Tubing and Touristyness.

"Don't worry, the helmets are one size fits all," they said  "I've never met anyone they didn't fit."
Chris and I look at each other, knowing full well that they have clearly under appreciated the Ashdown Cranium Gigantis.
"Well, you're about to see something really special then," we think. But alas, they did fit - albeit on the absolute maximum size. Orange helmets on, we were ready to go.

After hauling my hungover ass out of bed at 8:00am that morning, and inadvertently becoming an emergency alarm clock for an oversleeping Chris, we had hammered it to Goytre for our day of tubing.

After a haphazard introduction, safety briefing and typo-laden disclaimer, we were invited to own up to any recent surgeries or injuries.

*2 second pause*

"No one? Ok, let's go."

After laughing at Chris trying to jam himself into a somewhat inaccurately chosen size M wetsuit, we jumped into the car and drove convoy for a whole 20 minutes to Dinas Rock. We lost the end few cars on the way there due to a particularly and ill-advised slow acceleration through some traffic lights, but they were eventually rounded up.

Buoyancy aids were donned and rings were selected, we began the walk to the entry point, see below:

It turned out to be an awesome day; sunny, dry and such a laugh. See photos below:

Chris getting jammed on a rock.

Us at the end.

Here's a link to the company, Liquid Friction.


It made me think of the last time I went tubing, which was in Guatemala, an experience that I referred to in an earlier post.

Basically, we had just complete the bikini-clad, candle-holding, bat-brimming caving trip and were floating down the river to La Puente, the bridge.

It is the time that I felt the most touristy.

Ever.

So, they we were floating along really, really slowly, there's people on the bridges watching us gleaming western-white in the afternoon sun. We float a little longer (by the end it felt like we'd been floating for hours) and turn a corner. There is a few families of indigenous people watching on the river bank, washing their clothes. The men sit back and keep an eye on the children whilst the women scrub the clothes, little babies strapped to their backs.

They look up to see us pass, clothes in hand. We float by, excruciatingly slowly, the contrast was stark.

At that point, I felt like a big, arrogant and ignorant tourist, probably spending more in a day than they earn in weeks through farming or selling homemade chocolate to tourists. I may as well have been smoking a giant cigar, wearing a golden crown and waving a Union Jack sewn out of bank notes.

They resumed their washing, it was humiliating floating there in ultimate leisure over exposed in my bikini whilst they went about their daily chores, covered up in traditional dress. Us, on a Brucey conveyor belt of Queen, Country, Capitalism and Empire. I was embarrassed.

The current seemed to dwindle almost to a complete stop and the children climbed out along the rocks to us.

"¿Cómo se llama usted?" they giggle, the people in this region speak Spanish and Mayan dialects.
"Jodie," I reply. They giggle again.
"Jooodddiieeee," they repeat in a comically British accent.
We look at each other for a minute or so, laughing and trying to communicate through my rubbish Spanish.
"Adios!" I say, as we begin to drift away.
"Adios!" they chant.
I wave as I watch them disappear around the corner.

And that was it, the moment of sobriety from the cocktail called Wanderlust.

It really put things in perspective.

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