Rafting and Pokhara
Warning. This blog is extremely offensive and should not be read by anyone. Stop reading now and start either working or doing homework, or some other productive activity. Stop wasting your time and start making more money. GO AWAY.
Rafting is for retarded rednecks. Or, as my woman put it, for coporate bonding team days. You sit, and small doses opf adrenalin are adminsitered to you. Macke, the Blonde, the Dutchman, two Lebanese-Americans and a Yank medical intern and I spent the astronomical sum of $110 to raft the Kaligandaki.
On the first day the Blonde got bus-sick and nearly vomited on a Nepali soldier. As we sat and waited for the bus driver to have his morning dal bhat, the Blonde queasily swayed as she sat on a wooden bench outside a vegetabel seller's. A small child squatted in front of us, took a piss, dropped her gum in her piss, picked it up, and popped it back into her mouth. Diesel trucks farted at us, the sun baked, and veggies rotted.
On a raft you sit, talk smack, and paddle every now and again. The rapids are fun, but overall, its boring. On the first day the Blonde lay in her tent, groaning, while the Yank intern told medical horror stories among a fantastic collection of weird smoothed boulders and the cooks constructed an elaborate meal. We ate in warm wind, drifting sand, river rushing sounds, among the crinkly orange fires of candles inside pastic bag lanterns.
The best rapids were day one; day two featured Macke falling into the water. We decided to waterfight the support raft. Very foolish choices, my friends-- they had buckets. We got wet, they laughed, it was all good. The Blonde felt fine that day, so we could rib her about her "paddling" technique-- how can a woman who does triathlons (and played pro tennis) not know how to do more than lillydip? But like most women, she reveled in the attention. In the evening, our guide Gopal told stories about the huge #s of Western chicks he's hooked up with, since he's funny, hot and In Charge (the 3 qualities women wa want most, except of course for $$). The two Lebanese-Americans didnt socialise much-- they smoked endless joints and talked about Buddhism. I get that energy-sucking feelign from them, and also, the Buddha wasn't down with pot, so I avoided them.
On our last day we took out, and headed back to Pokhara. On Macke and my flirting with yet another luscious local keti, the Blonde pulled female rank told us that one was NOT to tell a young man his sister was hot.
"Why not? Every guy knows exactly how hot every woman is (except his mom of course)."
"Cos that's Bad." said the Blonde.
"Well, I have to admit, my brother is pretty hot," said Macke "though I'm obviously not gay."
"SO," I said to Macke, "if your brother was a girl, would you do him-- er, I mean, her?"
"EWWWW" comes a groan from Macke and the Blonde.
etc etc.
In Pokhara we immediately decided on doing a kayaking course and trip. A man's gotta knwo how to Eskimo roll, I figure. But before that we had two days to dink around.
Mornings the distant Annpurnas gleamed red and blue above the smnoky green hills. We walked once through the birdchattering gloom to the World Peace Stupa, where an ancient wizened man sold Macke weed and we watched the sunrise unfold its glowing mat and lay it on the Himalaya, then dust haze on top. A blonde potbeklied German approached us and on opening his mouth turned out to be Nepali. Sixties love child? Ever bought a dharma bead necklace from a German?
Phewa Tal's water was a rippled mercury mirror we swim through as we took the boat back towards breakfast. At shore Tibetan women selling handicrafts approached us with their usual line: "You want to see something?" Macke and I are getting sick of this so we briefly contemplate saying "Yeah, show us your tits!" But hey. If your country got conquered and you got kicked out, you'd be scraping a living, and the Tibetan ladies are sweeties. So we smiled.
The village drunk, curly haired, walked around with a lunghi not covering his balls, singing. Under the chowk's pipal tree was a yellow vintage VW Beetle. Merchants sat in front of their wars and chatted, smoking. The odd Israeli rumbled by on an old Enfield.
The Blonde and I visited the SOS Children's VIllage for Tibetans. The Blonde-- who cannot pass a merchant without buying something-- tarried with a Tibetan lady over orange and blue stone necklaces. Westwards, a black wall of clou built, chasing weak yellow sun away. The rain hammered at us and we fled to a Tibetan retaurant, where the rain shook the roof and we wrapped ourselves ina blanket while kids rolled in sudden mud and a miniature man brought endless sweet black tea.
The rain leaves the air washed, smelling of cut grass, and fresh, ground gelaming, edges of puddles lines with light, the sky a damp soft blue.
