Zorbing makes as much sense as the movie Donnie Darko.
When informed zorbing comprises being strapped into a ball the size of Cinderella's pumpkin coach and propelled down a hill, I pictured hamster-in-rolling-ball.
Corpse, Oxford, three other Londoners and I were as roused by the prospect as if we were selected to disarm hippie terrorists trying to annex a marijuana shop armed only with pipes and bongs.
Hours after the consensus to spiral down a hill inside an inflatable ball, we positioned at the precipice and peered below at the mud-masked landscape. To our right Israelis rode black yaks led by a rope tied through their nostrils. A thirty-two-person Chinese tourist throng teemed to our left, cameras circulating like joints at a Dave Matthews Band concert.
Oxford and I elected to zorb first.
We contemplated the ball with the confusion I would bear towards a breast pump.
One of the attendants revealed a hole slightly larger than my head and motioned for me to go through it. This appeared as feasible as tightrope walking while retaining a rhinoceros under one arm. I catapulted my arms over my head in a narrow triangle, aimed for the hole with my outstretched fingers, and bunny-bounced into the air. Pliable plastic enclosed my forearms and my body berthed back to the earth with the gracefulness of a tranquilized hippopotamus.
Hands and fingers forayed my posterior and strong-armed me into the hole suitable in size for a leprechaun.
I crouched inside the ball in a scanty circular section with two sets of restraints facing each other. I strapped myself in as Oxford's fingertips protruded into what I mentally referred to as The Dungeon. His body launched into the cloudy plastic and curled in the fetal position for twenty seconds before harnessing himself in.
As Oxford clicked a clasp closed, shouts stabbed the air. We had leashed ourselves into an outstretched opaque plastic ball. One of the workers propelled the ball forward with his palms, and our dungeon impelled down the hill with a force rivaling an elephant fart.
"What the hell! What is this shit," Oxford exclaimed as our dungeon rotated in-air and thundered into the ground. The outer layer of plastic acquiesced to the packed earth and Oxford's head impacted with the ground.
I hyena-laughed as the ball spun and my shoulder thundered into the terrain.
Layers of thin plastic and air were as effective as the pull-out method during intercourse. They protected. Kind of.
The ball/dungeon repeatedly swiveled and then smacked into the ground. My shrieks mingled with Oxford's bull bellows as various body parts clashed into what felt like cement.
With thin arms, three men abruptly abated the momentum and the ball jolted to a movement cessation. Zorbing had endured for forty-three seconds.
We had paid for men to push us down a hill and watch as our bodies alternatively flung into the ground.
Once the Londoners and I accumulated at the bottom like nauseous monkeys, we approached a cafe for chai.
With a tongue-wiggle and a shout Corpse accused his partner of crying.
"That's because I felt like I was going to die," came the response from the Brit who looked like a body-builder.
The cafe owner and two waiters shared their spliff with us.