When Gravity Gets You Down

Lake Taupō is an inland sea within a volcanic caldera. If New Zealand is Middle Earth, as Peter Jackson staged it, Lake Taupō would be the paradise left behind once Mount Doom blew its top. On the northern lake shore, the town of Taupō is a crossroads for international mis-adventurers. Holy Cow! Bar & Grille caters to the most desperate of these wanderers by searing cheap meats on an old barbecue to serve with jugs of stale beer to visitors from the Northern Hemisphere. I was bound to turn up sooner or later. 

Gathered tonight, as on most nights, is the unofficial British Consulate of Taupō, a group of imperial descendants who’ve self-appointed themselves as ambassadors to New Zealand. They’ve arrived with assumptions their class & status has any merit on this underside of the earth. There is Dudley, the commodities man with the frosty hair. He’s got the Canary Wharf charisma and the gritty smile of jumper-cables. And there is Jill. From the Barking neighborhood of London, though she prefers to say, “near Greenwich”. Despite her betrothal to a Scottish laird, Jill has deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy, especially when she’s beside another consulate member, Arabella d’Belgravia. “Her Maj”, as Arabella is called by her friends & enemies, exudes nobility. She does not stand at any great height, yet manages to look down upon all us common folk. Arabella’s ever-present lady-in-waiting is Kat O’Nine. A brilliant micro-chemist turned personal trainer. If Kat drinks enough cider, she might show you her sculpted abdomen. Okay, maybe not you… And there appears to be someone new. A princeling. Young, foppish hair, the smile of an innocent. Or an idiot. I don’t know who he is. 

Missing from tonight’s gathering is their token American. Whom they’re surely speaking ill of… 

Don’t look now, Dudley says to Jill as he hides his mouth with a raised beer glass. Don’t look now, but Vic Neverman has found himself a faraway booth to write his boorish diatribes within. Jill keeps her back to the expanse of the tavern and says to Dudley, don’t you dare acknowledge that slag. I want nothing to do with any Neverman, she says. What is Neverman?, the princeling asks. Don’t turn around!, Jill scolds the youngster. Arabella and Kat, disinterested, turn to their phones for messages from home.

Dudley, as senior member of the consulate, begins the lecture. He tells the princeling, Vic Neverman is the epitome of the Yankee fuck-wit. Jill adds, Vic is a bombastic swot, a pseudo-intellect whose absolute daftness is unquestionably American. Dudley agrees, a fine way to put it, love. Dudley says, I bungee jumped with Neverman at Kawarau Bridge. The nonce jumped feet first and when that bungee tightened at the nadir of the drop, he went arse-over-tit. Lit-er-’ly! His body spun forward and his face hit the river like a ton of bricks. Bloody king-hit! You’d think he learned his lesson: one must dive head-first into the bungee jump. Not this Yank. Not our Neverman. Days later, we’re at Nevis. Tallest bungee in the world outside South Africa. There’s a bloody sign saying “don’t jump feet first” along with a stick figure breaking in half. We tease Neverman. Don’t fuc-king do it, Vic! He’s calm. Yeah, yeah, the twat waves us off. He then walks the plank and bunny hops off into the void. Feet first. Fuc-king hell!, the crew on the platform screamed bloody murder because they knew they were going to have a corpse dangling at the end of the bungee. At that height – a 134 meter drop, 440’ down, 9 seconds of free-fall – any bunny-hopping nonce falling feet first, once the bungee tightens, would be flung forward with such centrifugal force it would snap the spine like breaking a biscuit. Fuc-king gravity, what?

The princeling turned to look for Neverman, wondering if perhaps the American was in a wheel chair. What happened?, the young man inquired. How’d the Yank survive?

Dudley shrugs his thin lips before taking a sip of his beer. Bruv only appeared to be scuppered, Dudley explains. The wanker had enough fall time to realize his mistake and slowly right the ship. Vic managed to invert himself into a dive right before the sudden stop should’ve broken him in half. But the crew up top, they didn’t know, did they? They was gutted. Ghost-faced, radioing the ground crew to look for a severed torso smashed into the gulley. They believed they were reeling in the bottom half of the Yank, like a mangled fish. Only to raise him and find Neverman complete. Whole. Right as rain. Fuc-king tosser.

