A Happy Investment
I still recall the middle-aged American’s line, a half-joke thrown into the wind as our boat flew down the Shotover Gorge at 85 kilometres an hour. “I think,” he said, “I just wet my pants.” I remember vividly, too, our driver, an ice-cool Slavic type in a black roll-neck and leather driving gloves, whose insouciant demeanour spoke of either competence or recklessness, depending on how you felt about being driven within centimetres of the canyon rocks.
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