Fear and Loathing in Roto Vegas
(A semi-fictitious account of the VUCC August Central North Island trip)

When the going gets weird the weird turn pro.
- Raoul Duke

The problem with telling people you're going to be at a certain place at a certain time is that they're inclined to believe you. This can lead to all kinds of unpleasantness when you're subsequently over an hour late; so, anticipating this possibility, Duncan, Mark and I resolve to blame Adrian (and his co-drivers Sarah and Luke) for waiting in the wrong place. We figure if we assert vehemently enough that we were supposed to meet at the BP, not the Shell service station, we'll make them look stupid. We arrive at Turangi, and I duly wind down my window and scream at Adrian 'Where the fuck have you been!' I turn for Duncan to deliver the coup de grace; but instead, the creep chickens out and starts babbling apologies, making him look like the nice guy and me like a complete tosser.

Well, vengeance is a dish best served cold, and Adrian serves up his. It's before dawn at the Chateau Duckworth, and Adrian, obeying some strange atavistic impulse, wakes up. Within seconds he and Luke are engaged in animated discussion, the purpose of which is to wake the rest of us. I look at my watch. 6.30 am! Holy Mother of God!! I look around for something large and hard to throw, but my eyes won't focus, and my arms are pinned by a sleeping bag, so I start yelling instead - 'You freaks of nature! You sick perverts!! You ought to be locked up in an asylum for the criminally insane!! Now shut up and go back to sleep!'

The bastards completely ignore me, and soon everyone is up. Valiant efforts on the part of Duncan and myself to pretend this isn't happening are unsuccessful, due to the general noise and mayhem by this stage - it's a complete horror show, eight excited kayakers scarfing down food and packing gear and waving their arms and raving incoherently about the joys of paddling. Duncan resorts to weeping inconsolably; I suffer a partial nervous breakdown.

All this lunacy has the effect of getting us on the road before 9 am. Previous experience with VUCC has left me ill-equipped to deal with an alpine start, and by the time we reach Ngaawapurua I'm in a state of total confusion. The wave does nothing to allay my panic. It's a vile green monster, the ugly bastard offspring of a 270 cumec release from the control gates, huge and foamy, washing out into boat-sucking boils and vortices. The rest seem oblivious to the danger - are they insane?! - and take to the water like hippos to mud. This cunning ploy is meant to convince me that the rapid is my friend, but I know otherwise. My first foray into the maw of doom confirms this; I'm grabbed before I'm even halfway across the eddy line, spun around, spat out, pushed back onto a monster boil which throws me sideways into a vicious whirlpool which stands me on end and sends me through 360 degrees while I paw for water with my paddle. Two more strange and inadvertent moves later and I'm unceremoniously dumped back into the eddy. This spectacle must be highly amusing to those on the shore watching, but it scares the shit out of me.

Well, people can get used to just about anything, and I'm prepared to try anything once (except for incest and folk-dancing). I pluck up the courage to try the wave, with entirely predictable results - I'm spun around on the eddy line and sent straight back to square one. Over and over again. And then it happens - I screw it up a different way for a change, get pushed forward into the pourover, then slowly glide back onto the wave and succeed in surfing for two nanoseconds. I immediately stop paddling after this; I don't want the treasured moment tarnished by subsequent failures. I'm content to sit back on the bank in the sun and watch Duncan show me how my boat should be paddled; and later prove that the airbags really do work, for which I'm grateful, since it was his example that led me to get them in the first place.

At day's end, Liz shows again what she's made of. She decides that she is going to stay at a motor camp in Taupo, with showers, cooking facilities and a spa pool; we can do what we like, but her mind is made up. This is confusing at first - someone has actually decided something without the paralysis of indecision that usually occurs on VUCC trips. I'm beginning to get nervous again. But a sort of domino effect prevails, and soon everyone agrees that it's a good idea. Indeed. Sitting in the spa that night I reflect on the ease with which the horrors of the day have transformed into memories of paddling like a god, and pleasant drives through the countryside (navigational cock-ups notwithstanding) - we are perverse creatures. Sarah, sitting in the spa too far away from the liqueur bottle, lets us know that when women say 'yes' they really mean yes, and exercises her prerogative as official photographer and car minder to finish the Baileys. Later, Mark D, Timon, Bernie, Adrian and Sarah head into town to watch the All Blacks set another record. I opt for bed. I've carefully pitched my tent according to Feng-shui principles, which must work, because I sleep the sleep of the righteous.