Fucking tosser, Jill agrees. 

Why are you so cross with Neverman?, the princeling asks. The daft are many, are they not?

Jill pouts a moment, considering her impassioned antagonism. Vic and me, she says. We was inseparable in Auckland, yeah? Then the cunt trot-off. Vic absconded with this Canadian bird. If I’d bother to turn around right now and take a butcher’s, this’d be the first I’ve seen Vic since he left Auckland. Dudley asks Jill, you weren’t fucking were…? God no!, Jill says. Fuck off, Duds. No, if we was sleeping together and he left me, I’d think naught of it. Cost of doing business, innit? No, Vic & me was mates. And you don’t abandon your mates, yeah? Especially not to chase some yoga messiah from Canada.

On they chatter… Of course, this conversation is all conjecture on my part. I have no idea what they are truly saying. But I can guess! Jotting imagined dialogue into my notebook, I’m entirely absorbed in my scribbles when Jill materializes beside my table. Jesus!, I say with startle. No, just me, she says. Hi, I say. With a wide smile, Jill says, hi love!

Jill’s cheeks are ruddy from these southern trade-winds. She swipes a strand of her highlighted light-brown hair out of her face to reveal sympathetic brown eyes. All of the presumed animosity I dreamt of is nowhere to be seen. When did you get back to Taupō?, she asks. How was the coast?, she asks. Come join us at the bar, she says, we’ve stumbled upon one of your compatriots. A fellow American. Good kid, but daft. I’d say there’s hope he’ll grow out of it, but if you are a projection of his future, I’d wager the opposite might be true. She winks, teasing me. 

Grinding my teeth at the pain, I rise from my bench. What’s all this then?, Jill asks as her smile fades. What’s with the grimaces, love?

It’s been a rough few days. 

Sit back down, darling, Jill insists. I’ll put the kettle on and you’re going to divulge all the natters. What are you drinking then, Vic? Tui Dark it is. Back in two shakes…

Within moments, the entire consulate invades my table. Arabella slides onto the bench beside me while asking, my god, where’ve you been? Around, I mumble to her. Arabella is the last person I thought would notice my absence. Fuck bruv, Dudley says, could’ve used your help keeping the peace, what? The Irish lads have been off their trolley. They’ve since scuttled down to Wellington; I’m chuffed to part ways. Have you met Captain America?, Dudley asks. ‘Sup?, the foppish-haired kid nods upwards at me. Dudley describes him to me, this wanker is the epitome of the American fuck-wit. Shit, I say. I’ve been gone for a few days and you’ve already crowned a new king fuck-wit?, I ask. He puts you to shame, Vic, Dudley says. Captain America has no humility, does he? Every night he hears blokes tell him Americans can’t hold their booze and every night Captain America takes them up on the challenge and every night we carry the drunken sod back to his hostel. At these words, the kid shakes his head, saying, you’re exaggerating, bruh. 

Jill arrives with my new pint of Kiwi beer. Sorted darling, she says. Now tell us where it hurts. I want the full cock & bull story, love. Was it the Canadian girl who broke you, Vic?, Jill asks. I did very much like her, but looks deceive, yeah?, Jill says. Arabella counters Jill’s sentiment, saying about the yoga instructor, I bloody well did not like her. She thinks she’s Jesus with perkier tits.

Her name is Ember Jean. From Vancouver, British Columbia. Traveling solo through New Zealand. Just her and a copy of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. She arrived on her own, but after curing a few emotional lepers, she now has a dozen followers. Literal followers. Twenty-four actual feet following her footsteps. Including my own for a while. It isn’t a cult! We were just a collection of sensitive souls who enjoy basking in the soft daylight, breathing deeply, finding peace within the forest. 

But you pulled-in oily-hipped lady Moses, yeah?, Arabella asks.

Christ, Vic!, Dudley says with his gruff voice. Trotting-off with a sex cult and you’re not even getting yours. Must be pent-up, bruv. I’m surprised you’re not feeding the pigeons in Taupō town square. Jill laughs sharply at the comment. Arabella and Kat roll their eyes. The kid asks, what’s funny about pigeons? It’s an expression, love, Jill tells him kindly. To feed the pigeons is to have a wank in public. Oh, he says. Oh!

