Global Nomad Travel

Pokhara to Kathmandu

03/22/10

“Are you a safe driver?” I asked the driver, examining his eyes. “Yes,” he nodded, then closed his eyes, giving me the same glowing smile a five-year-old gives when asked if he’s Superman. “We have precious cargo, you understand?” I asked, pointing at Boxie-boo. He looked confused, as if I had just told him I was pregnant with dinosaurs and she was the father. I asked Phil, the owner of Phil’s Guesthouse who recommended the driver, to relay my statement and remind him to be careful. This message in a bottle was lost at sea, later discovered by pirates who used it to make rum, then got drunk and sank to Davie Jones Locker. I realized this within minutes of watching our driver’s hands grip the wheel, turning him completely, and utterly, insane.

In his mind, I imagined, the driver was running from a war zone while being chased by a helicopter firing bazookas. The result: He broke late in mid-corners, the tires squealing and near locking up, sliding Boxie-boo and I together in the backseat, smashing my face into the window. He could have been a rally driver on time trials, bouncing the car over potholes, turning his suspension into mush. The taxi swayed like a boat white water rafting, knocking my head into the ceiling, causing my stomach to be pinched by the seatbelt.

“Please slow down,” I said, the first time politely.

His shifting was about as smooth as a Prairie Fire - a tequila shot topped with tobasco sauce - is on the stomach. My breakfast from Be Happy Restaurant was unhappy. The eggs had hatched in my stomach and the baby chicks were flapping their wings, flying through my bowels. I even thought I heard them chirping, until I realized it was actually the sound of us bottoming out so badly the tires were squeaking high-pitched against the car, while the metal frame scraped across the pavement.

Passing a sluggish truck, he turned us directly into oncoming traffic ever-so-slowly, before jerking back into our lane right before a head-on collision. In this moment, I knew, without a doubt that one day this driver would die behind the wheel. I did not care whether I offended him or not. I did not want to be there when it happened. I began taking backseat driver to the next level out of fear for our lives. This driving tactic continued – from speeding recklessly, to going slowly in the wrong lane, even through blind corners.

Each time I told him to slow down, it lasted five minutes tops. It was the first time in my life I was motion sick in a car without a hangover. I was going to puke and told Liam, who asked Mr. Madman to pull over. On the side of the highway, I swallowed my nausea medicine, then waited for Nepal to stop spinning around me. I was so stiff and tight from fear, I could almost hear my butthole tightening. Standing still on the side of the road, I felt the strain of my entire body, which was easy to do, since my brain and I were no longer on speaking terms. I had told myself that hiring a driver would be safer than taking public transit and not too expensive. I walked aimlessly on the side of the road, venting to Liam who tried to calm me down.

At this point, we had a solid four hours left to go before making it to Kathmandu.

“I’m gonna kill him,” I told Liam. “I am going to rip him out of the car and drive it myself. He has near sent us off the cliff a dozen times and almost caused at least five head-on collisions.”

Back on the road, our driver had calmed down for at least a few minutes. I thought he had finally come to his senses, until I realized he was not even paying attention to the road. Mr. Madman was busy searching his glove box and other holder areas, before he began throwing his cassette tapes out the window while trying to dial a number on his cellphone. Meanwhile – while skidding us into corners and constantly bottoming out, cutting off cars and coming within inches off the cliff edge – he showed us one of his favourite things to do on a long drive. He ironically liked to point at road-side wrecks, from rolled trucks, fire-burnt taxis to de-capitated buses, as if to say we should be careful. I hoped he wasn’t foreshadowing.

Take a hint you moron, I thought.

As we skidded on a late pass, cutting off a massive truck to avoid another head-on collision, while we bottomed out hard, my head slammed into the window and then the ceiling, almost simultaneously. I again asked him to slow down, this time sternly. By sternly, I mean I was screaming and cursing, while control the urge to not use the back of his seat as a punching bag.

He did slow down. I realized this was not a good thing because he lacked common sense.

The only time Mr. Madman went slowly was when he passed cars right before blind corners, then often in them, the engine bogging by his inability to drive a manual car properly. He was too stupid to down shift gears. Within a few meters of one blind corner, he bogged the engine, going 35 km/h in fourth gear. The one time we would have wanted him to go fast was while passing, but that was the one time he went slow, causing my nails to dig into the seat and every hole in my body to tighten, making me look ready to disappear into a puff of smoke.

