88 - River Not So Wild (Sun Kosi, Nepal)
INDEFINITE TRAVEL DOES NOTHING TO IMPROVE ONE’S CONCEPT OF TIME. Nine days on a river can only exacerbate the problem. Einstein was right, time is relative. I completed my hiking apéritif with a two-day respite in Kathmandu. The smart play would’ve been a more challenging hike to build on momentum but, alas, it was whitewater season. So, I opted for the River of Gold (Sun Kosi), considered one of the world’s ten classic rafting trips. A 270 km (168 m) rubber boat bonanza on Nepal’s longest river. The thought made me tingle in the tickle parts.
A two-hour ride outside Kathmandu brought me and a band of fellow delinquents to the cusp of adventure. We spent the morn preparing supplies and inflating rafts by hand while baking in the Nepali sun. The cast included two brothers and a solo female from England, a gentleman from Switzerland, and another from Canada—Alex, Nick, Kirstin, Adrienne, and Jason. There were guides (Sonkor and Armid), a safety kayaker (Ashrak), and two porters (Arun and Name Unknown).
Day One was an easy float to our first campsite, Night One an inauspicious drunk fest fueled by not-so-premium liquor. Darkness fell. Mayhem ensued. I had zero wish to start hungover, so I forbore after a few drinks, retiring to the sand for a snooze beneath a spectacular night sky peppered with stars, painted by the Milky Way. The outfit provided tents, but I slept al fresco. Initially, I had company, but Ashrak the kayaker coaxed Kirstin to his tent. Ah, well, all’s fair in love and war on the waterfront. No smoochie-grabass por moi.
The events following my dismissal were the subject of vigorous debate. No one had all the pieces. The Brothers England and Sonkor deemed shit-faced skinny dipping a worthy pursuit. I’m not sure someone responsible for others should’ve taken the lead, but who the hell am I? The water wasn’t freezing but it weren’t warm neither, cold enough to further debilitate the debilitated and promote scrotum retraction. Two nude brothers and their guide huddled by the fire was surely a most impressive sight.
By the time I roused from slumber fifty feet away, the almost naked duo (now donning shorts) were sand wrestling with sibling fervor. Sonkor wasn’t amused, a deduction I made after hearing him scream dire warnings in an English busted stutter as incoherent as it was loud. Brothers grappled. Sonkor yelled. The following is a condensed paraphrase:
“YOU GUYS STOP BLOODY FUCKING FIGHTING DRUNK BLEEDING NOT ENGLAND IS NEPAL FUCK GO AWAY HIKE TOMORROW BLOODY FUCKING BLEEDING NOT YOUR COUNTRY BLOODY FUCKING FIGHTING BLEEDING GO SLEEP!”
The scuffle was nothing more than two soused siblings (mid to late twenties, if I recall) having a go at one another sans animosity. Men will be boys. They tried explaining, but the blood running down Alex’s face didn’t bolster their case. Sonkor did the only responsible thing—he demolished their tent and doused it with water. Hell hath no fury like a river guide’s scorn. Revenge is a dish best served with Himalayan runoff. This didn’t deter Nick from creeping inside the flattened shelter for a nap, nor did it stop Alex from trying to resurrect it with him in there. Both retreated and crawled into the adjoining tent with Jason (Canada), though not before being expelled from elsewhere. So, there they lay face down, damp, piss drunk, and blanketless. In shorts. I’d somehow fallen back asleep before our guide exacted vengeance. Had I not been riverside, I could’ve been the middle spoon.
That was our first night.
The journey continued, the drama did not. No residual resentments in the morning. Every night we camped atop sandy beach perfection with fireside evenings under a star-filled sky. I can’t deny I was hoping for more high-paced action. The Sun Kosi is by no means a roller coaster of treacherous whitewater, more famous for its combination of rapids, mountain-village atmosphere, and scenic beauty. If I’d done more research, it’s likely I would’ve settled on a friskier river. Still, no regrets and no reason to gripe, sir. Perfect setting. Perfect weather. Excellent company.
