terror (it had been, like, half an hour since I last blinked). "I said, DON'T-LOOK-DOWN!!" So, of course I look down. Big mistake. Mental note #1: Next time, listen to the Bungee Jump Master. Mental note #2: Next time, wear camouflage underwear. Mental note #3: Next time...oh PLEASE, make sure there's no next time.

Earlier that morning, I had decided I wanted to try bungee-jumping. I was in Queenstown NZ, the adventure capital of the world. And, after all, this was the birthplace of this...activity.

The pretty brochure had said that the world's highest bungee jump at 134m had recently opened here. Hmmm, let's see: lazily shop for beautiful souvenirs for all my jealous friends at home, OR throw myself off a bridge. Doh...

But now it was all too late. I was standing on the edge of a wobbly platform overlooking a giant abyss in the beautiful canyon country of New Zealand's stunning South Island, trussed at the ankles by what looks like a giant noodle.

When you are standing, weak-kneed, on this rickety platform 150m above a crowd of not-so-envious onlookers chanting "Jump! Jump!" hoping against hope to witness a colourful freak accident, your priorities in life become very clear.

For no really good reason, you have just placed your faith, along with your reasonably good life, in a rubber band only five centimetres wide but over 130m long. As you tumble towards terra extra-firma (italics), will you try to look good for the cameras? Few do.

In fact, the safety record is excellent, survivors say. For a mere RM200, you receive brief but thorough instructions: "We'll count backwards from 5, and when we reach 1, you jump screaming "BUUUUuungeeee....!!!.

Oh, and on your way down, don't try anything fancy like tying a slipknot around your neck: they're a mess to undo." You'll be video taped for posterity and, of course, receive a braggart's T-shirt as proof of your testicular fortitude.

Next, your Jump Master corrals you into a three-sided birdcage attached to a winch. And then you're off. In no time at all, you have reached the jump platform, marked by an ominous "clunk" sound as even the winch gives up on you - and then silence. Only now do you realise that your testosterone must have bid you bon voyage on your way up and is waiting for you somewhere beneath the clouds down there.

This is the fateful moment when you can't help yourself and look over the edge two inches from your toes to assess the situation. NOT a good idea. The raging, frothy storm of snow-melt waaayyyy down below you is strangely muffled by your heart going into overdrive. It feels like you have a woodpecker on caffeine in your head.

Far below, the Jump Master waves his megaphone and gives me the thumbs up. I mean it COULD be the thumbs up - I'm so high I can't really tell one digit from another.

"5! 4! 3!..."

And all you can think is, "I should NOT be doing this..."

"2! 1! GO!!"

Suddenly, and to your immense relief, a physiological red alert-shutdown mode kicks in, and you go limp all over. As the flimsy cage sways gamely, you squint, draw one final deep, quivering breath, and roll meekly forward into a terrifying free-fall.

"Bung-aaaaahhhhhh......!!!"