Category Archives: Humor
Nepal Travel Expectations
Things are starting to backup, early stages of the Donkey Jam
I could actually feel the warm puff of air on my face from the donkey’s ass. There was no mistaking what had just happened. I’d paid the price for getting too close in this absurd traffic jam. Amongst the swirling dust clouds, reeking donkey piss & shit, garbage lined trail and cigarette smoke – I had also been farted on.
“What the hell is this?”, I whined to myself, “This is not the mountain environment or experience I want.” My mind saw only the negative. The night before I’d lain awake fully annoyed at the fact that some distant, soothing Buddhist chants had been drowned out by thumping Nepalese techno from the billiard hall next door. Yes, Himalayan billiard hall. I’d come for the Buddhist chants, not the modern intrusions into my idea of how Nepal should be.
I have spent a lot of time in this part of the world and know from experience that the key to staying sane is to forget about expectations, and to keep a good sense of humor. It was just day one of our sixteen day trek in the Everest region and we were still in the more populated lowlands while on the way to Namche Bazar, but already I was feeling some inner disturbance. I charged ahead through the flatulent donkeys, past the cigarette smoking, trash tossing Nepalese load carriers and broke away up the trail. Once off the front, I was able to walk alone to let my head settle down. My irritation stemmed from my perception of how I wanted it be vs. reality. I reminded myself that what it really is is what I came for, and will provide the experience that I will take away, depending on how I accept it. …Deep breath. Suddenly, I came around a corner into a clearing and there they were, my first glimpse of the giants. The view literally stopped me in my tracks.
My entire adult life, 25 years, have been spent playing, working and simply loving being in the mountains. The Himalaya are the mountain lover’s Mecca and I had just found myself at the threshold. Spread out before me were Lhotse, Nuptse and Sagarmatha – Everest.
With a huge grin and more than a few goosebumps, I put my head down, laughed at myself and with a clear head, continued walking. It is what it is.
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The Khumjung Monastery
“Can we go in?”
A heavy, well worn curtain hung between us and what we so badly wanted to see. From inside the monastery came the distinct, exotic sounds of Buddhist prayer, chanting and the occasional gong. Suddenly, a young monk swept the curtain aside and ran across the courtyard only to disappear, then reappear a moment later. Back he ran to the curtain where he stopped, looked toward us, smiled and gestured that it was okay to enter. Without hesitation, we followed.
Inside it was ice cold with only a couple of out of place fluorescent lights illuminating the scene before us. Six early twentysomething monks, all wrapped in various robes and blankets, sat facing each other reading from prayer books that a seventh monk rotated through the line. Upon entering, they all looked to us and smiled. Clearly, they were as amused by our presence as we were mystified by their practice. After a few minutes inside it became obvious that, while monks, they were also boys without adult supervision.
Prayer book library
Finally one spoke up, “Dog”, he barked, pointing to his neighbor. “Goat”, he pointed at another. “Cat”, “Bird”, and so it went for each monk, they all laughed. I felt obligated to identify myself, and thanks to my long, filthy, disheveled hair the choice was obvious, “Yak” I announced. A roar of laughter confirmed I’d done well. We were in with the monks.
We continued to sit and spectate while they carried on as if we weren’t there. As a monk finished a prayer book, he would push it forward for the runner monk to gather up and either put away or pass to another. In the pause between prayer books, the monk would do as any other twenty year old on the planet would do, he’d pull out his phone and find something to stare at.
And so it all went; pray, chant, gong, phone. The longer we watched, the more it became obvious that for Dog, Goat, Cat and friends, this was business as usual. Finally, we stood, nodded thanks and waved farewell. Time to step back through the curtain. Once outside we were back where we had started, but now we had a memory where before we had so much curiosity.
