Sausage Party
Warning: this blog is offensive and should not be read by anyone. Its implied author is sexist racist homophobic classist colonialist etc (she hates everything). If you are younger than 18, please go away and do your homework or something. If you are older than 18, please go out and get a/work at your job, and contribute to the relentless expansion of the world economic system.
So after rafting (which is probably a good activity for retarded rednecks-- you sit and the river and guides administer doeses of adrenalin to you-- all you do is paddle sometimes) we go for bigger kicks-- kayaking. We look at three or four kayaking outfits, ruling out the one that caters to Israelis. If there is one place where you don't want "the best price," it's the middle of a massive whitewater rapid.
The Dutchman, Macke and I meet our skinny ripped must-be-a-babe-magnet of a guide, Narender, at Pokhara Lakeside at 11:00 one morning, and start immediately on the first challenge: finding a kayak that fits. I'm 6'3"; the Dutchman is 6'8" and so there is some fiddling to be done before we wade through the Lakeside muck and fold ourselves into the boats.
Challenge # 2 is paddling the fucking kayak in a straight line. Yes, that's FUCKING kayak cos this small maneuverable boat is all TOO small and maneuverable. Our wakes, as we slosh our way across Phewa Tal the way drunk people move toward the one pizza place that's still open at three in the morning, look like Ss and Js and full-on spirals.
At far lakeside, we start working on rolls, THE essential thing in kayaking. Yeah, you can bail every time you flip, but, well, that's like getting your leader to z-pull you when the crimpers get really crimpy, or getting your essay off of evilhouseofcheat.com-- it takes a lot of time and seriously cuts down on your style quotient. And style is what we totally lack here. Narender can roll in three seconds flat; we are shown step-by-step (paddle position, body position, smack your paddle, flick your hips, flip your head back) and then spend three hours getting water so far up our noses that I can no longer hear anything. Macke and I manage one roll each (about a 5% success rate); the Dutchman (6 foot 8) appears to be too tall or something, but man does he ever PERSIST!
Eventually the afternoon's black and grey wall of rain comes and thrums at the lack, and we hustle back to Pokhara. Narender relates the rest of the plan: tomorrow we put in on the Seti, and camp. Grade Two and 3+ rapids. On the second night we will be joined by The Fat Chick who will finish our trip with us (she does a shorter version).
"The fat chick?"
"Yes. She is larger woman," says Naron, "from top to middle normal. From--" [gesturs at hips] "she is ENORMOUS. She took five years ago kayak class."
"What's her name?"
"I not know."
So now we have a ghost fourth, The Fat Chick. That evening, what Macke refers to as surfer's UND-- unexpected nasal discharge-- happens and column of Phewa water blasts out of my nose, and my hearing returns.
The next day we put in and face our next massive challenges: physical pain and eddying out. I'm sore in places I didn't know existed and in the ab muscles on the sides of my guts, lower back, knees, you name it. Eddying out means going from where it's still (ie behind a rock) into fast current. WHen the current flips you over (or tries) you lean AWAY from it and paddle, HARD. I am realising that kayaking is counterintuitive. If it feels right, it will flip you, and the weirdest maneuvers seem to work. Once again Macke and I get it fairly quick, but the Dutchman-- who it will later turn out is both too tall AND too skinny for his kayak-- gets rolled every time he tries to eddy out.
We start down the river, chased by the support raft and our safety kayaker, Naran. The smallest whitewater is exciting; any wave over two feet seems awesome. After two hours, the lunchtime consensus is, kayking kicks rafting's ass. We eat ona sandy beach and then put into the shallows for a few hundred more rolls. Macke gets it first; I manage a few, but the Dutchman is still having trouble. It's his hip-flick and paddle position. While Narender the Dutchman's kayak (adding padding around the hips) I watch the sky darken and a wall of white sand approach as the wind picks up. A minute later there is pounding howling sideways sand wind rain that picks the cooks up and tosses them into a frenzy of gathering things together.
We take shelter in the local teahouse with a Nepali family, a goat and some chickens. We do the usual stupid lame flirt moves on the girls ("keti! timi dere ramro tsa! tapayko biva ha?" [wench! you're hot! are you married?]) with one, and only one thing in mind...tea! hot tea. Rule #1 (for animals and humans)-- always flatter, or make friends with, the food source.
