Oh White Water Keep On Rolling....

It was my first Christmas away from home. I’d travelled across to the other side of the world to New Zealand to spend a few weeks with my best friend Paul. It was the first time that I’d spent so many hours on a plane. Arriving on Christmas Eve I was invited to a social event that very evening arranged by Paul’s company on a large boat out in Waitemata Harbour. I was so jet lagged that I was falling asleep whilst doing my level best to be sociable and make the acquaintance of Paul’s work colleagues. Whatever those Kiwi’s must’ve made of this weird Englishman lapsing into an unconscious torpor after only two beers and right in the middle of a conversation (and, I’m told, actually mid-sentence at one point) I’ll never know. Paul found it hilarious of course.

The next morning, after a much-needed night's sleep for me and a Christmas morning breakfast of champagne and strawberries in Paul’s garden, we headed to the beach for a traditional Kiwi Christmas day. Along the way Paul stopped at the only open service station we could find, where he purchased the ingredients for a very non-traditional Christmas Dinner of eggs, bacon, snags (Antipodean for sausages) and baked beans, which we then cooked on the (thoughtfully provided) public beach barbeque.

It didn’t really feel like Christmas Day; there in the bright sunshine in the middle of a southern hemisphere summer on a sandy beach as we watched families playing cricket together and the azure and white surf waves of the Pacific Ocean come tumbling rhythmically up the beach. I wondered about my family back in the U.K. who in twelve hours time would be tucking into their traditional Christmas Dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, in my absence for the first time ever, and probably in a typically English cold and drizzly winter setting. My wistful cogitation on this matter didn’t last long though as my attention turned to the adventures that lay ahead of me in Aotearoa or The Land of the Long White Cloud, as they call it in Maori.

New Zealand is renowned as the adrenaline sports capital of the world and Paul and I would take full advantage of this fact over the next fortnight or so. Travelling around the North Island in his sporty green Honda, we'd be staying at various motels and caravan parks and visiting all the sights on offer. Amongst the activities that we would enjoy during that couple of weeks were bungee jumping, jet boating, a helicopter ride, quad biking and tandem sky diving. We lived on New Zealand’s famous Ponsonby Meat Pies (steak and cheese being a particular favourite) and the McDonald’s special Beefmeister Burger (I couldn’t get enough of those: two quarter pound patties with cheese, loads of special sauce, onions and a minimal amount of salad on one huge toasted bun). Also occasionally we'd eat a Kiwiburger although it was somewhat of an acquired taste (a normal cheeseburger but with the addition of a fried egg and a slice of beetroot).

New Year's Eve was spent mostly at a house party in Mount Maunganui, but also at an especially laid-on rock concert on the beach. I found the whole thing weird, I must say. Sitting on a beach on a relatively warm evening where it didn’t get dark until gone 10pm, and later hearing everybody wishing each other ‘Happy New Year’, it just didn’t feel right to me. I was used to spending my New Year's Eves inside, comfortable and cozy out of the inevitable cold and damp weather, during dark dingy winter nights.

I thought about the only other time I could recall that I’d spent my New Year's Eve wholly outside, one year when I was around 17 or so. Several friends and I made the short trip by train and tube to Trafalgar Square with plastic bags stuffed with bottles of cheap cider and cans of supermarket-brand lager. In those days the fountains were left open (before they started boxing them in sometime around the mid-eighties) and you could, and I did in drunken abandonment, frolic in the gushing waters. My overwhelming memory was that after the rowdy countdown to midnight I was snogging and groping a plethora of equally drunk women of various ages and levels of beauty in amongst the heaving crowds; this commotion was accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben from a few hundred yards down the road, as the cheer for another promise laden new beginning went up. Because I was a fit, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager of limited sexual experience I found it a little intimidating when the less attractive older women (in their 30's!) grabbed a hold of me, breathed alcohol-laden fumes in my face, slurred “Appienooyuuurrr darlin'!” and plunged their tongues down my throat before I had a chance to escape. I’m sure that is precisely when I picked up my very first cold sore infection.

We couldn’t afford a taxi and all the trains had stopped running, so we walked the six miles to Chiswick High Road where one of my friend’s older brothers had a flat in which we could all crash-out on the floor. That journey probably took about three hours as we were all so completely inebriated. I was absolutely freezing cold in my soaking wet jeans and squelchy boots from my earlier fountain frolics. I’d lost my jacket too, as I recall, and I have vague memories of someone wearing a traffic cone as a hat and some of us stealing flashing roadworks' lanterns. At one point, in desperation, we realized that if we pooled our remaining cash we could probably afford to get a cab the rest of the way and so we started trying to hail black cabs, none of which stopped of course. One look at this motley gang of drunken teenagers in damp clothing and sporting stolen flashing lanterns would be enough to tell any self-respecting cabbie that this really wasn’t a fare worth picking up...what a complete contrast that evening was to where I was now!

Later that week I found myself arguing with Paul, we’d decided that we wanted to go white water rafting and we’d picked up a leaflet from the Rotorua tourist information office. We just had to book whichever excursion we fancied, once we’d had a chance to mull over all the options of course.

“Look, it’s our first time doing this don’t you think it would be more sensible to do a nice sedate Grade 2 trip first?” asked Paul.

“Mate, this is probably my one and only chance to do this. There isn’t gonna be enough time for us to do another excursion during this trip. So we might as well do the top one - the Grade 5. It’s meant to be an adrenalin buzz anyway; what sort of buzz are we gonna get from doing a pansy-arsed Grade 2?”