Sunday proves to be an object lesson in how not to read a flow gauge. It starts innocently enough. Another early start, combined with a ferocious mental assault by irrelevant and bogus signage placed all over the camp by the heinous proprietors, renders me completely unfit for paddling. By the time we reach the Kaituna, I've inured myself to all entreaties, even when the others start raving about how excellent it will be, especially since the flow on the gauge is 450, which 'is just about right.' Uh huh.

The plan calls for Paul, Mark D, Timon, Liz, Bernie, Duncan and Luke to paddle the whole section, with Mark L and Adrian joining below the waterfall. A visual inspection does nothing to deter anyone, with the one disquieting note voiced by Bernie. 'It looks quite big', he observes. None of them seem to notice that the pillowy boil at the bottom of the fall (a key part of the move to run it elegantly) has vanished - instead there is a huge pile of white froth vomiting up in big gobs of spray.

After doing the shuttle and helping Mark and Adrian into the pool below the main fall, I go to the viewing platform to record the moment for posterity. By my reckoning I have about ten minutes before the paddlers arrive. A small crowd gathers, as people are wont to do when they sense that other people, less adequately endowed with good sense than themselves, are about to do something really stupid and dangerous. I decide to build the suspense a bit.

'Hope they'll be O.K.'

People around start asking questions.

'Is it dangerous?'

'Is it what! It's extremely dangerous,' I reply. 'First time it's been done. Could be fatal.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. These guys are really sick.'

'Why do they do it?'

'Hmmmmm. Hard to say. Having a major personality disorder helps, I think. I mean, Mark's a twisted bastard who'll do anything for a thrill. Paul's probably baked to the gills on all sorts of illegal and dangerous mind-altering drugs. Duncan's mad as a cut snake, Timon's just lost his favourite Rottweiler in a fight, Liz is totally fearless, Bernie's the kind of guy who starts pub brawls for the hell of it, and Luke's a complete freakin' lunatic too.'

The locals start to look uneasy. 'What club you guys with?'

'Kupe,' I tell them.

Meanwhile, a different kind of fear and loathing manifests itself further upstream. From eye-witness accounts, completely unreliable reports from the participants, and a healthy dose of fabrication, I gather it goes something like this. Duncan and Liz both get nabbed by the hole above the weir. Duncan is extricated through the assistance of Paul, who throws away a perfectly good paddle in the process. Liz, however, is not so fortunate. She is sucked out of her boat, recirculated a few times, regurgitated, and sent down to the weir, where she is recirculated a couple more times for good measure. Now separated from her boat, she elects to hike out, nobly accompanied by Bernie. Apparently there is a great deal of miscommunication accompanying this whole process, which I can't report on since no-one will own up to anything or tell me any details.

By this stage, oblivious to the unfolding drama up the river, I'm starting to get a little uneasy myself. The others are taking an inordinate amount of time, and the banter is beginning to wear a bit thin. I've already described the entire VUCC committee in the most unflattering terms possible, and I'm going to have to start on the rest of the membership soon. A little kid next to me starts complaining to his dad. 'I'm hungry. When are they going to go down the waterfall?' Good question.

Then a group coming down the track from the weir enlighten us. 'You waiting for the kayakers?' they ask.

'Yep.'

'Ah, they're having a bit of an epic on the weir, but they should be down soon.'

Sod it, I've missed all the fun. They'd better not let me down on the waterfall.

