47 To Go: Spring Break, Part I

I’m reading The God of Small Things again. I finished it before we took off and I started it right before we landed. It’s one of those.

I woke up this morning to go to Pick’n’Pay before I began my day. There was no food in my section of the fridge (which had actually been taken over by one of my new roommates) nor in my part of the cupboard. And I had no milk to go with my cereal (the cereal from America, that is). So breakfast had to wait until after I did my grocery shopping and restocked my shelves with food and tidied up the leftover change in my bank account. The Sunday was empty, houses quiet and streets lonely, save for blooming jacarandas.

I came home to put away my new food and eat my cereal from America with my Different Tasting Milk from Africa. It was close enough to home. And then I did my laundry (because I was completely out of clothes and had bought some new detergent). While my clothes spun, I sat down to unravel the rest of international relations essay on the International Criminal Court. Within an hour or so, it was finished and so was my laundry.

I sat down on my bed to read a small section of her book while I ate a bowl of homemade popcorn. Then, I folded my laundry and put it away while thinking of what shirts and things I would leave behind. Because soon enough this would all be behind me. The peak had been reached. The deeds had been done. The months had been lived. The days were just smiling, waving things and invisible particles of Things I Learned in my brain.

The end of September was the best End of September I’ve ever had, a Happy Memory to recall upon enquiries about my trip to South Africa. A trip to a different world and a trip to my world within that different world. Cape Town was like going home – like visiting California or Florida. Where gays roam the streets and everything is expensive and people are nice and the beach is down the road and the shops line the road and the restaurants cater to every taste bud – rich or poor as it is. Where people too rich to live in reality live to escape it. Where diamond money doesn’t matter because too many tourists don’t care to see Africa beyond its very tip – the tip that reminds them of home. Where you can walk the streets at night (at least in a group) and know almost certainly that you’ll make it back home alive, pockets full. Cape Town, the Dream Town, the perfect Spring Break destination for the rich and the white.

We all fell completely and utterly and desperately in love with Africa’s tip.

September 24 – Port Elizabeth, Day 2

My feet smell, but I really don’t care. In fact, our entire room smells – like dying bananas. Not yet dead and rotting, but definitely moribund. We have our own room and that is definitely a good things because I’m quite sure something valuable (or even not) would be stolen if we were sharing the room with anyone else.

Ms. Hostel Keeper told me in a hushed tone, Make sure you keep the toilet paper in your room, they like to steal it.

Oh, oh, of course, I answered.

We share – with all the guests – one white bathroom. It usually looks clean. I actually put my butt on the seat to do my second poop of the day and (probably) last poop of the week.

Ms. Hostel Keeper greeted us with a “Hel-lo! Make sure you take everything out of the car or They will break in.” Oh, of course, answered we, the three from Pretoria, where this kind of thing is everyday, cavalier, no big deal, totally expected. We’re practically natives, we know this land and it’s Things You Need to Know.

The house is creaky, old and worn from traveler’s boots. But it feels like home and the locks are impossibly jammed and require jiggling. I love a good hostel – to stay in one is to join a nomadic traveling brigade – always searching for the next big adventure. The next thrill and joy. The next opportunity to die. But I’ll get to that later.

Today was a scenic kind of nice. We went to breakfast at a cute little diner with so many baby children around it felt like a Raphaelian heaven.

Despite what the traveling guides say, Port Elizabeth does have a nice coastal scene – cute little restaurants and the like. But it seems like a city with dirty secrets and mean realities. Like somewhere where sunny days hide somber half-smiles. Where every face has a dusty lining in its creases. Where people stare if you smile, and widen their eyes in disbelief if you laugh.

Matt and I rode horses through the fake wild. I might have been able to believe it if there hadn’t been power lines running across the landscape. We went to see elephants (Addo Elephant National Park is supposed to have the highest concentration of elephants in the world). We saw elephant poop and that’s it.

