The Great Gonzo Blowout: Rotorua

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Tired. Exhausted. It’s been a long journey. Many rivers crossed, many miles stamped with the fist of Gonzo. My eyes are even redder than normal, stained with red wine, and it’s clear to everyone; I need to liven it up. Something to put me back inside the travel bottle, shake it up, pull out the cork and let me fizz all over the green fields of New Zealand. What’s this? Rotorua. Ro-to-rua. The name sounds like a machine designed to trim the weeds of boredom. Cut the hedges, take out the whacker, Modern Gonzo is coming to town, and the long grass is quaking in their roots. Rotorua. Maori Country. It means “second lake”, a quiet town surrounded by volatile geothermal geysers, lush forests and crystal lakes. Located just a few hours from Auckland on the North Island, it’s small with a big heart, fast building a reputation as an adventure capital to rival Queenstown in the south. Here, even the land is extreme, the ground bubbling with volcanic heat, the earth blowing off steam right in the heart of town. The air smells of sulphur, but you get used to it, the way you get used to anything, and the sulpher, well, that just reminds you to use all your senses, and that the earth, Mother Nature, well, she can be a cold, hard bitch if she wants to. So if you’re going to jump out a plane or raft over a waterfall, it’s best you pay respects. With New Zealand laws the way they are (good luck suing anyone), I’ll be lucky to escape the next week unscathed. But then luck has followed me the last 11 months, attached itself like a charm to my backpack. Nothing to lose. Time to wake up and smell the adrenaline. Go for it Modern Gonzo, go for it.

Zorbing

Kiwis are insane. Just look at the Zorb. Invented in Rotorua, a Zorb is giant plastic ball with a hollow core. It’s spin spin sugar, spin the black circle, and spin me round like a record round, round. Zorbing was my chance to finally hop inside the tumble dryer (every kid has thought about it – better check on yours now). Strapped into a safety harness, the Zorb was pushed down a 200m hill as I bounced head over heels, until naturally coming to a stop at the bottom. Inside, the heat was sticky, and the light filtered in as if the PVC bubble were made of jellified pee. My stomach was churning before the first rotation. Green? A few more seconds and I would have decorated this Zorb with my lunch. That’s why most Zorbonauts opt for the Hydro Zorb, no harness, and a bucket of warm water in the middle. I managed to stand for about a second before the Zorb tossed me around on its zigzag course, like that one sock you always lose at the laundry. I wished I had a couple of young lady friends inside to distract me – three people can go at a time in the Hydro Zorb. But no wet T-shirt contest for me, just a tossed salad, a whipped egg of Esrock. Soaked, rinsed and spun out, I lay in the sun to iron out my creases, catch my breath, and ponder life as a garment. Which way is up? Which way down? I got back to Cactus Jacks and passed out in seconds. Funny thing is, I took an anti-motion sickness pill a few hours before to help. It didn’t. I ain’t no Zorbonaut. Although with a few wet T-shirts on a few scantily clad co-pilots, I could always be persuaded to give it another spin.

Skydiving

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer.” So says Moadib in Frank Herbert’s Dune, a mantra I’ve remembered since reading the book as a fearful teenager, and hey, the David Lynch movie will always be underrated. Nzone had taken the classic training of the House of Atreides and turned it into marketing propaganda. But I forgive them. Every day of the year, they help nutters of all ages leap out a plane. The night before, I was feeling my gut, buzzing like a kid who knows something’s up, but his parents are talking in a second language he doesn’t understand. By morning, the nerves were kicking my shins and chewing my bladder. Strapped into my gear (and hopefully the tandem instructor), the prop plane with red painted teeth slowly climbed to 12,000ft before the door was opened and I was shown the exit. I was surprisingly calm. I put myself back in Bourne-mode…I am a secret agent, I am Delta Force, I am Bond, and this is just another mission. It felt normal. This isn’t happening. Autopilot. Shift over to the door, the air is cold, the wind lashes my face. “Ready. Go!” Calling skydiving a thrill is like calling Microsoft a start-up. Plummeting at 200km/h for 45 seconds is the fastest way to remind yourself of what living means, as opposed to say, existing. Nothing beats it. The sensation of physically falling is extreme, but I knew that all I had to do was enjoy the ride and let the tandem pilot handle the details of survival. I was fully conscious, screaming, thinking, an explosion of senses. Big smiles for the photographer, and the look on these guys’ faces; “Welcome to the club, buddy. Good luck trying to leave it.” Here comes a cloud, fffffffffffffwoop, there’s goes a cloud. Then, the parachute popped, the pace eased up, and now we are just several thousand feet up, floating gently with the breeze. It’s a perfect day, the sky seems too blue, Lake Rotorua is a sparkling diamond beneath me. Adrenaline is rushing in my body, invading my cells, pricking my nerves. We come into land, as soft as a butterfly, and I’m alive, ALIVE, my fists clenching with enough energy to punch through an iron safe. Skydivers, an excitable breed, say: “Minds are like parachutes, they function best when they’re open.”

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