Narender tells us his story as the rain and wind thump away at the roof and we stand in the mucky floor by the woodstove. His Dad was a Gurkha. These are the Nepali soldiers that the Brits first recruited in the early 1800s and who are, well, seriously bad motherfuckers-- the kind of soldiers you won't ever want to see on the wrong end of a rifle. Legendary endurance, undefeatable morale, infinite patience, and a total willingness to drop the hammer seem to bbe ther qualities. In the Second World War, they were less than 3% of the British Army, but won 20% of the Victoria Crosses. After the war, when India became independent, the Brits got 4 regiments and the Nepalis kept 6. The Gurkhas still serve today with distinction (Kosovo, Timor, Haiti) and its one of the highest honours in Nepali society for a young guy to get into a Brit Gurkha regiment. Their terrifying curved knives are a popular souvenir. Kinda weird, all thigns ocnsidered-- the Nepalis are some of the mellowest friendly people around. "use the Dark Side, Luke" or whatever.
But everything has a downside. Take a Buddhist peasant from his farm, family, language and culture, put him in the Army far from home, keep him there for 12 years, and teach him English culture by having him spend free time in the pub, and you get a mess. WHen he came back, Narender's dad drank, and beat him. His Mom died when he was nine months old. Dad remarried and stepmom made no bones about her dislike for Narender, her new responsibility. Narender bounced (literally) between his parents and grandparents. In Nepal, people beat their kids if they want, and kids get to kiss their parents feet if they want forgiveness. That's how it is.
Narender bailed at age 12. He went to Pokhara and picked up garbage, dug ditches, carried water, cleaned floors, and lived in alleys. He asked the manager of the restaurant where he washed dishes if he could get help with school.
"Yeah," said the manager, "but you have to choose-- I either pay your salary, or I pay for your school."
Narender chose school. Mornings, he studied. Afternoons and evenings, he washed dishes. Nights, he slept on the restaurant floor-- he had no home.
At this point in the story, its dark out. We are drinking rum and listening to the glistening drip of rain outside. Dal baht comes.
A Brit introduced Narender to kayaking, and the bug bit him. He worked three jobs, safety kayaked, worked on his English, and finally sved the 35,000 rupees ($800 U.S.) needed to do a two-month guide's course in Manali, India. He was one of ten candidates out of sixty who passed the exam. Hey...is anybody reading this still under the impression that THEIR life has been tough?
"So..you like the work?"
"Yeah. Good. Lots of girls. Fun."
"So you have a girlfriend or what?" This is the standard razzing line used on Nepali guys, who seem to get married at about age 20 with no dating experience.
"Yeah, lots."
"??"
"You kayak and then you make a fire, and the girls they drink, then they touch and ask you things..."
"So what kind of girls do you prefer? White or Nepali?" Macke and I have been hugely imporessed by the Nepali girls, who are fit, pretty and sociable.
"White girls. All kinds."
It turns out Narender is just a wee bit of a player. He's had all kinds, but doesn't like Nepali girls so much. They sound according to him like gold-diggers. Eventually it's time to pass out so we lay our mats on the wood floor and turn in. Outside the stars are huge.
Next day I wake up at four, listen to an argument in the teahouse lady's bedroom, and move my mat down to the beach, where I sleep poorly. Macke and the Dutchman are awoken when the teahouse keti, her kids, two goats and a chicken emerge form their bedroom. Macke does yoga on the beach whiel three kids watch, silent and still. The Dutchman and I swill Nescafe (which ought to be a four-letter word).
Then I get in my boat and pull of three perfect rolls right off the bat. Macke does a few; the Dutchman isnt quite there, and I'm all amped at my New Rolling Skills. These skills disappear at the next rapids when I flip, get my head pounded on the rocks and bail after two tries. Narender grins as he tows my submarine kayak to shore. Macke gets dumped once; the Dutchman twice, and we end up on a beautiful sand beach near a village.
Once we've finished our day-- rolls, rolls and more rolls get me up to about 90% success, and I can now roll without being "in proper position"-- the locals show up, grab our gear, and start screwing around. Two kids cram into one kayak. One guy works his rolls. Another does rolls without a spray-skirt. The younger kdis scream and dive in the water; the older kids toss the youngsters around and watch them, and we are seeing the future kayak guides of Nepal training themselves.