Eventually the survivors arrive. Mark's the first one down, and he doesn't disappoint. A big 'oooooh!' goes up from the crowd as he goes over. He pops up and does a spectacular ender, which goes on and on (and on) until it becomes apparent that he's achieved it by filling the front of his boat with water. Bloody cheat. However the onlookers are suitably appalled and impressed by the resulting swim and the probability of further carnage. The rest all make the drop with varying degrees of style. Luke spends an unfeasibly long time upside down, eliciting more 'oooohs!' from the spectators, but he eventually resurfaces. Only Paul makes the move with any finesse - he doesn't do any loops, enders, spins, flips, cartwheels, screw ups or the like - which the crowd seem to regard as completely boring.

Now joined by Mark L and Adrian, the group continue down the river. Adrian appears to decide that if there's an epic going, he wants to be a part of it too. He's swept upside down into a nasty undercut, in which it proves a bit tricky to roll, so he bails, swims, and walks the rest of the section. The first inkling we have of this is an orange Fly soloing through the bottom hole like the Mary Celeste, chased by Paul and Mark D. Luke bravely rescues one of Adrian's Tevas, and has to be restrained from chasing its mate down Trout Pool Falls. My bowels turn to water when I think of the consequences of that one. Eventually everyone is re-united at the get-out, and the inevitable post-mortem gets under way.

And this is the real killer. Adrian is ecstatic at having paddled the lower section; Liz starts babbling about getting a good spanking, her best in years; and they're laughing about it! They are certifiable! I'm suddenly convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that all the aspersions I have cast upon their respective characters are completely true. But the clincher is the revelation that the flow gauge said, not 450, but one thousand four hundred and fifty. 1,450. Not only are they insane, they're functionally innumerate!

A trip to the Lazy Dog in Vegas restores some sanity. Caffeine is a good salve for frayed nerves (though large quantities of alcohol or drugs - or both - would be better), and soon my hands stop shaking. Adrian, unsuccessful in his attempts to wangle an extra day's leave out of his boss, returns to Wellington with Sarah and Mark L, and Bernie heads back to Tauranga. The rest head back to Motorcamp Bogus Signage in Taupo, to spa, eat, drink, and contend with the over-zealous owners. It's like having your parents on holiday with you; though, unlike parents, their concern is probably more for their welfare than ours. And I can see their point, when Luke tries to torch the joint next morning. He exceeds his attempts to maximise the crispness of his toast by a significant margin, sending huge clouds of smoke pouring out of the kitchen and bringing Mr. Owner running, flapping his arms and yelling 'What are you doing! What are you doing!!' This is the cue for hysterical laughter from the rest of us. No-one makes any attempt to deal to the incipient inferno; Duncan laconically says to Luke 'I think your toast's done'.

The day's plan results in two groups going to separate locations. Liz and Paul elect to head back to Ngaawapurua, while Timon convinces the others to paddle a river draining into the Waikato near Mangakino. No-one else knows anything about it, and vague mutterings about 'bits of class IV' and a reluctance to play a game of Timon Says leads to me opt for Ngaawapurua. Better the devil you know...

After being dropped off I do my usual dithering, which involves not doing anything about getting ready until the ignominy of not paddling outweighs the fear of doing so. This process usually takes a while, and, coupled with the fact that it's a beautiful sunny day, it's some time before I get on the river. The wave is honking again, so the usual fear factor takes over... But it isn't so bad this time. I'm still pretty incompetent, but the rodeo guns have the grace not to laugh out loud as I flail about. There's something pretty cool about a sport where you can rub shoulders with complete heros and receive encouragement, not scorn.

Eventually the wave subsides, perfectly timed for lunch. A jaunt down the section from the haybarn yields some hole-playing fun for the gurus; we finish just in time for the wave to start working again. After a bit more surfing, Liz, Paul and I head back to Wellington. I'm completely astonished at being back before 9 pm; very un-VUCC. It's been a weekend of strange new sensations...

- Bolke Water

Post script

A reward is offered to anyone for any information leading to the identification and apprehension of the villain(s) who dangled a Stealth from a tree overhanging a precipice at Ngaawapurua. Reward (1 Werner paddle) can be claimed from the Kaituna River, Rotorua. Owner can be contacted at http://www.malebodies.com (click on 'academic').



Last update: Mon Jan 18 22:34:50 NZDT 1999

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