“Please stay on our side of the road on blind corners,” I said, leaned forward between the two front seats, pointing with two open hands for extra effect. I never thought I’d have to tell someone this on a two-way highway with one lane in each direction, where there were no railings, massive steep cliffs and gravel, with only the occasional honk for our protection from certain death.

Minutes later, he swerved through a village at 90 km/h dodging children.

I. Lost. It.

Completely.

“Slow down you maniac, there’s children!” I screamed, adding in words that rhymed with duck and bucking. In response, his head shaked from side to side - the Nepalese way to say okay – while he honked at the kids. I swore I heard a rattling sound in my state of rage; his small brain bagging against his near empty skull. Had I choked him, his ears would have released a sound similar to a squeezed rubber ducky. For the rest of the drive, I took backseat driving as seriously as an erection problem, which looking back, may have possibly saved our lives. I literally would be surprised to find out that he was still alive today.

As we began to climb another steep road that would deposit us into Kathmandu Valley, we came to a grinding halt. We have found ourselves at a traffic jam outside the city that had us traveling no more than 20 km/h for well over two hours. Although tiring and time consuming, a part of me was glad.

I knew we had made it to Kathmandu when Boxie-boo spotted a bicycle covered in live chickens, dangling from their tied feet off the handlebars. I praised the gods for our survival, from Zeus to Allah, to Wayne Gretzsky and Oprah Winfrey. As he helped to lift out backpacks from the trunk, I looked down and discovered he was unable to tie shoelaces. We had put our lives in the hands of a man wearing Velcro shoes.

We grabbed a room at Hotel Garuda in the Thamel district, amid the madness of the “Seven Corners” - an area of Kathmandu for foreigners packed with restaurants, lodging, stores and Internet cafes. I talked down our room from 2500 Rupees per night to 3500 Rupees for two ($75 Canadian/US). It was not a great price, but we were too exhausted from being on edge driving for hours, from dealing with aggressive salespeople as we walked into the guest house, while at the same time, men grabbed our wrists to buy Tiger Balm and others attempted to guide us into their shops with gentle pushes.

At night, two hours later after refusing to move from the bed, we headed outside to discover a group of Nepalese blocking the entrance to our guest house. Traffic in the alley-wide street was at a standstill. Everyone was laughing. I stood above the short Nepalese men and peered out onto the street, telling Boxie-boo to stand behind me for protection. I thought this might have been a Maoist demonstration. A fight was lit up by stilled motorcycles, their headlights illuminating two larger men who had pinned down a small man, maybe 120 pounds. They pounded his ribs and face into the concrete, beside a small pile of garbage that was kicked by his flailing legs. The locals continued laughing. It was a two-on-one beat down. I was not amused.

“I’m pulling them off,” I said, moving through the crowd in a swimming motion. On my way, I saw the build of the young man, maybe in his early twenties, looking thin like a Grade 8 boy. A Good Samaritan pulled him out, dragging him against the concrete - and he ran. I followed an Internet cafe employee into his shop, who laughed out loud with each step.

“You think it’s funny?” I asked. He smiled in response. “Those guys easily outweighed that guy by 50 pounds each. I outweigh you by about 50,” I said, glaring down at him. “Would it be funny if I pounded you into the concrete?” His smile diminished. “No, it wouldn’t be,” I said.

Back in our room, I felt bad for scaring the guy. I just hate violence, especially when two people beat on the small and weak. Maybe I was still grumpy from the drive, annoyed by the salespeople, hungry, exhausted and pissed off by own exhaustion. Regardless, there was nothing funny about two men beating a small one. I will never forget the two sounds battling for control of my understanding – a crowd laughing, while one man yelped, coming up for air in agony between blows.

Maybe I would have felt different, I suppose, if the man had been wearing Velcro shoes.

That’s all for now.

