True story: all 216 meters of it, off a bridge near Knysna along the southern coast. It’s difficult to describe the sensation: at the top they’ve got all this pump-up music playing for you and you’re not sure whether to be nervous or to join in with all the crazy African guys who are having a dance party and pretending to flap their wings and then all of a sudden you’re strapped in and off the edge and it’s just…quiet. I can honestly say that I didn’t scream at all, though there may or may not have been some awkward-looking swimming motions on the way down. The whole experience was absolutely worth looking like an idiot for though. And no, I absolutely did not tell my mom beforehand.
The rest of the weekend we spent touring the “Garden Route” down along the southern coast, an outdoorsman's paradise with beaches and surfing and seaside cliffs and ostrich farms and caves that are absurdly warm on the inside and forests and baby cheetahs and albino lions and hostels with random fun Brazilian and German guys who got shafted by their car rental agency and spend their days spray-painting their broken down Beetle as payback. Good times.
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