The place where bungee jump began
WHEN the Queen came to Pentecost Island in 1974 she watched a land-diver plummet to his death just a few metres in front of her.
It’s probably not that odd that this sad moment in Vanuatu’s history comes to mind now; perched as I am on a steep hillside on that very same island, just a few metres from a makeshift 30m-high platform built from trees and vines.
I can smell fear in the air; though not from the men waiting their turn to jump. On the contrary, they have the swagger of matadors before a bullfight.
No, it’s leaking all too obviously from boys about to land-dive for the first time.
Their anxiety unsettles me, especially after the first child – all skin and bones – aborts his dive.
An older man – his father, perhaps, bends down to his ear, whispering encouragement.
He breathes deeply in and out, his tiny chest rising and falling. Then he leaps ... just like a bird taking flight, before dropping like a stone, scraping the dusty earth with his forehead.
Cheers echo across the lush green valley; bare-chested local women dance frenziedly as a man cuts the vines that saved the child’s life.
He’s a man now, his heart might well be hurting his chest, but at least he’ll skip all the angst of adolescence.
Maybe you’ve bungeejumped before, but to be here where the practice was first conceptualised is another thing entirely.
Historically, land-divers on Pentecost Island leapt to bless the annual yam harvest.
I doubt A.J. Hackett’s motivation was ever quite so primeval or noble.
For the next two hours I watch men climb higher and higher to leap until there’s nowhere left to climb.
Then, and only then, does the village brave clap his hands until the crowd is in a frenzy then frog-leap into space, his arms together in prayer, to the earth 30m below.
Craig Tansley