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Motorcycle Day in Pokhara, Nepal

03/21/10

Within minutes of motorcycle riding outside the city, I felt my dream’s ambushed by reality: A beautiful girl holding on tight behind me, the road ahead stormy-eyed and circling tightly up mountains, freeing my clouded mind in this ceremony chiseling tires, ransacking the land, vibrating, fading my senses into one, the chamber of nerves electrified by the rumbling engine. As my skeleton infused with the metal frame, I felt the full sun, the engine’s eyes close blinded by fire, this torch of my joy, pulsating along the red network of each vein. The flesh of my skin wrapped the pistons in this feeling that only a motorcycle can bring; a man feeling one with a machine.

With each dip and turn, the shade spawned and disappeared, like black prowlers, darkening the corners, where within and through, the smells quickened – the grass scent spraying within the moisture, then the dry dust - as the midday sun cloaked through the wind, this stifling orchard of aroma, then, the smell of heat when the roadway straightened below the blue air, white clouds; this assault of radiant delight, as we passed grazing animals and small villages, smiling: Oil now, with my blood mixed in. It is only on a motorcycle where one moves the way the wind paints, creating landscapes with each brush, pulling the white reflection of the clouds downwards, across the black pond of concrete, this raw wound, consummating the appetite for feeling alive.

We had found exactly what we needed, the exhilaration of open roads.

Boxie-boo sat behind me with an ear-to-ear smile, her chin kissing my shoulder. She talked about the beautiful mountainside, which was cut in latches, appearing like giant steps used to hold rain water for farms. When swerving by cows and chickens, she pointed and laughed. Liam followed closely, sure to follow suit and honk while passing slow-moving vehicles. Horns were, after all, our only line of defense on roads that, at times, were so packed, we were needling slowly through bicycles, motorcycles, animals, tractors, trucks, street vendors, children playing games in the streets, buses and taxis, to name a few, all the while trying to avoid potholes that neared a foot deep. But it was the open roads between villages where we moved along the roadway that appeared like a blond pond, while the sun, like a Cyclops’ eye, flickered from the mirrors against my face.

The minute brown hairs rose on my arms and legs, navigating the slopes and changing tides, tilting with the winds, these arrows without stems, round and round and round they went by some uncontrolled storm of unheard sirens, the shock and shudder, bright as rage in the eyes and wild as waves in a glass reflection. All these feelings came from the exposed air, smashing my skin with a welcomed and soft agony, this onslaught of casual blasts of heat, then ice, the opposites, like a wrestle between angels and demons: Round and round and round they went. All sensations on a motorcycle are only consistent in their constant change.

While conquering larger hills, I was glad we had upgraded from yesterday’s 350cc to a 500cc Bajaj after I learned the brake lights had burnt out on the Yamaha. I remembered always to check the brakes, tires, lights and clutch before renting a motorcycle in a third world country, at a minimum. I also examined the tires. My headlight did not work, but I figured we would be back well before dark. The bigger engine cost me 50 Rupees more, about $0.60 Canadian/U.S., after bartering down on the price.

Outside the city, we pulled over to take a break from the ride, slowing down to a stop on rocks the size of softballs, foreshadowing our next challenging adventure. Boxie-boo examined our map and we tried to figure out which direction to head next. A young Nepalese boy pointed up a hill that looked like it could have been a former minefield, with giant holes and some rocks larger than our heads. “That is the way to the World Peace Pagoda,” he said, our destination for the ride.

The rocky path started with a gradual incline before coming sheer on the edge of a steep hill, with no railings. It was rough and intimidating, looking more like a dried creek bed than a road. Our silence was tense between the three of us, while layers of dust floated around our motorbikes. In the haze, a small red car continuously bottomed out down the pagoda pathway, adding the sound of scraping metal to our examination.

Liam smiled.

As I contemplated the scary road, a mosquito annoyingly buzzed around my head as I tried to read out foldup map. I tried to warn the bug that it was not worth it, but he was all “Screw you, white boy!” then landed on my arm. “Let’s dance,” he seemed to mimick. I had no choice. He went for the bite, I slapped him and now he’s dead. This act of savagely made me feel confident that I could do anything, but I was not so sure Boxie-boo was keen on tackling such a treacherous looking path.

“Should we give it a go?” I asked.

“May as well,” Liam said, as the young boy jumped on the back of his scooter.

I looked back at Boxie-boo and told her we did not have to go. I promised we’d go slowly, only if she was okay with the idea. She smiled and gave me two thumbs up, surprising me with her confidence.
Immediately heading up the road, the front tire bounced across rocks as I searched for the smoothest pathway.

