New Zealand – An Adrenaline Zone

New Zealand is diverse, unique and spectacular. Glacier-capped mountains shine down on arid valleys speckled with emerald lakes. Giant boulders lay inexplicably stranded on pristine beaches fringed in golden sand. Flightless nocturnal birds screech out from the darkness of primordial forests.

I scarcely know where to start.

So why not begin with… lawyers, the personal injury kind. There aren’t any. Imagine a country devoid of litigation and schmaltzy billboards. Run over whilst crossing the street? Slip and fall in a parking lot? Parachute failed to deploy? Sorry, there are no lawsuits.

New Zealand emphasizes personal responsibility. Kiwis take a careful look before stepping off the curb. But if you are clobbered by a car (perhaps momentarily forgetting that vehicles travel on the left Down Under) you won’t go broke waiting for the breaks to heal from a car that failed to brake. The Accident Claims Commission (ACC) – a universal no-fault insurance scheme – covers every accident scenario and cost, from hospital bills to income loss.

New Zealanders focus on regulation rather than liability. This explains how crazy activities are permitted – even encouraged: bungee jumping, skydiving, zorbing (where you climb inside a plastic ball and roll down a steep hill. Go figure). NZ has become the perfect place to let loose one’s inner daredevil child; a place where, irrationally, a person will do things one would never do at home.

Would you jump out of an airplane in Canada? I suspect not. So why would I – in my mid-fifties – take up skydiving? Yet there I was high above Lake Taupo, free-falling at terminal velocity, eyes watering, lips flapping, stomach churning, worried I’d land on the runway like a proverbial blob of strawberry jam (where neither a lawsuit nor the ACC would do me much good). When the chute finally opened I heaved a sigh of relief despite the sudden upward jolt – and concurrent relocation of underpants nearer to armpits.

St. Paddy’s was an up and down dayAs luck would have it, my inaugural plummet from the sky took place on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a short happy jaunt from the landing pad to the nearest Irish pub.

Next up was “canyoning” in Abel Tasman National Park. This pursuit involves climbing into a wet suit and jumping, zip lining, sliding and tumbling down a rock-strewn torrent for six hours. Again, I have no idea why we do such a thing at our chronologically advanced stage of existence. The sign-in form indicated that the next oldest participant (my lovely wife excepted) was a quarter-century my junior. All day long we bumped over bruising boulders – and had a blast!

With the appeal of these extreme activities, New Zealand has cleverly fashioned itself as the “adrenaline capital of the world,” a destination tourist-destination.

But by far the most dangerous activity we signed up for in NZ was the operation of a rental car. We wove and threaded our way – on the wrong side of the road – through 5200 kilometers of narrow shoulder-less curving roads, with nary a meter of margin between the skimming mirror of a passing lorry and a precipitous ocean plunge. I didn’t dare enjoy the gorgeous views. The slightest waver of concentration meant instant, albeit scenic, death. (Trust the written word on this. Blind, dangerous corners made the gathering of photographic verification impossible.)

Like Canada’s Yukon, New Zealand was struck by gold fever in the late 19th century. An expensive railway was built to move people and goods through unforgiving terrain. Long abandoned, the rail line has now become The Central Otago Rail Trail. And while our bicycling adventure wasn’t exactly life threatening, it certainly made for a long, hot day. We were shuttled in the morning, dumped off, directed toward a vague destination sixty dry, bumpy kilometers down the line and told simply, “try to have the bikes back before dark.”

The Kiwi mindset of self-reliance became truly apparent during our time in Fiordland National Park on the South Island.

We’d booked an overnight boat trip. The weather was atrocious. Part of a UNESCO world-heritage site, Doubtful Sound serpentines inland from the Tasman Sea for 40km, squeezed between steep cliffs. Waterfalls disgorge directly into the sea from glacial tongues hanging a thousand meters overhead. It rains so much in Fiordland that the whole salty inlet is covered two meters deep with a layer of fresh water.

Soon after setting sail into the squall our captain, a capable oddball, maneuvered up to a cliff face. He silently donned scuba gear then jumped overboard into the tepid surf, leaving the hapless cook (his sole crew-mate) in charge of avoiding shipwreck on the sharp rocks. We all stood by, elegiacally useless.

“Watch for his bubbles on the surface,” the cook instructed us nervously. The implication was that if the bubbles stopped the captain would not be returning and one of us would have to take command – in a monsoon. I scrutinized my fellow passengers: a moon-eyed honeymooning couple from Mumbai, a bookish geriatric pair from Des Moines and an introverted Swiss woman who spoke no English. I kept a close eye on the foamy brine.

Ten long minutes later our wayward chief re-surfaced. He tossed a bag overflowing with crayfish aboard: our dinner appetizer. Then he hauled out fishing gear. Moments later we were jigging for supper’s main course – sea perch and red snapper – and instantly four of us had fish on. Our versatile skipper managed to simultaneously cut bait, steer the boat (by foot) and retrieve the catch tugging at our reels.

The rain continued unabated. Sea kayaking is one of the “fun” adventures advertised by the Doubtful Sound brochure so the captain insisted on launching seven tiny, tipsy crafts into the drenching swell. We reluctantly clambered in. He handed us each a paddle and, pushing us from the boat’s dry safety into the howling wind, asked:

“You have kayaked before?” I shouted back that our experience was limited. He cupped a hand to his ear, unable to hear. “Good, get on then, you’ll be right.”

We floundered about long enough to make it appear we were having the time of our lives before paddling back. But the fun wasn’t over yet. The brochure also boasts: “your overnight adventure also includes the opportunity to swim in the invigorating waters of Fiiordland.”

I had no intention of jumping into a frigid fiiord in a gale. I was already soaked to the shivering bone. The captain gave me a stern “you paid for this and your damn well going to enjoy it,” look. I didn’t bother changing before taking the plunge.

At dinner – and after a life-saving hot shower – the captain regaled us with some unusual yarns. A steaming pot of crayfish warmed the cabin and our appetites. He explained how glaciers were advancing worldwide and we were headed for a new ice age. (“All the real scientists agree.”) Out the foggy window melting ice was pouring into the sea. He continued, unfazed, “Cows – and their methane – are necessary to chop down those nasty grasses stealing oxygen from our air.”

The busy cook, filleting fish in the galley, raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

I slept well that night. The vessel rocked on its mooring like a well-tended cradle. Dozing off I had a brief career-flashback involving a boat accident and litigation. Then I remembered we were in New Zealand where there are no such confrontations.

We were in good hands. Why worry?

Gerry