Before we went we were sent away with these stern and melodramatic words: “Better safe than sorry. You could die.” He clearly thought we had never ridden a horse before. His lack of confidence in us didn’t deter us. We signed the waiver and walked to the stables, where beautiful thick-bodied horses waited. We did indeed look like the inexperienced idiots that we were, especially when we were given our horses to ride around the little fenced-in area and we just sat there on our horses, waiting for the tour to begin. Two German men, sizing us up as they came forward, joined us for a tour across green, African mountains.

Of course Matt and I were nervous. We looked at each other with “Oh shit, what have we done” in our eyes. I whispered to him, Pretend like you know what you’re doing. We did just that and survived the whole thing.

Along the way, we saw antelope, ostriches, horse butts and elephant bones. Although the tour was disappointing (we didn’t exactly see what we had come for), there is nothing like being on the back of a horse, running through fields and dirt paths, looking out at tree-covered mountains and giant birds making love. As a bonus, after three hours of riding, I walked away with a license in professional horseback riding

September 25, 7:37 p.m.

Exactly 12 hours ago, we began the day with a too-quick drive to Bloukrans Bridge, forty kilometers before the Plettenberg Bay exit. We were met on our drive by cloudy skies and thick, green mountain forest. It was a love-at-first-sight ordeal – like meeting up with a long-lost love after life had already happened.

I daresay that only pictures can show but a clearer shadow of what we drove through, and what I can’t quite describe through words.

I’ve pooped twice each day – a record since I began living in South Africa – but more than anything a tribute to my twisted intestines, due to my crazed nervous system.

For two days straight, I had been thinking about the jump. I had to do it, that was definite – the question was more about whether I would be able to do it. I thought about it in all the silent moment my mind gave me (which is plenty on a 10 hour drive and a 3 hour ride through plains and mountains).

How will I jump? I mean, do you go feet first and then flop over head first? Do you dive like you’re going in a swimming pool? I CAN’T EVEN DIVE INTO A SWIMMING POOL LET ALONE INTO AIR?!! Do they push you? Can they push me? I need them to push me? What if I do it wrong and break my spine?

What if I go blind? What if I die?

I thought about getting to kiss Reston again – OH GOD, what if I never get to?!

What if I become a paraplegic? Or a quadriplegic?! Wouldn’t he hate me?!

But how could I NOT do it? We’ll be right there – first, last, only time in my life…

There came a point in my thinking where I had to forget about what could happen. It was all about strategy because I had to bungee jump off the highest point in the world.

It was a chilly morning, and when we found Bloukrans Bridge, I suddenly, knowing I would go at some point whether voluntarily or not, had to poop. It was a mixture of nerves and brains; my stomach was in knots and something in me was making sure I wouldn’t embarrass myself later.

There was a helicopter landing base (so reassuring).

We took nervous pictures by the “Face Adrenalin” sign, then proceeded toward the bridge. We were all giggling like scared hens, waiting for the butcher’s hands.

Madison decided not to do it – almost immediately. It wasn’t surprising, she might have died. Her nervousness began days ago when I announced (I was the planner of the entire trip) that we would be going to bungee jump on the 25^th of September. The notice was too short, apparently. From the day of my announcement to the day of the jump, Madison frequently let out deep and worried sighs – as if she were waiting for her death to be delivered to her at every restaurant or in every car ride.

We pulled in and saw people getting suited up for the jump – fitting their harnesses and hugging their families good-bye (just kidding, that part didn’t happen). We walked forward, seeing the bridge in the distance and stood before the ledge of a cliff to get a better view. From where we stood, we couldn’t see the bottom of the drop. We just saw the dangling ropes. It made us giddy and crazy. There were moment of calm and then sudden storms of anxiety and/or excitement raged in me.

Jamie, Matt and I went to register our lives away to some bungee cords. I asked the woman if anyone had ever died and she confidently reassured me that no, no one has ever died.

I asked her next what the worst injury someone had gotten from jumping was.

She chuckled almost maliciously.