The hillside to our left was near 90 degrees upright, sheer as a knife cut. I honked before taking each corner, hugging along the rock face away from the cliff edge, careful to turn slowly with little lean to avoid a back tire spin or a nasty slide. Keeping a slow pace, I was hard on the clutch, having to rev it up high when I had no choice but to bounce over large rocks and sea turtle-sized bumps. Within 15 minutes, my arms became stiff and tired, as if I had been lifting weights with one of my buddies back home. I had to stop to take a break, planting my feet while the bike skidded back a few feet.

I looked back at Liam who was busy testing the off-road capabilities of a 125cc scooter with a passenger. I always felt these little expeditions we did on our own traveling were the most important, and in some ways, the most exciting, and also, often very amusing.I watched Liam get stuck in one of the giant holes, at which point, the young boy jumped off the machine and began pushing Liam from behind in the lower back. I could hear his little engine screaming full throttle, while the exhaust fumes shot up and surround them both, as together, they tried to power the machine over the giant mounds of shaped dirt, spitting up dust, while the backtire whiplashed in both directions.

After 45 minutes of tight turns and steep inclines, we reached the trail to the pagoda. Exhausted, we stopped in a local village for some soda water, sitting in the shade of a road-side hut. Beside us, a local woman pumped water from the Earth, scrubbing her clothes clean while restedon roadway rocks, and out front of her, goats and other animals passed by being whipped along path by smiling villagers.

A short, five-minute hike led us to the pagoda, a large white monument overlooking the lake front City of Pokhara. The Buddhist stupa, as it is known in Nepal, was designed to provide a focus for people of all races and creeds with a goal to unite them in search of world peace. Balanced on a narrow ridge high above the Phewa Tal Lake, the large monument was constructed by Buddhist monks from the Japanese Nipponzan Myohoji organization. The shrine is a vantage point, which offers a beautiful view over the Annapurna range and the city. From the height of the stupa, we could see across the lake, all the way to our lodging at Phil’s Inn and realized how far we had come by motorcycle.

The pagoda was surrounded by grass, with prayer flags on its side. A golden statue of Buddha was centered up a white staircase, behind a sign requesting shoe removal. Boxie-boo found a spot in the shade, and although the hike was short, we followed suit as the heat and humidity and taken a toll on all of us. The three of us relaxed, munching on oranges. None of us were looking forward to the off-roading ride on the way down the mountain.

Back in this creek bed pathway, I almost immediately slammed on my brakes when a lone buffalo shot passed us with its legs kicking. The animal had apparently galloped in fear from our engines, and as it ran, it looked back quickly, nearly tripping over its own feet before pulling off towards a small home. I was afraid to pass the animal and was happy to lose sight of him as he turned a young corner, at which point, we realized a young boy was greeting him by pummeling the buffalo with rocks, while giggling at us from behind a tree. Apparently, a six-year-old boy was braver than me.

When the hill became extremely steep and rough, Boxie-boo begged me to be careful. She did this by digging her nails into my shoulder. I went as slow as possible, but not too slow, as a tire lock could have caused us to slide and lose control. The secret was to always keep moving and to allow the front tire to bounce over the rocks and not fight it. Any sharp turns or quick braking would have caused us to slide. I told her not to worry, as we turtle-paced along the rocks, reminding her to hold tight in sections where I had to commit, accelerate hard, to power over sections of large rubble. Thankfully, the Bajaj motorcycle had relatively strong brakes by cruiser standards and decent ground clearance. By the bottom, the muscles in my forearms were burning and my legs were turned brown with dust.

Back on the highway, the uneven and poorly maintained pavement felt smooth as snow, both soft and welcoming, after 45 minutes of rattling metal and tire-spitting rocks. It was glorious!

Cruising together, I realized we had become travelers hidden in a stranger’s landscape, blending in on our small machines, the locals’ most common way to travel. Many Nepalese seemed to not notice our foreign faces (though they often thought Boxie-boo was Nepalese anyways) while riding. They simply honked and stayed focused on the treacherous roadway. Unlike walking, even when riding at the pace of a crawl through pedestrians, we were no longer sale’s targets. On the motorcycle, no one begged us for money, asked us to buy their goods or offered us any services for money. It was freedom from more than the busy streets. It was freedom from being viewed as a walking ATM machine. To belong: This rare feeling we came to cherish whenever it happened on our trip around the world.