Of course there's nothing better to do while waiting for dinner than a little wager. When will The Fat Chick and her guide show up? How much will she weigh? We bet cups of chai, being Real Men and all:
Macke: 4:45 and 250 pounds
Butch: 6:15 and 150 pounds
Dutchman: 5:15 and 190 pounds
That evening we drink kukhri rum while Macke-- who is half-Chinese and therefore alcohol-allergic-- uses some of the Annapurna weed and Narender tells retarded sex jokes. Then it's time for rafting and kayaking stories, which include...
a) Narender and friends getting hired by the Israeli Embassy to recover the body of a girl who fell off a raft on the Kaligandakhi. The girl fell into a "hole" (massive permanent eddy) and her body was there for 17 days. They used explosives to move the rock.
b) A girl falling off of a trekking trail when she moved DOWNHILL of a mule-train, sliding down the hill, and falling into the river. By the time Narender and crew got the body, it had no hands, feet or face.
c) A bunch of Israelkis going rafting. They refused to put any effort into their paddling. At the first rapids, the raft flipped. After that, Nrender tells us that they paddled very, very hard.
The Fat Chick doesn't show up, there are billions of stars, the wind is warm, and the company tents stink of mold, but we don't care.
On Day Three, the Dutchman gets into his boat and without warning perfectly executes three rolls. We do Grade 3+ rapids. I get dumped twice, Macke and the Dutchman once. The Seti-- warm and clear-- merges with another river, which is dark muddy and freezing. Huge waves toss us around. We end our trip at a beach whose sand bakes our feet and where the soil around a tree's roots have been eroded, its trunk now starting eight feet above ground, still alive. Bram and Macke do more rolls; we start sweating as soon as we leave the water.
We bid Narender goodbye and pile into a minibus headed down to the Terai plain. The bus inches through checkpost after Army checkpost. We sweat. In Thandi Bazaar, the bus driver pulls over and vanishes. A storkeeper beats a small child, hands him to a woman, who beats him and then fires him off into an alley. The driver puts everybody back on the bus, drives twnety meters, and vanishes. We sweat. Later the bus monkey tells us that the driver has been arrested for not having a driver's license (now THERE'S a story). We catch another mini to Sauhara.
When we arrive in Sauhara, Macke's camera and glasses have been stolen, we are sweatier than any human being has ever been, period, in the history of the Universe, hotel touts swarm us, and the great mystery remains...what happened to The Fat Chick?
Stay tuned.
So after rafting (which is probably a good activity for retarded rednecks-- you sit and the river and guides administer doeses of adrenalin to you-- all you do is paddle sometimes) we go for bigger kicks-- kayaking. We look at three or four kayaking outfits, ruling out the one that caters to Israelis. If there is one place where you don't want "the best price," it's the middle of a massive whitewater rapid.
The Dutchman, Macke and I meet our skinny ripped must-be-a-babe-magnet of a guide, Narender, at Pokhara Lakeside at 11:00 one morning, and start immediately on the first challenge: finding a kayak that fits. I'm 6'3"; the Dutchman is 6'8" and so there is some fiddling to be done before we wade through the Lakeside muck and fold ourselves into the boats.
Challenge # 2 is paddling the fucking kayak in a straight line. Yes, that's FUCKING kayak cos this small maneuverable boat is all TOO small and maneuverable. Our wakes, as we slosh our way across Phewa Tal the way drunk people move toward the one pizza place that's still open at three in the morning, look like Ss and Js and full-on spirals.
At far lakeside, we start working on rolls, THE essential thing in kayaking. Yeah, you can bail every time you flip, but, well, that's like getting your leader to z-pull you when the crimpers get really crimpy, or getting your essay off of evilhouseofcheat.com-- it takes a lot of time and seriously cuts down on your style quotient. And style is what we totally lack here. Narender can roll in three seconds flat; we are shown step-by-step (paddle position, body position, smack your paddle, flick your hips, flip your head back) and then spend three hours getting water so far up our noses that I can no longer hear anything. Macke and I manage one roll each (about a 5% success rate); the Dutchman (6 foot 8) appears to be too tall or something, but man does he ever PERSIST!
Eventually the afternoon's black and grey wall of rain comes and thrums at the lack, and we hustle back to Pokhara. Narender relates the rest of the plan: tomorrow we put in on the Seti, and camp. Grade Two and 3+ rapids. On the second night we will be joined by The Fat Chick who will finish our trip with us (she does a shorter version).
"The fat chick?"