We looked at each other with widened eyes and goofy smiles. It was at this point that we had completely lost our minds and our sanity. So they weighed us each and gave us a number – our death number as we called it. We handed over the cash. And the deal was done. No refunds. Six hundred and fifty rand – almost 80 dollars.

“We just paid for our Badass License,” I said.

As they fitted us for our harnesses, the reality of what I was about to do slapped me across the face like a good friend. I was stunned for a moment and then laughter from every reserve in my body came out of my mouth and out of my eyes. I was doubled over from the pain of exuding so many laughs – I was bawling my eyes out. I was literally weeping and laughing more hysterically than I ever have before in my life. It was, without a doubt, the BEST LAUGH OF MY LIFE.

“WE JUST PAID,” I yelled hysterically at my fellow jumpers, tears squirting from my eyes and laugher putting a strain on my voice, “WE HAVE TO DO IT!” Over and over again, I repeated this: WE HAVE TO DO IT!! WE HAVE TO DO IT!! The deal was sealed. It was like giving my life over to Ursula from The Little Mermaid, except there was no Prince Eric to save me.

Even later that night as I sat down to write, I was still laughing my heart out. Matthew and I cried together looking back at what had happened: “WHAT DID WE JUST DO?!” we asked each other through tears. “WE JUMPED OFF A BRIDGE!! WHY DID WE DO THAT?!” The laughter was incessant, relentless, loud and carefree.

They gave us 20 minutes to calm down (or hype ourselves up more?). We watched a few people jump from the bridge, listened to the shrill screams and Madison’s motherly “You guys are insane – have fun!” My nerves had calmed – they have this method of playing pretend; we pretend like the whole thing is just a joke, a dream, not really happening. They called our group to convene so they could instruct us on what was about to happen. We’ll be going to the bridge. They’ll ask for your weight. When it’s your turn to jump, it’s arms out-stretched, knees bent and jump forward, head first. Our guide did the motions, Matt, Jamie and I looked at each other like we had happy secrets in our eyes.

So we walk, in a line, over hundreds and hundreds of feet of air. There is a river below us. Lots of trees. And the ocean peaks through two mountains that converge at some point near the bottom. It’s green and gray and blue and brown – a beautiful scene. I look down between my feet at the bottom, where the earth lies waiting to kill those who fall onto it, the entire time we walk across the to the middle of the bridge.

We gather atop the bridge, where we meet our new and awesome guide with a sliver of gold in his smile. He confirms our weight by calling our names and our numbers. He calls some random people and confirms. He calls the man’s without hair or a smile, who weighs 92 kilos. The guide smiles big and says “We’re gonna have fun today, you’ll be one of the first!” Sucks for him, I think. The boring man remains boring. The guide calls some more names and then mine.

“Brooke! 57! Brooke like Brooke Shields!” I get that every time. I raise my hand and confirm my identity and weight.

“Brooke! We’re gonna have fun too because you’re one of the first!”

My heart stops beating and my face switches from casual, calm and cool to panicked.

“WHAAAAAT?!!!!?!!?”

I begin to hyperventilate and tears and laughter don’t help the case.

“I’ll eat a hot dog! I’ll do anything to weigh more! FIRST?! FIRST?! I’M ABOUT TO PEE MY PANTS!”

I’m running in place and walking in circles, holding on the rail and begging to be fatter. People’s faces are moving in circles, I can’t see straight. Matt and Jamie are laughing while trying to calm me down. I’m laughing too and I can’t breathe.

But they call Jamie’s name first. Even without warning her in the first place.

Her eyes bulge wide open and she goes into some kind of shocked disbelief – like she just found out her brother died and she won the lottery. Tears spurt out of her eyes and she is shaking and afraid. I try to energetically and enthusiastically console her –

“It’s okay! I know your brother’s dead but now you can pay for a nice funeral!”

Nothing really works when you’re about to jump, face first, off a 708 foot bridge.

They strap her up tight while she, mouth agape, cries and half laughs.

“Tell my mother I love her!” she says before they carry her to the edge. She’s crying still and she looks down only to produce a frantic Holy Shit. They don’t give her any more time to think, it’s 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – BUNGEE!!!!!!