We decided to ride all day and made three more stops - a late lunch, Devi’s Falls and a Tibetan refugee village.

After paying the 20 Rupee entrance fee per person to the falls, we left fast, only staying long enough to split an orange between the three of us. This famous sight for us was about as exciting as watching a toilet flush. By Canadian standards, Devi’s Falls was an average-sized creek. It was beautiful, but tiny, only a meter or two tall and a couple feet wide.

After lunch, we rode back up the mountain highway with no destination in mind, the best kind of riding, simply keen to flow smoothly through the hills, refreshing our heated bodies in the wind. Every corner was a new viewpoint and we stopped occasionally for photographs. We met friendly locals at some stops, including a pretty young girl, maybe seven, dressed in a traditional white garment covered in blue flowers. Liam gave her an orange and she ran away excited to gather her friends, as if she had spotted Big Foot. Within minutes, we were celebrities, surrounded by young kids who, being many miles outside Pokhara, may have never had foreign visitors to their village before. We had to leave, unfortunately, as the sun began to move behind the mountains and my bike did not have a working headlight and had to be returned by 6 p.m. With one last stop, we braved a visit to the aggression sales town of the Tibetan refugee village.

The Tibetan community looked like a long motel room, covered in Tibetan prayer flags. We were the only tourists in sight, and as a result, we were offered cultural items from all directions. I felt like a male supermodel that had just walked into an all girls’ boarding school. The saleswomen’s’ voices surrounded all of us, making them all in comprehensible and simply one sound of female yelping.

Trying to be fair, we searched each stand individually, comparing prices and items, all the while being watched by a group of 20-plus eager saleswomen, who instead of taking turns, started by yelling at us all at the same time. We walked quietly at first, feeling nervous by so much attention, before becoming aggressive with bartering, raising our voices with theirs. In the end, the three of us all bought a couple gifts for some homies back in Canada. Many unsuccessful women yelled angrily, making it perfectly clear that they were upset we only bought from certain stands. They screamed sentences like “No fair!,” “What about me?”, “I sell nothing today!,” trying to guilt trip us into more sales. If you believe everything they say, salespeople in Nepal would lead you to believe they spend all day, every day, simply selling nothing. Yet for some reason, they never give up.

Boxie-boo loves to shop so she stayed a bit longer, armed with 100 Rupees, while I sneaked away to play keep-up soccer with Tibetan monks. Liam left to grab a cool drink at a small restaurant, or maybe he was playing hide-and-seek by himself. I’ll never know for certain. What I do know is this: The boys had lost patient shopping within 15 minutes, yet Boxie-boo persevered, ready to barter down to get everything she wanted.

The rain kicked in suddenly and we rode into town to discover Pokhara was again in darkness, the same as every night for most hours, without power. Drenched in sweat and feverish from the heat, I had dampened my shorts and t-shirt in the sink in order to cool myself to be able to somewhat sleep. This time around, the electricity came on at about 1 a.m., waking me up mid-sweat by powering the light switches we had tried to turn on hours earlier. And in this moment, something glorious happened: The ceiling fan began to spin, refreshing the humid room with cool air.

“It feels like I am having my first Slurpee,” Boxie-boo said, while I continually whispered “Yes!” with my hands towards the fan. The air whirl pooled across our bodies laid on top of the blankets, bringing me peace momentarily. Then things changed. Instantly. The light illuminated cockroaches on the wall, changing Boxie-boo’s focus and sending me to work. I unstuck my sweaty back from the sheets to chase bugs and throw them out the window (I hate needlessly killing them), sure to search every nook and cranny while the bosswoman criticized my routine.

An hour later, my sleep was interrupted by the sound of an engine cutting, the power diminishing, slowing the ceiling fan to a stop. Instead of crying, I could not help but laugh. At least even if the insects returned, there would have been no way to see them, and thus, no reason for Boxie-boo to panic. It was time for sweet dreams, the group of us: Boxie-boo, the cockroaches and myself.

