The description was zip-lining but there was little more to go on such as where, when and how?
Or possibly, why?
All became clear as we were being strapped into our harnesses and issued with gloves and hard hats. Alex and Carolyn made up the three who were doing nine lines. We hopped on board a charmingly antique Mercedes bus from circa 1930 and ground up the mountain to the drop off with Nahim and Martine, our guides.
When we got there, there was no sign of zip-wires or anything else but a dirt track and an impossibly steep climb. Nahim pointed upwards and set off up the near vertical slope like a scalded goat after the vaguest of gestures that suggested we should follow him. At first we thought it was a joke until Martine jabbed us from behind and urged us up the slope.
When I say slope, I mean cliff face.
Alex and I looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow and off we set, clambering hand over hand and pressing ourselves to the incline. At first it was fun, then mildly concerning and then it became scary as we ascended 80m and then found ourselves on a 3 foot wide mountain path with cliff face on one side and a sheer 80m drop on the other.
Then someone put an insurpassable boulder in the path ahead of us but Martine shrugged in away that suggested that there was no way back.
Alex declared vertigo and Carolyn sore calves. I stayed quiet, concentrating instead on not looking down and keeping a firm grip on anything that the rock face offered by way of security. Gradually the path widened and after the trouser darkening drops receded, we found ourself at the first jump point only to face trouser darkening fear once again.
The line spanned a vertical 80m drop between two cliff faces.
The technique transpired to be very different to the pedestrian experience at Go-Ape in the UK. There were no brakes and no easy landings. Instead we learned that we would career down the line until a signal from Martine at which time we were expected to grab the steel cable with both hands while it fizzed past at 50kmph and squeeze until we came to a halt. Failure to do so would result in a violent introduction to the rock face beyond the finishing point.
For a moment we all stood silent contemplating the reality that there was no way down but by zip. Alex seized the bull by the horns and pushed me to the front and so it was that with a firm push from Nahim I left the security of firm ground and picked up speed with nothing below me but certain death.
And then it was over. I squeezed the line with both hands and miraculously they did not instantly disappear in a spray of blood, bone and tissue. I slowed and squeezed and slowed again until I made an almost gentle landing at Martine’s feet on the far cliff top.
Alex followed and Carolyn was not far behind. The duck was broken, we had lived to tell the tale and the remaining eight lines were going to be pure fun. The hardest thing that remained to do was to trek up the goat tracks to the next launch point.
Nahim and Martine made a virtue of defying all the safety rules and hanging upside down as they screamed for 600m across the valley above the river, and back again. Somewhere Martine’s wallet fell from his pocket as he hung upside down, and we watched it tumble end over end into the abyss.
He seemed unperturbed.
Nahim made an art of never braking until it seemed he would be mashed on the waiting rock face but he never was and the bad example was set. Soon we were following suit with all but the upside down thing.
We crossed the river on 500m lines, 50m above the churning water, wondering whether it was deep enough to break our fall, but knowing all along that departing from the line at any point was guaranteed to end in a mangle of lifeless limbs, diced on sharp rocks just beneath the surface.
The remainder of the experience was a blur of whoops and screams as we learned to pick up speed and brake later and later, concentrating less and less on the line and more on the fantastic scenery that was whistling by beneath and around us.
And then it was over.
Exhilarated and exhausted we decamped to the bar as the four liners departed. We didn’t see them again until they flew into the campsite on the final overhead wire as excited as we had been an hour before.
Retiring to the bar to compare notes, the sun went down and a warm wind funnelled down the valley as the barbeque was being lit. The expert chef had logs falling into embers within 30 minutes of lighting them and there was no five hour wait for the furnace to cool sufficiently to get within 20m of it without asbestos trousers.
After eating a never ending supply of meat with a few token pieces of greenery, we were led like lambs to the slaughter by Bert when he removed Boonanza from his bag and introduced us to the world of Belgian bean based card games.
Soon I will unleash Fuzzy Duck and he will be mine.