Yeah, it isn’t a pigeon feeding sort of cult either, I say. You admit it was a cult!, Jill says. No!, it wasn’t any sort of cult. Just a gathering of kindred spirits, I say. Arabella adds, who aren’t fucking.

Where it all went upside-down!, I say while raising my voice to rein-in control of the narrative. Where it went wrong for me was at Cathedral Cove. Arriving at the coast, Ember Jean told us all to ensure we had adequate footwear for a hike to the beach. I told her I would be fine barefoot. I boasted to Ember Jean about my recent exploits in Australia where I spent months barefoot in the bush. There is a benefit, I told her, of feeling the earth beneath your feet. It’s grounding. It connects you with the sacred. 

Christ, Vic!, Dudley says, you’re fuc-king gagging for it! Never say no to culty rubbish, do we?

Ignoring Dudley, I continue my story. Her other followers rolled their eyes at me, but not Ember Jean. She smiled her 100 watt smile. Alright, cowboy, she said, you do you, dude.

I mean, what’s a 5k hike?, I ask the group at my table. With my well-calloused feet? I could do this hopping on one foot. And so we trekked down to the beach. And I felt grounded, in that I certainly felt the ground, but this path was not sacred. The path was entirely gravel rock. 

Bloke thinks he’s Bilbo bloody Baggins!, Dudley laughs.

We got to the beach. It’s gorgeous. Overlooking the Pacific. We sit in the cool sand and initiate meditation. We do our ohms. We get into downward dog position and its then when I feel this fire sensation from my soles. I get up and walk over to the surf to chill my feet in the ocean. 

Ah!, Kat says, realizing where this story is going. The cold of the water would tighten your skin…

Yes!, I say. The cool only brought more pain. I lifted each foot to find a massive blister had bubbled-up. The entire balls of my feet were blistered from taking the brunt of the sharp rocks going downhill. I could not go on with the yoga like this. And the only way off the beach, to the van, was the same path of hard gravel, but returning uphill. I realized I needed to head back right away. As the yoga session continued, I raced – as fast as I could possibly waddle – up the path. Climbing slowly. In pain. I tried to walk on my heels, but this flesh soon became tender too. I would alternate my gait by walking on the edges of my feet. I took off my shirt to wrap my feet and slowly shuffle my way, but it was too slow-going. There was no off-road alternative. Only gravel. One false move, stepping on a sharp shard of rock, either of my blisters would explode and then I’d be even more fucked. After an hour, I was soaked with sweat, my soiled shirt over my shoulder, when the yoga practicers finally caught-up. There was no love lost between me and my rivals. They snickered between each other, muttering under their breath “fucking Yank”. Even Ember Jean laughed. Lovingly, though. You look ridiculous!, Ember Jean said of my duck walk. She offered help. She would ask our companions to carry me. Fuck no. I’ll be damned if I am going to let some Yankee-bashing beatniks carry my ass! I told them to go on without me. Leave me behind. This is my cross to bear. I will hitchhike back to Auckland. Ember Jean smiled beautifully. Beatifically. Like a saint. And she said, yeah-yeah, okay. Alright. See-ya, bye! 

What?, Jill asks. She left you?

Well, before she left, Ember Jean did pause to turn around, offering her sage advice. She said, remember, friend… the path of life does not get smoother. We only become more resilient. 

…

I despise this cunt, Arabella says to break the silence. 

What did you do?, Jill asks in a panic.

Yeah, well, I became more resilient, didn’t I? I got to the top and was relieved to find they had waited for me. I mean, I was more ashamed than relieved, but relieved nevertheless. We all returned to Auckland together. My blisters have not burst, but they have since filled with blood. Needless to say, I am taking time away from yoga. And I’m wearing shoes. With two pairs of socks.

Fuc-king tosser!, Dudley cackles. 

Are you not then capable of repelling into the glowworm caves of Waitomo?, Arabella asks. Kat and I are set to go in the morning, she says. Will you be sitting this one out then, Vic? Or would you care to tumble down some holes with us? 

Hunh…, I cough. I tap my feet, testing my pain threshold. Crawling down glowworm caves? With her Maj and Kat O’Nine? Well… shit. I guess I do have a third pair of socks I could pull on. I am resilient, after all. 

Don’t count me out, I say to Arabella. Where gravity leads, I will follow.