Spoons and Monk Fights
The contestants minus myself and one clever monk
The Monk’s eyes went wild as I lunged across the table and tackled him. This peaceful man’s hands, unaccustomed to combat, fought my own in a desperate attempt to keep me away. Moments before he’d been sitting alone quietly on the other side of the room, no one took him seriously when he asked to sit in for a game. Turns out this monk was like Cool Hand Luke, he played a good hand and was quick on the draw. When the cards fell we reached for the silver. I’d won the last game and was maybe feeling a little cocky. Suddenly I was facing down a monk and he was in better position, he beat me on the table top. I had to do what was necessary.
“To hell with compassion”, I thought to myself, “Give me that damned spoon”! I tore at his robes as we went mano a mano.
The Australians, who’d taught us this game, roared with delight at the site of a white guy taking out the Buddhist monk. But we had all been warned ahead of time that a game of spoons can get rough, and so it did. No one was laughing harder than the monk himself as his attachment to the spoon proved mightier than my own. I was eliminated while the guy in the orange robe advanced to the next round.
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Nepal Security Procedures
Yet another 3rd world toxic taxi ride while looking not at all like our passport photos
While we edit and prepare all our images from the last month in Nepal, we’ll post short stories written during our travels – quick, fun, journal entries for a few days until we have some images to show.
The 3rd world likes to compensate for any real infrastructure by flexing its bureaucratic muscle. Endless red tape, useless rules & regs, this & that in triplicate, countless permits, and checkpoints enforced by gunmen toting arms from the US Civil War era. Best to keep quiet, let them do their thing and hope it really does end up just providing entertainment value with only minor delays.
Our five hour return to Kathmandu via taxi from the Langtang trek included no less than six military checkpoints. Our car would be surrounded by armed servicemen demanding ID which would then be followed by a lengthy visual inspection. Each time, the officer leaned through the window and compared each of us to our passport photo. Then, with a nod of approval, he’d wave us through. On we’d drive, having never once removed our full dust protection face masks, sunglasses or hats.
Meanwhile, the security flying to and from Lukla was equally as rigorous. There we were subject to, not a X-ray, but a pat down resembling an awkward embrace from a disliked uncle on Thanksgiving. Next up the inquiry, “Do you have any lighters?”, and finally our carryons were inspected with a quick heft and groping of the exterior. Done, pass, enjoy your flight.
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Photo of the Week: Dan & Janine in Alaska
This week’s photo is meant to make our friends laugh. The absurdity of this photo is especially apparent to anyone who knows us.
In 2000, Janine and I were in Kodiak, Alaska. A walk in the woods or the beach is something best done armed. So with my handy six shooter, and Janine with her sawed off shotgun, we set out to explore the whales roaming the shoreline. Our friend Lynn Noel snapped the photo of us in our best Bonnie & Clyde stance. Yuck it up folks.
Also posted in Photo of the Week
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Funny Later
For two of my favorite people.
Seemingly rock bottom. That is where we were, mentally, walking along a roasting hot Bishop street. Our VW Westfalia was left behind us, a carcass of a vehicle, blown engine, cratered roof, shredded interior. In one little mistake in planning, we had lost our home, office and car. In our bank account we had enough for perhaps a new set of windshield wipers, which we actually needed, they had been torn off. This was 2001.
Walking along, in hopeless silence, a car passed by with a message that, while just a bumper sticker, and just a cliche, made us laugh at the absurdity of our situation. Determined, we put our heads down and charged.
“Tough times never last, tough people do.”
And so it is.
Happier days of VW Westfalia Life
It all started with a Backpacker Magazine assignment, to head into the Sierra for a few days to shoot some work. The job came about suddenly, as we were on our way back to Bishop from, among other things, an influential to the story Trader Joes run to Sacramento. Arriving to Bishop, we packed our backpacks and headed for North Lake in our not so trustworthy VW, which, for the previous two years had served as our home and launching pad to great things. We cherished the faded yellow van, had extraordinary adventures from it, and loved the lifestyle it afforded us as we built our photo business. Lovingly, she had been named Maggie.