All mine.
Or possibly, why?
All became clear as we were being strapped into our harnesses and issued with gloves and hard hats. Alex and Carolyn made up the three who were doing nine lines. We hopped on board a charmingly antique Mercedes bus from circa 1930 and ground up the mountain to the drop off with Nahim and Martine, our guides.
When we got there, there was no sign of zip-wires or anything else but a dirt track and an impossibly steep climb. Nahim pointed upwards and set off up the near vertical slope like a scalded goat after the vaguest of gestures that suggested we should follow him. At first we thought it was a joke until Martine jabbed us from behind and urged us up the slope.
When I say slope, I mean cliff face.
Alex and I looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow and off we set, clambering hand over hand and pressing ourselves to the incline. At first it was fun, then mildly concerning and then it became scary as we ascended 80m and then found ourselves on a 3 foot wide mountain path with cliff face on one side and a sheer 80m drop on the other.
Then someone put an insurpassable boulder in the path ahead of us but Martine shrugged in away that suggested that there was no way back.
Alex declared vertigo and Carolyn sore calves. I stayed quiet, concentrating instead on not looking down and keeping a firm grip on anything that the rock face offered by way of security. Gradually the path widened and after the trouser darkening drops receded, we found ourself at the first jump point only to face trouser darkening fear once again.
The line spanned a vertical 80m drop between two cliff faces.
The technique transpired to be very different to the pedestrian experience at Go-Ape in the UK. There were no brakes and no easy landings. Instead we learned that we would career down the line until a signal from Martine at which time we were expected to grab the steel cable with both hands while it fizzed past at 50kmph and squeeze until we came to a halt. Failure to do so would result in a violent introduction to the rock face beyond the finishing point.
For a moment we all stood silent contemplating the reality that there was no way down but by zip. Alex seized the bull by the horns and pushed me to the front and so it was that with a firm push from Nahim I left the security of firm ground and picked up speed with nothing below me but certain death.
And then it was over. I squeezed the line with both hands and miraculously they did not instantly disappear in a spray of blood, bone and tissue. I slowed and squeezed and slowed again until I made an almost gentle landing at Martine’s feet on the far cliff top.
Alex followed and Carolyn was not far behind. The duck was broken, we had lived to tell the tale and the remaining eight lines were going to be pure fun. The hardest thing that remained to do was to trek up the goat tracks to the next launch point.
Nahim and Martine made a virtue of defying all the safety rules and hanging upside down as they screamed for 600m across the valley above the river, and back again. Somewhere Martine’s wallet fell from his pocket as he hung upside down, and we watched it tumble end over end into the abyss.
He seemed unperturbed.
Nahim made an art of never braking until it seemed he would be mashed on the waiting rock face but he never was and the bad example was set. Soon we were following suit with all but the upside down thing.
We crossed the river on 500m lines, 50m above the churning water, wondering whether it was deep enough to break our fall, but knowing all along that departing from the line at any point was guaranteed to end in a mangle of lifeless limbs, diced on sharp rocks just beneath the surface.
The remainder of the experience was a blur of whoops and screams as we learned to pick up speed and brake later and later, concentrating less and less on the line and more on the fantastic scenery that was whistling by beneath and around us.
And then it was over.
Exhilarated and exhausted we decamped to the bar as the four liners departed. We didn’t see them again until they flew into the campsite on the final overhead wire as excited as we had been an hour before.
Retiring to the bar to compare notes, the sun went down and a warm wind funnelled down the valley as the barbeque was being lit. The expert chef had logs falling into embers within 30 minutes of lighting them and there was no five hour wait for the furnace to cool sufficiently to get within 20m of it without asbestos trousers.
After eating a never ending supply of meat with a few token pieces of greenery, we were led like lambs to the slaughter by Bert when he removed Boonanza from his bag and introduced us to the world of Belgian bean based card games.
Soon I will unleash Fuzzy Duck and he will be mine.
All mine.
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