This Is Not What Bridges Were Built For

He told me to walk like a penguin to the edge of the bridge, but with my ankles bound together and being weighed down by a sort of sand bag, it was a little harder than it looked. All of a sudden the rickety bridge felt like a wet, slippery, bad idea.

"Jump"

I got into the diving position as instructed and fell head first into the hot air of that Kathmandu afternoon. On both sides of the bridge were walls of trees sloping downwards to the rapids and massive boulders, with one in particular standing out. Painted by an unfortunate employee who must have balanced his way to the middle of the gushing river with a white paint bucket in hand, it read "Nepal Bungee".

I thought that if I opened my mouth my brain would slip out.

It was a 160m fall in less than 2 seconds, one of the world's highest jumps, and 100 meters higher than my last. As the rope streched out to its full length it sprung back only to send my flailing and spiraling back up. This is one of my favourite feelings.

As the jump began to lose its momentum, a long bamboo stick came into my preipharal vision. I continued to spiral, grabbed on, and was brought back down to earth, only to be sent on a 20 minute hike up hill, on jagged rocks, with a lingering head rush.

Once I got back up, I was awaited by employees busily trying to sell me videos, pictures, and tshirts, of a memory that was still fresh in my mind. I wasn't interested because it just seemed like more stuff to carry around, after I had made such an effort to lighten my pack, giving away all of my sweaters and shawls in apprehesion of the scorching south. And after even going to the lengths of ripping out the Varanasi section from the northern half of my crumbling Lonley Planet, since it is my last northern stop.

I had also just learned that in addition to the bungee, the resort provides the highest canyon swing in the world, and I learned what a canyon swing was.

Picture a bungee jump where the fall is horizontal rather than vertical with a 7 second free fall at 150 km/ hour. It was about the same price as the memorabilia, so the choice was clear. So after a sweaty walk back up to the bridge, I whipped out my credit card, which has become more and more irrelevant to any actual funds, and signed on for the canyon swing.

I had spent the morning and afternoon with other tourists interested in throwing themselves off a bridge. After signing a waiver that stated: "I understand that bungee jumping is nothing more than jumping off a bridge attached to an elastic. I also understand that we are in a remote area where there are very limited medical resources," we perhaps stupidly put our lives into the hands of strangers, who called us out one by one, and we became bound together by fear and excitement. They went in descending order of weight.

"64 kilograms"

"63..."

"62"

Her name was Louise and her face turned as red as her thick, bright, hair. She squeezed by everyone to the centre of that swaying bridge, where we were all packed together. I caught a glimpse of her right had as she raised it to slip by me: "62 B (bungee)"

The 20 or so of us stood around making conversation with new companions and silenty sympathizing with Louise who stood and shook at the edge of the bridge. After a couple of minutes, she backed up and slipped out of her harness. First bail.

"61" We look around at eachothers' hands in silence...

"60"

I double-checked my hand. Thought so. As I got my harness on, I wasn't uncomfortable about the jump so much as the man who wouldn't get his lense out of my face for the videos they wanted to sell us.

"Rudayana (I spelt my name for him 6 times, but he couldn't get it right) how do you feel jumping again?"

"More broke."

And as I grabbed onto the rope, my eyelids fluttered with the wind, the water rushed past, I could hear my own screams, their laughter, and I felt as light as my pockets.