"Hey, Alieda," he says cheerfully, "it's James. Would you like a couple of days of work? Are you free on Monday?"
James is a youth worker, and works at an alternate school for kids who, for one reason or another, have been removed from mainstream education. He explains that he's taking the kids on a year-end camp-out as a reward for their good behaviour. But, since the camp will be co-ed, he needs a female to help supervise. Would I be keen?
Since I'm free, and female, I accept immediately. We'll be going whitewater rafting, roasting marshmallows on the camp fire, and then something on the second day, maybe horseback riding or paintball, James hasn't decided. I will be paid a flat rate of $450 for two days.
In the meantime, it's Friday night. John and I head out for Indian, chatting over Masala and Tandoori and sipping cold beer. We've got tickets to see Harry Potter, and after the (magical) film, we head to a pub next door to meet James and Jeannine, who are coming from a party.
What a night. They seem excited to show us the night life, and over the course of five or six hours we see at least eight bars and clubs. Some are no more than a crowded room, standing-room-only, richly decorated but devoid of any furnishings save a crowded bar. Others are reached through unmarked doors and into basements, where suddenly there is a crowd and a happening club. We see live music at a pub, several posh nightclubs where James seems to pull the local strings, and Jeannine always appears to know the doorman. We pick up friends along the way, including a Malaysian-Australian chef, who has just moved to the city from Melbourne; he's on his own, friendly, and could use some company. He buys everyone drinks. We lose him at some point but he catches up with us again at another bar later on.
By the time we climb into a cab, it's past 5:00 a.m. Wellington doesn't shut down at 2:00 like Victoria. John munches late-night Chinese food; I fall asleep as the sun rises.
On Monday, I climb into a van with James and seven fifteen-year-olds. Many of the boys have strong Maori accents, which is harder for me to understand than a standard Kiwi accent. (Watch the movie 'Boy' sometime and you'll see what I mean.) At first, I can hardly understand a word they're saying, but I get used to it. We drive North for hours. The three girls seem to decide that I'm cool instantly because I'm North American, I can drive and I've been to California. Soon they're trying to teach me how to pronounce Maori place-names and asking me personal questions, like how old I am, whether I drink or smoke, and whether I'm a virgin.
The camp has been organized by men and it shows. The only vegetable I see for two days is lettuce for the burgers. Otherwise, the menu consists entirely of processed precooked crap, like canned spaghetti, white bread, precooked sausages, ketchup, hot chocolate, soda, and junk food like cookies, chips, and chocolate bars. I put my diet on hold and tuck in. James tells me that the next-day activity has been decided: a Flying Fox, like a zip-line over the river valley.
I set up my tent, change into my togs (listen to me, what I mean is a bathing suit), and join the throng as we head to the river wearing life-vests and red helmets. The rafting takes about three or four hours, and since I'm in the front, I get utterly soaked. The river winds its way through a deep canyon, the walls of which drip occasionally with green algae or even waterfalls. The beaches are cluttered with piles of round white stones like eggs. The sun casts a net of light on the currents of the river in calm moments. And when the currents quicken, the river froths over rocks, swirls in ominous vortexes, and falls over cliffs. I am the nose, falling downward and scooping up the water as the raft follows me. James starts a water-fight with the raft of boys, and we splash each other with our paddles before trying to get away. Now it's war.
Every stitch of my clothing is sodden and heavy by the end of the trip. I wring out my sleeves as best I can.
James has other outdoorsey survival-type activities lined up, like a fire-building contest and an orienteering competition. The kids smoke too much, but are otherwise well-behaved. Honestly, I expected worse. I expected juvenile delinquents who would swear at me, steal my stuff, do drugs and maybe beat me up. Instead I met a group of somewhat shy, mock-tough youths who are friendly to me, well-mannered, and help where they can. I remember that John himself was nearly kicked out of school for setting off a smoke-bomb in the hallways that Halloween, and I realize that these kids are completely normal after all.
That night a full moon rises, casting shadows on the field as the kids sneak off to play "Spotlight," a game like tag with flashlights. I am horrified to notice that the moon is upside-down. Can that be right?
I stay up past midnight watching the fire die, turning over my thoughts.
I'm the last one awake the next morning, and roll out in time for breakfast at 7:30. By 9:00 we're back in the van, listening to the kids' rap music and driving through the gorgeous countryside. It never fails to shock me, the beautiful pastoral hillsides, the wildflowers, copses of trees and red algae blooming in low ponds. At one point we drive through a snowstorm of floating fairy seeds.
The kids have no idea where we're going- James keeps them in suspense- but soon we see signs and they get a clue. Gravity Canyon has New Zealand's highest bungee jump, a terrifying swing, and our activity: the Flying Fox, a 1-km zip-line 200 metres above the river canyon. I start to get nervous as we climb the hill toward the launch point. By the time I'm strapped by my ankles facing the drop headfirst, I am shaky. The gate opens. There is nothing between my face and the valley floor but several hundred metres of air. I swear softly to myself, like a chant, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I can see the cables plunging down the valley before straightening out a few metres above the treetops. The anticipation is torture.
There's a loud bang before the drop, and I'm already screaming. They clock me going 160 km/h headfirst down the mountainside, and get my experience on DVD. By the time I'm horizontal, I'm laughing with relief. Back on solid ground, I still feel shaky, emptied out, all of that adrenaline draining my energy.
I fight sleep on the trip home, somewhat unsuccessfully. When I look around, everyone is
asleep but James. There's nothing to supervise, so I close my eyes again.
Holy, you're brave! Post pictures!
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