"Yes. She is larger woman," says Naron, "from top to middle normal. From--" [gesturs at hips] "she is ENORMOUS. She took five years ago kayak class."
"What's her name?"
"I not know."
So now we have a ghost fourth, The Fat Chick. That evening, what Macke refers to as surfer's UND-- unexpected nasal discharge-- happens and column of Phewa water blasts out of my nose, and my hearing returns.
The next day we put in and face our next massive challenges: physical pain and eddying out. I'm sore in places I didn't know existed and in the ab muscles on the sides of my guts, lower back, knees, you name it. Eddying out means going from where it's still (ie behind a rock) into fast current. WHen the current flips you over (or tries) you lean AWAY from it and paddle, HARD. I am realising that kayaking is counterintuitive. If it feels right, it will flip you, and the weirdest maneuvers seem to work. Once again Macke and I get it fairly quick, but the Dutchman-- who it will later turn out is both too tall AND too skinny for his kayak-- gets rolled every time he tries to eddy out.
We start down the river, chased by the support raft and our safety kayaker, Naran. The smallest whitewater is exciting; any wave over two feet seems awesome. After two hours, the lunchtime consensus is, kayking kicks rafting's ass. We eat ona sandy beach and then put into the shallows for a few hundred more rolls. Macke gets it first; I manage a few, but the Dutchman is still having trouble. It's his hip-flick and paddle position. While Narender the Dutchman's kayak (adding padding around the hips) I watch the sky darken and a wall of white sand approach as the wind picks up. A minute later there is pounding howling sideways sand wind rain that picks the cooks up and tosses them into a frenzy of gathering things together.
We take shelter in the local teahouse with a Nepali family, a goat and some chickens. We do the usual stupid lame flirt moves on the girls ("keti! timi dere ramro tsa! tapayko biva ha?" [wench! you're hot! are you married?]) with one, and only one thing in mind...tea! hot tea. Rule #1 (for animals and humans)-- always flatter, or make friends with, the food source.
Narender tells us his story as the rain and wind thump away at the roof and we stand in the mucky floor by the woodstove. His Dad was a Gurkha. These are the Nepali soldiers that the Brits first recruited in the early 1800s and who are, well, seriously bad motherfuckers-- the kind of soldiers you won't ever want to see on the wrong end of a rifle. Legendary endurance, undefeatable morale, infinite patience, and a total willingness to drop the hammer seem to bbe ther qualities. In the Second World War, they were less than 3% of the British Army, but won 20% of the Victoria Crosses. After the war, when India became independent, the Brits got 4 regiments and the Nepalis kept 6. The Gurkhas still serve today with distinction (Kosovo, Timor, Haiti) and its one of the highest honours in Nepali society for a young guy to get into a Brit Gurkha regiment. Their terrifying curved knives are a popular souvenir. Kinda weird, all thigns ocnsidered-- the Nepalis are some of the mellowest friendly people around. "use the Dark Side, Luke" or whatever.
But everything has a downside. Take a Buddhist peasant from his farm, family, language and culture, put him in the Army far from home, keep him there for 12 years, and teach him English culture by having him spend free time in the pub, and you get a mess. WHen he came back, Narender's dad drank, and beat him. His Mom died when he was nine months old. Dad remarried and stepmom made no bones about her dislike for Narender, her new responsibility. Narender bounced (literally) between his parents and grandparents. In Nepal, people beat their kids if they want, and kids get to kiss their parents feet if they want forgiveness. That's how it is.
Narender bailed at age 12. He went to Pokhara and picked up garbage, dug ditches, carried water, cleaned floors, and lived in alleys. He asked the manager of the restaurant where he washed dishes if he could get help with school.
"Yeah," said the manager, "but you have to choose-- I either pay your salary, or I pay for your school."
Narender chose school. Mornings, he studied. Afternoons and evenings, he washed dishes. Nights, he slept on the restaurant floor-- he had no home.
At this point in the story, its dark out. We are drinking rum and listening to the glistening drip of rain outside. Dal baht comes.
A Brit introduced Narender to kayaking, and the bug bit him. He worked three jobs, safety kayaked, worked on his English, and finally sved the 35,000 rupees ($800 U.S.) needed to do a two-month guide's course in Manali, India. He was one of ten candidates out of sixty who passed the exam. Hey...is anybody reading this still under the impression that THEIR life has been tough?
"So..you like the work?"