Arriving to North Lake, we parked, threw on our packs and disappeared into the backcountry. A few days later, after a job well done and a much needed return to town, we returned to our awaiting friend Maggie. Strolling up to the van we noticed some shredded bits of shattered fiberglass laying about. “That sucks, car got broken into by a bear.”, we observed, remembering the truck with a camper shell that had been parked next to us. As Janine dug in her pack for the key, I stood with my pack still on, surveying the assortment of fiberglass shards. One was larger than the others and so I kicked at it, turning it over and there, to our horror, was a recognizable feature, from.. the ceiling’s interior.
If someone had been standing on the other side of the van, they would have seen, like synchronized swimmers, the tops of two, skinny, sun burnt hiker’s concerned faces both rear up with eyes peeled to what they might find on the top of the van. What they did find was of great sorrow. A crater.
And so there followed a very difficult time from that moment of realization to the moment that the key was found, inserted into the sliding door and the door opened to reveal complete and utter devastation. Yes, a bear had climbed on top of the van from the front windshield, in doing so removing the previously mentioned windshield wipers (which luckily we could afford to replace), and then proceeded to rip open the skylight, causing weakness in the fiberglass top and thus permitting the bear to plummet into the vehicle where he/she landed in a paradise of Trader Joes bags filled with pasta, jams, ginger snaps, Nutella, honey, and various other carbohydrates much to the liking of a bears sweet tooth. Based on the fact that the pop top’s canvas was shredded beyond repair, we can only assume that the bear had some difficulty exiting the interior after gorging on $150 worth of groceries.
But the tragic story of a violated home does not end here, no, sadly, it continues.
I will leave the description of our frustration, especially any comments, to the imagination and begin part two of the tale; The starting of the engine.
Once accepting of the fact that our home/vehicle/office was destroyed, we climbed in, shut the door, and started for Bishop. Not 5 minutes into our drive the engine, in an eruption of smoke and violent noise, dramatically, and with a real sense of finality, blew up. Not missing a beat, we carried on pedal to the metal, the engine nearly melting down, plumes of blue smoke billowing from the rear, shredded canvas trailing in the wind and the occasional Clif Bar wrapper being sucked out one of the pop top’s many orifices.
Amongst all of this we realized one positive. Bears, in some sort of gleeful and final add insult to injury kind of action, typically divest of their harvest prior to leaving a vehicle. A kind of icing on the cake for the returning owner of the car. But in our instance, nothing. The bear had politely waited until clawing its way from the van to offload. We’d been defiled, yes, but shit upon, thankfully, no. We would survive.
Also posted in Friends, Random Thoughts
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Roadside Distractions
Roadside Trash; what it says about a culture, its people, and its habits.
After 25 years of staring from my bike at roadside debris, litterings, and the impact of humanity, I feel I have greater insight into several countries driving habits. Undoubtedly, America receives the award for the most plentiful and varied trash, while Switzerland receives the award for having almost zero human tossed waste.
The American litterer, like so many things American, believes that more is better. Topping the list of roadside trash are cigarette packages, Squeezies (those kid’s frozen popcicle things), plastic trash bags and of course the ubiquitous beer cans. Typically whatever beer is currently on special at the local white trash liquor store. In addition, more local specialties include shotgun shells, porn mags and of course McDonalds bags which have been ravaged by ravens who have since scattered about the contents of the fry bucket, ketchup packs, super sized coke and Big Mac wrappers. McDonalds bags occur with such frequency that I suspect that included with every meal is advice to simply toss the remains right out your window.
Included with the American trash is also environmental devastation by the drivers. Bullet riddled street signs, numerous tire screech marks, and roadside oil changes round out the cyclist’s visuals. Personally, while riding American roads I have had pennies flicked at me, “Get a car fag” advice offered more than a few times, and even had a gun pointed at me.
