Riding and Wrestling in Nepal
03/20/10
It was amazing how staying in hostels and backpacking around the world really brought about a sense of celebration in us. When we discovered a bed that wasn’t rock hard, an authentic meal we enjoyed, a working shower, proper electricity, clean laundry, warm water, Western-style toilet paper, a stink-free bus, a scheduled event or departure being on time, a quiet street without people pestering us – all of these events, which were so insignificant back home, were to be celebrated. This day was no different.
Boxie-boo started the morning by giving me the play-by-play details of her morning dump. How romantic. The details were as beautiful as the overly mothering dogs we’d seen walking down the streets of Nepal with eight stretchy nipples dragging along the road. Boxie-boo had not pooped for four days, a strange problem with constipation, as most travelers have the opposite challenge - the runs. While finally relieving herself, she was so excited she giggled on the toilet while singing “Sweet Home Alabama.” I helped by Lamaze-class breathing through the door. When she left the room, we gave each other glorious hugs and high-fives, before I followed her lead in doing her happy Hawaiian dance.
In Hawaii, to hula means “to dance” and is a tradition that started from various myths. My favourite is the story of the goddess of fire, Pele, who told her little sister, Laka, to entertain her. She did this by imitating nature through body movements. This myth included honoring the god of the sea, Kuula, by swaying side-to-side to the rhythm of the ocean. This was the focus point of Boxie-boo’s happy dance, but she added her own flavor. She would snap her neck in the opposite direction of her retorting hips, then motion downwards with her hands out to her sides, ending the move by moving her hands up and down, looking like the breaking of ocean waves. While Laka did this to honor various gods, Boxie-boo did this to honor her bowels.
We had three goals for the day - Boxie-boo take a dump (success due to some natural herbs we got from a local pharmacist), buy wrestling tickets and rent a motorcycle.
The Ribatron-don loves motorcycles.
Renting one was easy. It involved only one step - paying 350 Rupees. No license proof was needed. No questions were asked. I could have been drunk.
Our bike was an old Yamaha 350cc, with about as much horsepower as a sewing machine. Back home in Canada, I ride a race-track-ready Kawasaki (aka. Kawasloppy, nimble-Japanese death trap, crotch rocket, high-revving rice burner, etc.). My motorcycle can reach 120 km/h in first gear within a couple seconds. The transition to this Yamaha was troublesome.
I had to get used to my feet positioned forward, reaching upwards for monkey handle bars, brakes that had to be wrenched on to work and a throttle that often needed to be fully open to climb small hills. Liam did not ride motorcycles back home, so he was smart, and jumped on a 125cc scooter that did not require shifting gears. His engine was so loose it sounded like it was ringing bells. My engine could have been sewing pajamas.
Although I had been riding motorcycles for years, I was about as prepared for this ride as an elephant is for scuba diving: I had to watch out for chickens shooting onto the street, open gouges in the concrete, vehicles passing in oncoming traffic, driving on the opposite side of the road, while scanning the browned roadway through the occasional rise of small dust clouds. We trampled across the thirsty earth, along sweeping rock-strewn terrain, dodging cow shit, cars passing in our lane on blind corners and cows, of course, which always seemed to think the middle of the road was a great place for an afternoon nap, on the burning hot concrete, surrounded by diesel smoke, jagged pot holes and high-speed two-wheelers dodging their tails. However, did prepare ourselves with all the sensible precautions: Our mini first aid kit, a backpack full of water, oranges, and of course, cherry blaster candies and the necessity to have Boxie-boo’s moisturizer with us. I was sure to ride as safe as possible, which wasn’t easy on roadways without lines, without rules and without common sense.
Following the waiter’s hand-drawn direction, we scanned for the flourishing white and red karate outfits of wrestlers, which materialized from the dust and honk-filled, monotonous tawny terrain that is Pokhara with a line of hundreds of crammed-tight, parked motorcycles. We had found the wrestling event in the middle of an outdoor soccer field. I pulled off the road slowly, possibly too slowly, as I received about 15 honks, before slowing to a stop to keep my tires from locking up and skidding in the gravel. My successful parking job was rewarded with the inhale of dust that circled us and fresh scent of cow shit, split open and freshened up by my kickstand. In the bike’s mirror I discovered my raccoon eyes created from the dust my sunglasses blocked, and smiled, revealing my gums and teeth browned from the grimy wind.
For the up close bleacher seats near the ring, tickets cost 1,000 Rupees ($10 Canadian/US) per person. Boxie-boo was about as excited for this event as she was after the words “transmission” and “engine” were used mid-conversation. With our tickets purchased, I pulled her hand and ran towards the stadium, displaying my poo-colored smile to all the locals. Running with us was Liam, who looked like he’d seen a dirty magazine for the first time - excited, dizzy and slightly aroused - as we neared the ring. Once seated, I knew the steaming hot weather and relentless humidity had taken a toll on us. We cracked open our water and waited. Directly under the beaming sun without any shade. And without any cold beers, which should be a staple at any fake wrestling event.
And waited.