Next: kayaking
Rafting is for retarded rednecks. Or, as my woman put it, for coporate bonding team days. You sit, and small doses opf adrenalin are adminsitered to you. Macke, the Blonde, the Dutchman, two Lebanese-Americans and a Yank medical intern and I spent the astronomical sum of $110 to raft the Kaligandaki.
On the first day the Blonde got bus-sick and nearly vomited on a Nepali soldier. As we sat and waited for the bus driver to have his morning dal bhat, the Blonde queasily swayed as she sat on a wooden bench outside a vegetabel seller's. A small child squatted in front of us, took a piss, dropped her gum in her piss, picked it up, and popped it back into her mouth. Diesel trucks farted at us, the sun baked, and veggies rotted.
On a raft you sit, talk smack, and paddle every now and again. The rapids are fun, but overall, its boring. On the first day the Blonde lay in her tent, groaning, while the Yank intern told medical horror stories among a fantastic collection of weird smoothed boulders and the cooks constructed an elaborate meal. We ate in warm wind, drifting sand, river rushing sounds, among the crinkly orange fires of candles inside pastic bag lanterns.
The best rapids were day one; day two featured Macke falling into the water. We decided to waterfight the support raft. Very foolish choices, my friends-- they had buckets. We got wet, they laughed, it was all good. The Blonde felt fine that day, so we could rib her about her "paddling" technique-- how can a woman who does triathlons (and played pro tennis) not know how to do more than lillydip? But like most women, she reveled in the attention. In the evening, our guide Gopal told stories about the huge #s of Western chicks he's hooked up with, since he's funny, hot and In Charge (the 3 qualities women wa want most, except of course for $$). The two Lebanese-Americans didnt socialise much-- they smoked endless joints and talked about Buddhism. I get that energy-sucking feelign from them, and also, the Buddha wasn't down with pot, so I avoided them.
On our last day we took out, and headed back to Pokhara. On Macke and my flirting with yet another luscious local keti, the Blonde pulled female rank told us that one was NOT to tell a young man his sister was hot.
"Why not? Every guy knows exactly how hot every woman is (except his mom of course)."
"Cos that's Bad." said the Blonde.
"Well, I have to admit, my brother is pretty hot," said Macke "though I'm obviously not gay."
"SO," I said to Macke, "if your brother was a girl, would you do him-- er, I mean, her?"
"EWWWW" comes a groan from Macke and the Blonde.
etc etc.
In Pokhara we immediately decided on doing a kayaking course and trip. A man's gotta knwo how to Eskimo roll, I figure. But before that we had two days to dink around.
Mornings the distant Annpurnas gleamed red and blue above the smnoky green hills. We walked once through the birdchattering gloom to the World Peace Stupa, where an ancient wizened man sold Macke weed and we watched the sunrise unfold its glowing mat and lay it on the Himalaya, then dust haze on top. A blonde potbeklied German approached us and on opening his mouth turned out to be Nepali. Sixties love child? Ever bought a dharma bead necklace from a German?
Phewa Tal's water was a rippled mercury mirror we swim through as we took the boat back towards breakfast. At shore Tibetan women selling handicrafts approached us with their usual line: "You want to see something?" Macke and I are getting sick of this so we briefly contemplate saying "Yeah, show us your tits!" But hey. If your country got conquered and you got kicked out, you'd be scraping a living, and the Tibetan ladies are sweeties. So we smiled.
The village drunk, curly haired, walked around with a lunghi not covering his balls, singing. Under the chowk's pipal tree was a yellow vintage VW Beetle. Merchants sat in front of their wars and chatted, smoking. The odd Israeli rumbled by on an old Enfield.
The Blonde and I visited the SOS Children's VIllage for Tibetans. The Blonde-- who cannot pass a merchant without buying something-- tarried with a Tibetan lady over orange and blue stone necklaces. Westwards, a black wall of clou built, chasing weak yellow sun away. The rain hammered at us and we fled to a Tibetan retaurant, where the rain shook the roof and we wrapped ourselves ina blanket while kids rolled in sudden mud and a miniature man brought endless sweet black tea.
The rain leaves the air washed, smelling of cut grass, and fresh, ground gelaming, edges of puddles lines with light, the sky a damp soft blue.
Next: kayaking
posted by Butch at 1:50 PM
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