That’s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

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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Pokhara, Nepal

03/19/10

Liam, Boxie-boo and I sat on the shaded patio of Chilly Bar restaurant facing the main street that curved lakeside in Pokhara. A public transit bus passed over packed, causing young boys to hang out the open door, while the driver swerved away from a cow who decided the middle of the road was a great place to sleep. A backpacker woman with a shaved head, dressed in all white, pulled up on a one-speed bicycle with a pink basket strapped over the back tire. Inside the basket was a small kitten that meowed as she walked into the restaurant. Beyond her, garbage covered the alleyway, while we enjoyed our soda water, content to people watch and relax after yesterday’s long day of safari and travel. Little did Boxie-boo know that our people watching would be something she’d soon regret. Her boyfriend would come to see too much and come up with a brilliant (albeit, insane) game plan.

Sitting beside me, Boxie-boo wore a beautiful long, red and white dressed covered in flowers and elephants, which she had bought in Thailand. This was the “wrong dress” she felt I had forced her to buy by rushing her. I thought it looked great. While I continued scanning the streets - spotting young men wearing t-shirts with professional wrestlers on them - she leaned across my lap and examined my bed bug bite trail, which had extended from my left hand, up my arm to my shoulder. She was always keeping an eye on them to ensure it was not a spreading rash that required a doctor’s opinion. Although it was terribly itchy, I paid them little attention. I was focused on the bizarre sight of professional wrestling fans I continued to spot in Nepal.

Minus the incredibly poor service, we liked Chilly’s, but the 20 minute wait for a drink, added to the waiter pushing Boxie-boo’s feet aside so he could stand closer to the table, meant it was our last meal there. We had grown fond of two Nepal meals, dal bhat and mo-mos, and ate them both twice on this day. On this patio, we ate vegetarian mo-mos. They tasted like samosas wrapped in dumplings, which we dipped in a curry-like sauce. It was half-Indian half-Chinese in flavor, which maade sense when I considered the location of Nepal, smack in the middle of the world’s two biggest populations.

Our meal was interrupted when a large truck covered in billboards drove by, blaring information from outward mounted speakers, old and bizarre in shape, looking like the ends of large trombones. As the vehicle neared, I noticed the small truck was wallpapered with posters of professional wrestlers. Young boys cheered, chasing the vehicle, while a date noted an event began the next day.

I suddenly had a crazy idea, but immediately discarded it. No way! This is insane!

I then thought about it again two seconds later.

Liam knew what I was thinking. Liam and I knew what we needed to do. We walked over and spoke to our waiter. It turned out, he was able to provide directions on where to buy tickets. We returned to the table and I tried my best to hide my excitement, failing miserably, I also may have yelled “Do you Smelllllllll what the Rock is cookin’!” on the way back to my seat.

“Babe..” I paused, making sure she was looking me in the eyes, “…I got us directions for the wrestling show.” I proudly showed her the waiter’s hand-drawn map.

“Sounds awesome,” she replied, rather more boringly than I thought she intended, so I indulged in her gusto. I pointed at the truck, now parked across the street in front of a group of flexing children. Then smiled at her. She did not smile back. I then realized that, perhaps, a young woman may not share a childish man’s enthusiasm for fake wrestling.

I scanned her brown eyes, searching for clues for how she really felt.

“Do you really think it will be awesome?” I asked, my eyes pleading.

“No,” she answered, with the monotone pitch of a hospital flat line. Okay, it was actually at this point I realized she was previously being sarcastic.

“I thought you loved fake wrestling,” I responded, thinking back to amateur shows we had been to back home. But then I remembered we were drunk at those events. She may have been too sober for this conversation. She gave me another blank and strong no, as if she was able to answer without really contemplating the question. This was one of those situations where a well-timed joke would have been perfect, but I had none ready. I then asked her if she wanted a drink.

She shook her head. Another no.

Okay, maybe it was at this point I finally, 100 per cent, understood that she was being sarcastic. I must say though, it was specifically because Boxie-boo hated fake wrestling that I had forgotten she hated it. Since she does not like to wear Hulk Hogan t-shirts or rock spandex outfits with capes, combined with the fact that we never fake wrestled together, and, we never watched it on TV. Therefore, essentially, the topic of her hating fake wrestling was not something we spoke about. In summary, my forgetfulness was caused by her.