We arrived at noon to secure good seats. The first fight was supposed to start at 1 p.m., but started at 2:30 p.m., on schedule for Nepal time. The arid dust circled the ring, leaving the wrestler’s to fight in what appeared to be grey smoke. While waiting, Boxie-boo shrugged her shoulders with the grace of a drunken pig, possibly contemplating my murder. Somewhere, a train or a massive semi-truck continuously honked, doing a good job of letting us know they were a solid five miles away. Boxie-boo had no idea how much I enjoyed sweating for two-and-a-half hours only to see a slightly overweight man in spandex enter the ring. My knees chattered together, before they bongo banged against the wooden flooring. I was clearly the most excited: Clearly.
When the local hero entered the ring - the infamous Himalayan Tiger, a chubby man with zero muscle definition and long hair - the children behind us mother-hen clucked, digging their knees into Boxie-boo’s back. She began to reach the beginning point of rage, then the middle point of rage, when I turned around and cheered with them. It was at this point, she made me aware of the knee bashing.
“Get them stop!” she asked me in a tone that was moreso a demand.
Not knowing what to do, I politely mimicked for their knees to move back. They nodded. Then I nodded. Then we both compared our guns. Feeling I had done a good job, I smiled at Boxie-boo, who only witnessed me flexing my guns. She then reached the full point of her rage by simply looking at me, a glare that could cause a grown man’s testicles to re-enter his stomach. I knew I was in trouble and I could not talk my way out of this way, so I instead choose to shrug my shoulders.
In front of us, the police and military were armed with sticks, riot shields and helmets, with enough body armor to play hockey. They positioned themselves between the ring and the fans, watching the crowd fiercely before relaxing to watch the fights. I asked a man beside why they were here.
“In Kathmandu, when the Tiger lost once, a riot started and everyone threw rocks at the ring,” a local beside me explained. I later confirmed this on the website of a Nepali newspaper.
“Is this safe?” I asked, looking like a whimpering puppy. His response was a sadistic smile, as if he was sizing my skin up for a new suit. He then looked away, rubbing his beard bristles in a pondering motion. At this point, I told Boxie-boo we would leave ahead of the crowds.
For Liam and I, there would two words to describe the matches - pure entertainment. We spent the afternoon hysterically laughing, making friends and imitating the wrestlers, while commenting, the whole time, on each detail: The silly faces, the missed punches, the distracted referees. While we had a blast, Boxie-boo did not share our enthusiasm. Her face had the expression of a Grade 7 student who had just been assigned a 2,000-word essay on the history of calculators.
When the main event began, the chubby Himalayan Tiger and a jacked American, likely sponsored by steroids, taunted each other verbally in the ring. This was one of the most important battles. It was to be one round, winner take the belt, loser to be shamed forever kind of match. The local favourite was to defend his belt against the nasty villain, who fired up the crowd by calling Nepali men “small and weak.”
It was, in every way, a hilarious fight. Each wrestler reversed each other’s holds, threw aimless haymakers; fake pummeled each other and did very non-athletic jumps from the top rope, dropping missed elbows. Each time they went to the top rope, I was glad I was over my Nepalese diarrhea as my excitement would have caused me to poop myself. Their facial expressions – a mix of constipation and shock, as if someone scared them in the bathroom – were so hilarious, it left the crowd howling and my stomach burning.
The American was constantly booed and cursed. He was, however, prepared to cheat his way to getting the title from the Tiger. Just when it looked like the hero was going to prevail, the referee got knocked down by another wrestler and acted unconscious. Thankfully, a new referee appeared out of nowhere – another Nepali fighter in a different weight class – who came in just in time, to save the day. The hero prevailed and the crowd went wild, jumping and dancing in the stands, screaming and cursing the American.
“Yay,” Boxie-boo said, with the excitement women have for their menstruation. “Can we go now?” she asked, while Liam and I high-fived.
After the Tiger destroyed the American wrestler, we left ahead of the crowd, while after fights broke out between all the wrestlers who were in support of either the villain or the protagonist, packing the ring with spandex. As the fights continued and more matches were scheduled, we figured it is better to be safe than sorry in case the belt was lost and another riot arose. Plus, Boxie-boo was ready to attack the kids behind her and likely would have if we stayed. She could no longer stand them hanging over her shoulders screaming towards the ring and digging their knees in her back, leaning forward, to get a closer view of the fights. Knowing she was pissed, I control my urge to flex with them one last time and simply waved.
Outside of the stadium’s fence, Liam helped me move a few bikes that had boxed my Yamaha in. We capped off our early evening with a lakeside ride, watching the sun disappear behind the Himalayan Mountains. We found a road away from all the stores, all the restaurants, all the people who wanted to sell us souvenirs and tours, before coming home to our boiling hot hostel without electricity, and thus no fan, no relief from the heat. We knew we needed another day with a motorcycle, to feel the cool breezes against our skin, to relax away from all the chaos and harassment of being a foreigner in a third world country, to feel open and unbound, to soak up the wonderful silence of the far-reaching hills, the air sweeping up from green valleys and down from snow-peaked mountains, to explore freely, these gorgeous mountainside roads of Nepal. To celebrate the simple comforts - this was a necessity.
That’s all for now.
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