The International Rapid Classification System qualifies Grade 5 as: very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required. A definite risk to personal safety exists.

Do we really want to put ourselves in mortal danger for the sake of a quick buzz?” Paul asked, sensibly.

“Quite frankly mate YES!” I grinned.

“But you’re a much better swimmer than me, what if I fall in?”

“Then I’ll just have to save you won’t I?”

“God you’re so fucking arrogant,” said Paul.

“I know,” I smirked. “Look mate, I'm certain we won’t regret this…it’s gonna be awesome…TRUST ME!”

After what seemed like an hour of arguing, I finally had to resort to the dubious macho tactic of questioning Paul’s sexual orientation and proclivities before he was eventually browbeaten into submission and agreed to attempt the formidable Grade 5. We returned to the tourist information office and the nice blonde woman behind the counter booked it for us, took our money for the reservation and gave us directions to the Kaituna River where we’d be rafting.

Upon arrival at Trout Pool Road, the setting off point, we had to sign disclaimers exempting the rafting company, Kaituna Cascades, from any liability. We kitted up into wetsuits, fleeces, surf booties, life jackets and helmets. Greg the instructor gave us a paddle each and introduced us to the rest of the crew that would be in our large inflatable raft. They were a mixture of people of various nationalities and, like us, all virgins to the sport.

Greg briefed us about the rafting route we were about to embark upon. Running through an extremely steep and narrow canyon, in the course of about an hour we would paddle 14 awesome drops, including two Grade 5 waterfalls and some great rapids from Grade 3+ to Grade 5. We received some dry land instruction, first practising procedures on the river bank and learned how to respond to the commands Greg would give us along the route. At the ‘put in’ point Greg organized everybody according to their weight and body build. I was positioned at the back because of my bulk and upper body strength. Paul was seated at the front to balance me out and fend us away from the rocks. Greg then told us how to operate the raft in the water, what each person’s responsibilities were and what to do in case of an emergency.

There were three other rafts in the water with us, each with a virgin crew and instructor busily explaining things. As we set off down the river in a gentle current, our raft was third in line. The first few rapids were gentle and easy and gave us a chance to practice the manoeuvres and techniques for the more challenging rapids that lay ahead. The trick was to guide the raft into the best entry point for any given section of rapids and essentially hold on for dear life as the waters took you. The raft had ropes at the sides and front to hold onto, and special handles built into the floor. We were advised on how to move to adjust the weight within the raft according to how we wanted to manoeuvre it. The most difficult thing seemed to be holding onto the ropes and your paddle simultaneously whilst being wildly buffeted by the water against the large rocks.

In between the sections of rapids and waterfalls, in the canyons and gorges, there was a chance to enjoy the scenery as we waited in clear, still pools until each raft had completed that section. The mountains rose up either side of us, covered in a thick forest of native trees. We saw trout jumping for flies in the pools ahead of us and birds swooping low skimming the water for insects. Artists and filmmakers will tell you that there is something magical about the light in New Zealand and it really does make those landscapes even more breathtaking and special.

We came to a quiet section where it appeared that, over eons, the river had carved a niche for itself out of pure granite. Cliffs rose up tightly on either side of us and there was just enough room to get a raft through. Beyond and above the strange and beautiful rock formations of this natural cutting the forest towered majestically, echoing with weird and wonderful calls from the native wildlife.

The fun really started when we went over the top of the world's highest commercially rafted waterfall, the Tutea Falls, and experienced an almost vertical drop of 7 meters. The raft was tossed violently to the swirling whirlpool at the bottom and with the thousands of litres of water falling around me, I felt like a lone sock in a washing machine on a spin cycle. There was a brief moment when the water just poured over us as if we were being bombarded from all directions by water canons. We clung firmly to the ropes and some of us had shifted around in the raft, but nobody fell out. Incredibly we remained afloat and continued to find our route through the turbulent waters until we were ejected out the other end.

It’s difficult to explain the exhilaration you feel when you complete a section of rapids and waterfalls; maybe it’s to do with relinquishing that need for control. There is a palpable excitement as you approach the entry point to a dangerous section; the anticipation is unimaginable. The water gradually deepens. It bunches up at the horizon and swells. Ahead you hear the thunderous roar as the river tumbles inexorably downward, obeying the laws of gravity. When the raft tips over the edge, through the mists you glimpse the tumultuous chaos ahead. Your heart stops momentarily, your grip tightens and you brace yourself. You surrender completely to the mercy of the flow. Huge jagged rocks loom; just as you know you are going to be dashed against them the raft lurches to one side and you are swept away by the torrent.

At the end of our incredible joy ride down this fevered stretch of water, the other rafting crews had to make several stops to pick up members who'd been thrown overboard and were clinging to boulders awaiting rescue. Our crew lost nobody.

Paul and I were unusually quiet as we drove away from the Kaituna River that evening. Our bodies were aching from the day’s exertions and a delicious tiredness was seeping through us, but there was nonetheless a warm glow within and a comforting sense of achievement.

“Thanks mate!” said Paul.

"What for?" I asked.

Paul's broad grin was lit up by the lights of an oncoming car. “You may be an arrogant shit but you were absolutely right. That Grade 5 was just fucking awesome and at least you didn't have to fish me out of the drink!”