Trapeze kids go ape over the Ape Man
Gaston de Rosayro
Children, boys in particular, have been doing unexplainably stupid
things for thousands of years. Dangerous stunts that make almost no
sense to the people who watch over them and that follow no logical
pattern or schedule. Ah, yes but they do. They follow their heroic
fictional heroes.
Their hunger for risk may be a trait that has evolved over time to
help them succeed at such a tumultuous period in their lives. During
pre-teen years there are three traits that are at their peak. A taste
for risk, a desire for novelty and a need to be around their same-aged
peers. Those are all traits that are tremendously useful to humanity and
essential to our success.
Remember the jungle warrior and intrepid trapeze artistes? Tarzan, it
seems, has really never gone out of style. In short, in one form or
another, Tarzan of the Apes is known to more people on earth than any
other fictional character. Since 1912, the famous character by Edgar
Rice Burroughs has been featured in fiction magazines, novels, comic
books, countless films, radio programmes and even the Broadway stage.
He was forever immortalised in a leopard print loin cloth (amude) by
the former Olympic swimming champion Johnny Weissmuller in the 1930s and
‘40s. Yes and so we in similarity to thousands before us and thousands
of others who would follow in due course attempted to ape the Ape Man.
Going ape of course featured Tarzan swing ropes and trapeze bars.
No, and amazingly we had no safety nets, safety cords or pulleys that
professional performers always use. We had one really large coir rope
tied some 40 feet high to the branches of an anoda tree in our Colombo
back garden. We would launch ourselves from a five foot ledge and swing
to another tree. The daring ones among us would leap on to the branches
of the tree. But the more cautious would make sure they had a hand-hold
on the branch before letting go of the rope.
All right, I concede as 10 and 11 year olds we did not have Tarzan’s
athletic build and legend as an international hero. But we little
rapscallions could swing from ropes, vines and branches with the agility
of monkeys that would have been the envy of Hollywood’s most versatile
and audacious stunt men. Besides we were lighter and as lithe as
leopards.
Tarzan-style hair at the time was frowned upon by mostly bald or
balding grandfathers, fathers and teachers. Yeah, but many of us defied
convention by growing our hair slightly at the back and slicking it down
below our collars to avoid detection.
But at some point, knowing that if we were ever going to live fully
alive and free, we had to learn the trapeze. They call them artistes,
which I always found amusing. Shouldn’t they be called crazies? You
willingly let go of a sure thing that will absolutely take you safely
back to solid ground or solid pedestal in order to propel yourself
through the air in hopes that someone else or something else will land
in your hands at exactly the right moment.
Yes Tarzan, circuses and high-flying trapeze artists should be part
of every child’s education. Those moments of dizzying, delighted
derring-do that accompany feats of grace and impudence on vines, ropes
and bars high above the ground are the stuff of circus legend. The same
sense of wonder at seemingly effortless soaring and beauty, high above,
was what we experienced.
We were all high fliers. Trapeze and Tarzan swinging can become an
addictive and exhilarating habit. Yes we yelled in imitation of the
famous Tarzan yodel.
The yelling was triggered by a compound of tradition, fear and
exhilaration as we flew through the air with the greatest of ease. Yes,
we were all wild and free youth with such a spirit for life.
We used to do the craziest stunts, hanging upside down by our knees,
doing back flips and even attempting to ‘catch’ a daredevil partner.
These intrepid aerobatics were executed on branches or improvised
trapeze bars hanging from tree branches nearly 20 or 30 feet high. I
reiterate we had no safety nets.
I remember how proud I was when I made that first heart-stopping leap
from rope to branch. That rite of passage, that coming of age was
necessary to conquer my fears. On the flip side, in hindsight one
realises the giddy recklessness and perceived indestructibility of youth
which could always have ended in tragedy.
Neighbourhood kids watched spellbound as we performed these
vertiginous aerial deeds with the dexterity of professional artistes. To
the less intrepid spectators there is something about watching another
human being face danger or death head on that is both horrifying and
thrilling. Yes we did experience some thumping bad falls, but many of us
were none the worse for it. Fortunately most of the falls were broken by
the presence of a massive banana grove directly below which was the only
safety net of sorts available.
But that is exactly what stunt men do and the reaction they expect
every time they propel themselves off a roof, scale a building or leap
through a raging fire. And yes, they as part of the audience just revel
in it and go around muttering to all and sundry what darned idiots we
are.
We really did feel the queasy swing of the rope or the lofty trapeze
bar. These were heart-stopping flights through mid-air where you felt
the stomach-turning plunges as you gripped a branch or bar.
Within a few months as trapeze artistes we had really got the hang of
things. Normal swinging and trapeze acts were by now considered
monotonous. We soon realised that the sure fire way to make any show
better was to add fire to our acts. Fire is always exciting and always a
crowd drawer.
Think about it! Fire burns and is not to be trifled with. There is an
element of danger, an element of fear that challenges every fibre of
your being. There is the whole: “Don’t play with fire” idea that we have
been taught by our parents. So having mastered the art of swinging high
we decided to swing through a bonfire with leaping six foot flames.
We would soak our bodies in water and swish through the burning
inferno and back again in the whisper of an instant. Because of the
speed of the swing none of us suffered the slightest searing or
discomfort. Except on one fateful day when Pente Pete flew a bit too
close to the flames for comfort. He panicked just as his swing took him
over the leaping flames. He made the mistake of lowering himself on the
rope for a quick exit to the ground and paid the price. He ran for the
water trough to douse his swimming trunks which were glowing like the
brake lights of a vehicle.
That put an end to the flaming games. And Pente Pete carried the
nickname of ‘Rump Roast Tarzan’ for the rest of his life.
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