“How could you forget?” she responded. Sometimes women lack rational thought. She looked annoyed, but agreed she would attend, noting I would owe her something. I agreed. I immediately was overcome with excitement, again, while Boxie-boo appeared to be contemplating her suicide, at which point, Liam showed me his awesome impersonation of the Macho Man.

As I wondered about fake wrestling’s popularity in Nepal, I was hit with the same confusion I would feel if someone bought me a breast pump for Christmas. Across the street, I watched the young boys as they began to wrestle each other. In their flexed positions, teeth growling outwards, for some reasons, the sight of these young wrestling fans hit me harder than King Kong’s head butt. I could not believe in a city in the Himalayan Mountains I would be watching a fake wrestling show. Nepal. Fake wrestling. The two together made as much sense has having a free speech convention in China. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to rip off my tank like Hulk Hogan and scream, “It’s on, brotha!”, but I was on a tight budget, so ripping it would have been a bad idea when I only owned two.

Sorry Boxie-boo, but it we were to set to watch Nepal’s version of the Macho Man, the Undertaker and Ray Mysterio.

That’s all for now.

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Chitwan to Pokhara, Nepal

03/18/10

“I’m glad I wore pants,” Boxie-boo said as our elephant bashed through the forest. Branches and leaves continuously brushed against our faces, shoulders and legs. We were sitting on an elephant’s back in a small box with two tourists from Holland, each person facing off a different corner, held in position with a piece of wood between our legs; our backs banging each other as the elephant thudded and swayed through the jungle. Boxie-boo and I were at the front, aligned with each shoulder of the trainer, his legs spread wide against the elephant’s neck, while we sat with our legs dangling against the massive shoulders.

When the bushes thickened our elephant did not mind. She simply smashed his way over them, through them, hiding us from the sunlight, away from the traffic and villages, from all civilization, from the sound of trucks backfiring against the morning howls of roosters and barking dogs. I could feel the roped on box gripping the elephant’s back, hear the vegetation snapping, feel the whirling chaos of spider webs incessantly brushing across our faces, the forbidden sensation of owning the jungle, of fearing nothing. All animals, for us, were small and scrawny in comparison to the beast we rode. Even tall trees, leaned against the elephant’s shoulders, were unworthy to stop us, simply pushed aside, whacking their branches against our legs and shoulders, while we paused, stopped silently in massive bushes, we moved aside the twigs and leaves to scan the world below.

“Welcome to the jungle,” I said in my best Axel Rose (lead singer of Guns N’ Roses) voice. Nobody understood why voice was suddenly high-pitched and heavy metal screaming. I choose to instantly stop talking.

Without warning, our trainer leaved the thin paths, slamming our elephant directly in an area of packed bushes. “Rhino,” he said, almost too nonchalantly, looking back at us. I responded by giving him the quizzical expression of a concerned dog. When he looked forward, I decided that what was about to happen needed preparation. I quickly put my hand in my pants to re-arrange the horrid wedgie I had developed from my crotch relentlessly slamming into the wooden post. Thankfully, my moan of relief was barely audible under the sound of the thrashing and trampling of plants. The trainer pointed towards a thick bush, about the size of city bus. I looked at Boxie-boo. She looked back at me. I instantly shared her prevailing and insightful appreciation for wearing pants. Although, it may not have been a smart move to take off my sweater. Hopefully the women on tour presumed they were the result of me being a great lover, not an obsession with giving cats piggyback rides.

Instead of moving around this colossal barricade of leaves and branches, he had our elephant ram through the bushes like a bulldozer. Through the incoming slash and whipping of wood, I spotted two rhinos hidden amongst the shrubs. My hat was closed lined by branches off my head, which I luckily caught quickly, as we crashed through the wall of heavy hedging. I tried to take a photo, but the driver told me to wait. He had a plan. Albeit, a plan I would have never thought of myself even though it was so simple. Instead of moving our elephant in a good position to photograph the rhinos, he used our elephant to crash into the rhinos from behind, then forcibly push them into an opening between the trees. Once head-butted by our elephant into the clearing, he called to the other drivers with a whistle. Within a minute, the two rhinos were surrounded by giant elephants and camera-happy tourists.