Her knees buckle and she flops, head first, down. Everyone gasps and then cheers. She screams.

Next, the boring man does his boring jump.

Golden sliver guide says that his jump was a 9 and that it would be perfect if he would have arched his back. So you mean to get a 10 you have to do what he did but arch your back? That’s all I’m thinking about. Oh yeah, I’m going after that 10, baby.

It’s my turn. A man tells me to sit in the hot seat so he can strap me up. I’m shivering from the cold and from massive amount of adrenaline pulsing through me. The nice other guide with a serious demeanor straps me up tight. This band, he says, can hold up to 3 tons.

That’s good, because I don’t weight that much. I’m answering everything he says – just to talk, just to say something, to do something. Because I’m about to jump off a cliff and I’m going crazy.

I’m going to strap this around you just in case, he says.

But, I finish (having memorized the speech after watching Jamie and the Boring Man go), it’s never been used.

But it’s never been used, he says, It’s just a back up.

He shakes my hand and another helps me to stand.

I AM READY. No more fear, no more nothing. I’m excited. I’m jumping. I’m pumping my arms. I am ready. I am born to do this. I’m going to be perfect. I’m going to get the 10. I’m going to be bold. I can do this. I will do this. It’s seven seconds then it’s over. I jump up and down some more and roll my shoulders, cock my head from side to side.

They guide me to the edge. There’s no sound in my head. Everything is quiet, slow motion, everything is happening at the speed of light. They say something about the camera, which I look at and smile, nervously, badassly, kickassly. I’m thinking about the dive – how perfect I’m going to do it. That’s all I can think about. I step closer to the edge. Look out at the horizon. Arch your back, straighten your arms. Perfect form. Better than everyone.

They’re placing my arms in an up and out position. Straight and sure, I hold them there. My heart is beating like a steady drum. Dum dum, dum dum. I don’t look down until after they scream, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, BUNGEE!!!!!!” I wait for the shove, but they don’t give it. They let me go, and for what seems to me like elongated seconds – in which I can feel the whole world turning, slowly on its axis, and the clouds are shifting the weight to another side, carbon dioxide in my lungs, seeping through to capillaries and coming out of my body as oxygen, blood running through my veins and weaving through my arteries, no sound, no distraction, just me and me and me and this moment – I hover there at the edge. Just me and my body, my moment, the wild around me and within me. I leap – arms out and back arched – as Matthew tells me, a perfect “swan dive,” effortless and clean –

Into nothing; no inviting water waiting for a quick entry. I’m flying – down – fast. I can see the world, hear the scream erupting out of me. My eyes are closed, open, closed, open. I am heading face first into the ground. Mere seconds and I have reached the bottom of 708 feet. FFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKKKKKK – long and high and unashamed (you would have said the same). Madison tells me they could hear me from the restaurant across the valley.

In seven seconds, the first dive is over. I reach the bottom and all the contents of my body jam into my head. But all the things in me belt out a proud and alive scream:

I DID IT!!!!!!!!!

Up again I go, higher, higher, higher, until I fall down, down, down – screaming all the way.

My life happens in those two minutes. There isn’t real time, just mind-body experience – just complete freedom from sanity and normalcy; I’m dangling on a 708 foot cord, above a river that streams through the mountains ahead of me into the ocean behind me. I did it. I did it. I did it.

At the end, I talk to myself. I don’t know what I’m saying – but I’m having a conversation as I hang there, waiting for the man to come and put me upright. When he does come, I tell him that I thought I would pee my pants, but I didn’t pee my pants. He chuckles and says that it would have been very bad if I’d peed my pants – it would have been on my face. I never thought of that. You’re right! But I didn’t pee my pants, I remind him. He asks me how it was and I tell him it was great. He says he would give me a nine out of 10 on my scream. I don’t even remember screaming.

Matthew went later – feet first.

We all got a T-shirt.

And pictures, and our certificates.

I ate French fries and barbeque chicken and too much, but just enough, ketchup.