In Italy, the trash is a much more simple affair. Topping the list here are cigarette packs followed by plastic mineral water bottles. I am always curious how I still see McDonalds bags here in the Sud Tirol when the nearest one is 50 minutes and several valleys away. Beyond that there is little else I regularly see. However, frighteningly enough in the busy cycling areas, Gel Packs, Amino Acid vials, and Enervit bar wrappers often line the roads. Does this mean that in Italy the cyclists are the white trash? The other day in Tuscany I saw an ironing board tossed into the forest, nothing else, just an ironing board.
Austria and France round out the list with similar trash habits as Switzerland. Bravo.
In summary… why is there such consistency in what is tossed out the window of a moving vehicle, especially in such beautiful areas as California and Italy? Cigarettes, fast food trash and beer containers. What does it say about the people who consume these items? I guess it speaks volumes that if one is driving and tearing into a 24 pack of Keystone Lite, they are probably not the model citizen in the first place. One thing I do miss about riding American roads is my ever growing tool collection; screwdrivers, pliers, socket wrenches, etc… Here in Europe, nothing. Maybe I need to pay more attention, or no, I am probably paying a little too much attention to these things.
Also posted in Cycling, Personal Story, Random Thoughts
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On Display
We would always laugh at the consistency of the kids learning to belay at the climbing gym. For whatever reason when we taught them to ask, “Am I on belay?” before climbing, they would often forget this specialized term and instead repeat, “Am I on display?”. The other day, along with 5 other grown men, we most certainly were.
Our local small university has a beautician program which requires the students to get some “hands on” training. Facials, waxing, pedicures, manicures and of course body massage must all be practiced. Rather than have the students work on each other the teacher has them go real world and finds a local sampling of volunteers for the students. This is where our group of friends come in.
My first visit went smoothly enough, I was only mildly caught off guard by the fact that it truly was a classroom type scenario where 6 men are paraded in wearing flashy white robes before being directed to their student and then promptly dis-robed down to undies for school. All the students being early 20 something females.
My latest visit had a new twist. We 6 men were each given our robe, our funny little slippers for the 3 meter walk to the tables and an odd elastic string with funny paper sacks on each side. At first glance I thought nothing of it.
But once we were all isolated in our changing area, a glass walled room at the front of the classroom, the horror of what we must do struck each of us in its own way. The little papery things were underwear replacements. The memory of laughing hysterically at Janine’s own story came to mind, where the women were handed a similar sentence to be carried out, but their’s came in the form of G-Strings. Janine described how one older women, having no idea of the proper way to install a G-String, had actually put it on backwards. The tragedy of the situation was so extreme that no woman found enough strength to speak up before she wandered off for her free massage with the string in the front.
In our case it was almost worse. We were fortunate to have a front and a back, we just had no idea which was which. One side of the baggy material was larger than the other, and there were clearly differences in design and performance. Picture 6 men, naked, all holding these absurd little mini-outfits out in front of their waists, trying to decide what to do, which way to put them on, and just what the implications may be if you get it wrong. Or scratch that, don’t picture it at all. Better, picture 6 men in the above configuration behind glass walls in front of a classroom of early 20 something female students pretending to not look in.
We all stood there in silence studying the things, likely with similar thoughts going through our minds, then at precisely the same moment we all looked up and commenced with man talk. Nervous comments and tension easing banter filled the room. I stayed mostly silent, not wanting to chime in with my 4th grade level Italian. I knew I was about to look like a fool, but why sound like one as well. Finally, each man made his decision and committed himself to it by stepping through his elastic string. The time had come to parade ourselves into the room. With a roughly 50/50 split of big sack in front vs. small sack in front, we opened the door and meekly walked to each of our tables. It was then I decided to make a joke, someone had to, I’m not sure why it had to be the guy who barely speaks the language, but I went for it. “Speriamo che non c’è fouco”. Translated it is the obligatory, “Let’s hope there is no fire”. If only one reader of this blog chuckles it is more than I got from my colleagues. They say jokes don’t translate, I have proven this true time and time again.
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