In this moment, the air was so still, I felt as if I could not exist within it. I felt my eyes swallow up every sight. I could still feel the tremor of whipped branches, leaves dragging against my skin. Beyond the rhinos were the remains of the great push, the rubble, the leftover debris from a collapsed wall of vegetation. Without control, my eyebrows were raised and my tongue pressed against my teeth. There were no more sounds of movement; the light of the sun now twitching through the canopy. There we were, within a couple feet of two rhinos, of one the most dangerous animals in the world, looking down at them from an elephant’s back. In my neck I felt my pulse now, throbbing, my voice slurring in and out of breath, and behind us, where we had been, a new opening allowed a low breeze to swing, shooting up leaves below us on the trail. With the chaos turned almost instantly into an overpowering silence, the new setting hit hard like an incoming fever, the nerves of my skin quivering. I could have been the montage of someone else’s dream.

In 2005 in Chiang Mai, northern Thailand, I rode an elephant in the peak forests, possibly entering Burma. This experience was completely different. I had never seen an elephant used to bash down plants and move large and extremely dangerous animals out of a bush. On our safari a day earlier, we were able to get within 20 metres at best of some rhinos, but the dense forest made them barely visible and impossible to photograph well. On the elephants, we were within reach of touching rhinos, looking down at them casually, protected by our elephant’s giant frames and enormous feet.

The advantage of riding an elephant continued throughout the day. Animals seemed less likely to run away, in comparison to the sound of heading out on safari with the sound of truck tires spitting up rocks and engines roaring between gears. We were able to get close to many wild boars, various types of deer, fox and other small animals like rabbits. Unlike a truck, not only was the elephant quiet, it was able to cross rivers and enter areas without roads. It was, however, not without its challenges.

Riding an elephant was exhausting. It felt like sitting on an exaggerated horse, swaying a foot or two within our box seat with each giant step. The giant feet caused branches and even small bushes to break into small pieces, allowing the ride, although swaying, to feel relatively stable. Its massive movements were surprisingly quiet, almost gentle. Our elephant occasionally stopped to eat the vegetation, frustrating our driver, who used a bamboo stick to bash her in the head, making us feel sorry for the animal. Thankfully, he never used his metal, fire-poker-like stick, but other drivers did. One elephant’s ear was bleeding, which caused Boxie-boo to get a little sad. It was tough to see an animal’s head banged with a metal pole.

On the positive side, our driver was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, content to point at various animals. At times, he pointed his elephant towards bushes to feed and gave the animal opportunity to rest. In total, we spent two hours on the elephant’s back, before dismounting on a wooden staircase.

Back at the Rainbow Safari Resort - again, ‘resort’ used very lightly as it rarely had electricity, dripping cold showerheads and gave me bedbugs - we packed our bags quickly after having scrambled eggs for breakfast. We left for another horrifying ride from Chitwan to Pokhara, a small, lakeside town in the Himalayas. It was a long drive along a similar highway from Kathmandu to Chitwan, often unpaved without railings alongside a steep cliffs and deadly descents.

We arrived in Pokhara and got a room at Phil’s Inn, a quaint lakefront guesthouse with a beautiful room by budget standards. This town reminded me of places in Thailand - a complete tourist trap - with multiple clothing, camera and backpacking equipment stores. There were internet cafes on almost every street and restaurants with local and western cuisine.

After a long day of riding elephants and swerving along one of Nepal’s dangerous highways for five hours, we ended our night on the roof of our guest house enjoying some local rum and cola. Looking off towards the lake, the distant mountains in the backdrop, we watched the sun slowly melt into the water; the light almost replacing itself almost too perfectly by the moon and enough stars to see all the constellations. It was a calm night, with few sounds and we listened closely to the hum of generators along the water’s edge, attempting to charge the city with power. We recharged with the city and relaxed, talking about the day and about how surprised we were to see so many kids wearing fake wrestling t-shirts. At 10 p.m., our room had power briefly, allowing us to shower with minimal light, while the leaky toilet damped the floor.

It was a relaxing night, one to be remembered, even though nothing happened beyond stars and conversations with us and Liam. I decided that this is what traveling should be all about: Cold drinks. Riding elephants. Sitting on roof tops talking about fake wrestling. But this was also because I was a little bit drunk.

That’s all for now.

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