Globalization is not supposed to work this way. Amid the relentless flow of Western popular culture to the farthest reaches of the globe, an ancient tribal ritual from a remote South Pacific island somehow managed to migrate against the current, filtering into the international mainstream.

The island is Pentecost in the Vanuatu archipelago. When a few intrepid Western pioneers decided to adopt one of the islanders’ cultural traditions for their own amusement, they had two in particular to choose from. One was the male habit of wearing absolutely nothing except a strategically placed sheath made from woven leaves. The other involved jumping from a great height with tree vines tied around the ankles to break the fall.

There are probably fashionable pockets of New York in which wearing traditional Pentecost Island apparel is currently de rigueur, but it was the custom of plummeting while attached to a couple of vines that attracted the attention of the wider world. The vines were replaced with elastic cords, and a primitive battle cry was added: “Bungee!”

For the male islanders of Pentecost, the prototype version of bungee jumping is not a sport. It is a serious ritual derived from the legend of a woman who tricked her errant husband into jumping out of a banyan tree with her. He didn’t notice she tied vines to her ankles. He thudded to his death while she landed safely.

Subsequent generations of local tribesmen sought to remind themselves of feminine deception by restaging the legend, with vines but without women. The ritual coincides with the end of the yam season which, fortuitously, is the time of year offering the safest conditions for the undertaking. The ground is not too wet, not too dry. The vines have just the right amount of spring.

In a forest clearing, usually on a slight slope, men construct a wooden scaffold tower nearly a hundred feet tall. Veterans of previous jumps help select the appropriate vines for each jumper. And then, while spectators sing and dance, the men throw themselves off the top of the tower one by one.

Unlike bungee jumping, they don’t bounce back into the air before reaching the ground. Each jumper belly-flops onto the muddy slope, saved from fatal velocity by the vines secured to his ankles.

For centuries, the ritual was unknown beyond the island’s shores. But then, in the mid-20th century, it attracted the attention of anthropologists and documentary makers. In 1979, inspired by footage of the practice, members of the Oxford University Dangerous Sports Club jumped off Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol, England, attached to what they called a “bungee cord.”

And so a “new” thrill-seeking sport was born. Initially it was a daring rite of passage for fearless students, though in the past few years it has become increasingly established as a routine activity for tourists of all shapes and ages. This success is not entirely appreciated by the islanders who believe, at the very least, they deserve a slice of the profits from the bungee-jumping industry.

During my travels, I have witnessed the extent to which the modern version of Pentecost Island land diving has become globally established. Most recently, I spent a sunny Saturday afternoon watching Finns bungee jump from a towering waterside crane in Helsinki. Boisterous spectators cheered them on with what sounded like tribal chants.

One of the organizers attempted to usher me into the queue of people — men and women — waiting to be winched up into the blue sky. I firmly shook my head. Bungee jumping is not my idea of fun. I’d rather swap my pants for a sheath.