"Yeah. Good. Lots of girls. Fun."
"So you have a girlfriend or what?" This is the standard razzing line used on Nepali guys, who seem to get married at about age 20 with no dating experience.
"Yeah, lots."
"??"
"You kayak and then you make a fire, and the girls they drink, then they touch and ask you things..."
"So what kind of girls do you prefer? White or Nepali?" Macke and I have been hugely imporessed by the Nepali girls, who are fit, pretty and sociable.
"White girls. All kinds."
It turns out Narender is just a wee bit of a player. He's had all kinds, but doesn't like Nepali girls so much. They sound according to him like gold-diggers. Eventually it's time to pass out so we lay our mats on the wood floor and turn in. Outside the stars are huge.
Next day I wake up at four, listen to an argument in the teahouse lady's bedroom, and move my mat down to the beach, where I sleep poorly. Macke and the Dutchman are awoken when the teahouse keti, her kids, two goats and a chicken emerge form their bedroom. Macke does yoga on the beach whiel three kids watch, silent and still. The Dutchman and I swill Nescafe (which ought to be a four-letter word).
Then I get in my boat and pull of three perfect rolls right off the bat. Macke does a few; the Dutchman isnt quite there, and I'm all amped at my New Rolling Skills. These skills disappear at the next rapids when I flip, get my head pounded on the rocks and bail after two tries. Narender grins as he tows my submarine kayak to shore. Macke gets dumped once; the Dutchman twice, and we end up on a beautiful sand beach near a village.
Once we've finished our day-- rolls, rolls and more rolls get me up to about 90% success, and I can now roll without being "in proper position"-- the locals show up, grab our gear, and start screwing around. Two kids cram into one kayak. One guy works his rolls. Another does rolls without a spray-skirt. The younger kdis scream and dive in the water; the older kids toss the youngsters around and watch them, and we are seeing the future kayak guides of Nepal training themselves.
Of course there's nothing better to do while waiting for dinner than a little wager. When will The Fat Chick and her guide show up? How much will she weigh? We bet cups of chai, being Real Men and all:
Macke: 4:45 and 250 pounds
Butch: 6:15 and 150 pounds
Dutchman: 5:15 and 190 pounds
That evening we drink kukhri rum while Macke-- who is half-Chinese and therefore alcohol-allergic-- uses some of the Annapurna weed and Narender tells retarded sex jokes. Then it's time for rafting and kayaking stories, which include...
a) Narender and friends getting hired by the Israeli Embassy to recover the body of a girl who fell off a raft on the Kaligandakhi. The girl fell into a "hole" (massive permanent eddy) and her body was there for 17 days. They used explosives to move the rock.
b) A girl falling off of a trekking trail when she moved DOWNHILL of a mule-train, sliding down the hill, and falling into the river. By the time Narender and crew got the body, it had no hands, feet or face.
c) A bunch of Israelkis going rafting. They refused to put any effort into their paddling. At the first rapids, the raft flipped. After that, Nrender tells us that they paddled very, very hard.
The Fat Chick doesn't show up, there are billions of stars, the wind is warm, and the company tents stink of mold, but we don't care.
On Day Three, the Dutchman gets into his boat and without warning perfectly executes three rolls. We do Grade 3+ rapids. I get dumped twice, Macke and the Dutchman once. The Seti-- warm and clear-- merges with another river, which is dark muddy and freezing. Huge waves toss us around. We end our trip at a beach whose sand bakes our feet and where the soil around a tree's roots have been eroded, its trunk now starting eight feet above ground, still alive. Bram and Macke do more rolls; we start sweating as soon as we leave the water.
We bid Narender goodbye and pile into a minibus headed down to the Terai plain. The bus inches through checkpost after Army checkpost. We sweat. In Thandi Bazaar, the bus driver pulls over and vanishes. A storkeeper beats a small child, hands him to a woman, who beats him and then fires him off into an alley. The driver puts everybody back on the bus, drives twnety meters, and vanishes. We sweat. Later the bus monkey tells us that the driver has been arrested for not having a driver's license (now THERE'S a story). We catch another mini to Sauhara.
When we arrive in Sauhara, Macke's camera and glasses have been stolen, we are sweatier than any human being has ever been, period, in the history of the Universe, hotel touts swarm us, and the great mystery remains...what happened to The Fat Chick?
Stay tuned.
posted by Butch at 1:49 PM
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