Don’t get me wrong, the Sun Kosi had its moments, but adrenaline spikes were few and far between. Hakapur, a Class V stretch, has a shit-your-pants quality when viewed from afar. Everyone pauses on the bank for a stroll and view of the monster. For ye of little experience, it’s an intimidating sight. Half-way through the gauntlet, there’s a vortex created by enormous boulders you’d do very well to avoid. Stay right to skirt the beast. Stay left to capsize and drown. Someone died a month earlier, a tidbit our guides graciously saved for later.
If negotiated correctly, there’s little drama. Rapids just beyond provided most of the excitement. Longer stretches of Class III are the crux of Sun Kosi’s amusement. Head on, sideways, or backward: all the shits and giggles with none of the catastrophe. Heart pounding? Maybe not, but big-time fun.
On day two, we spotted villagers on the riverbank near a burning woodpile. Given the daylight hour, we thought it strange until realizing it was the tail end of a Hindu funeral, the pyre ablaze as friends and relatives said farewell. (A common sight throughout Nepal and India.) After the fire subsides, whatever remains goes into the river. I have to admit I envy the simplicity, though it made me think twice about swallowing river water… gulp.
Language barriers and cultural idiosyncrasies are the spice of nomadic life. If you’re not confused along the way, you’re missing out. What will the über-information age (instant access, on-the-spot translation, satellite mapping, etc.) do to the joy of traveling? Perhaps, it will only improve it, but I predict something will be lost. I could be wrong… and get off my lawn!
It’s fair to say the staff had communication issues. We (western interlopers) were in a state of perpetual bafflement with nary a clue about what was happening or what would happen next. Ambiguous instructions. Amorphous timelines. We gave up trying to clarify and just went with it. We’d all make translational guesses and then wait to see who won. (Spoiler: Mostly no one.)
The porters. We were told their ages were nineteen and twenty-two. We called bullshit (in a nice way). We were told fifteen and seventeen. We called bullshit again. Final revision? Fourteen and sixteen… probably. Optics and the whole child labor thing, ya know? We weren’t concerned, just curious. Nepal’s reality is complicated. We’d assumed it was a school holiday (Diwali). Not getting paid? Makes sense, no? Free rafting, apprenticeship, real-world experience, investment in the future… Um, probably, but the crew was so cryptic, it almost felt sinister. Almost.
Definition of “rapid”? Well, that depends. To our guides—Class IV or above. All else was a mere ripple. So, when they said “rapids finished today,” we relaxed only to be nearly jostled out of the boat by a “non-rapid.” On a relaxing non-rapid float, one raft almost capsized. If a section hasn’t been named, I guess it doesn’t exist… probably.
Definition of “soon”? Between thirty minutes and three hours. For example, once I was told we’d be camping “soon.” We stopped for lunch, then continued for two-and-a-half hours. Right.
Sonkor was particularly nebulous. I’d guess (optimistically) we understood only fifteen percent of anything he said. He’d say something he knew was funny and then laugh semi-hysterically at himself. He’d laugh when someone said something not meant to be a joke. Then, he’d laugh because he was laughing and continue laughing because he thought everyone was in on the joke. Then, we’d laugh because he was laughing because he thought he knew what we were laughing at. Vicious cycle. Even when we wanted a straight answer and made our intentions clear, we still couldn’t be sure he was legit.
One night he implied there might be a tiger behind our campsite. We asked if he was serious. He said yes but laughed like a lunatic again. On another occasion, he said the monkeys loitering in the trees nearby were “one of most danger things,” suggesting they might try to violate us sexually. His gaze fell on me as I was the only one sleeping under the stars. I assumed he was joking but left room for a possible monkey-fuck ambush.
Someone noted a lack of daylight given it was only 7 p.m. Sonkor responded with something to the effect of “you mean 7 a.m.” and followed up with maniacal laughter. What the fudge? Your guess is as good as ours.
Night Three brought more novelty than usual. Each night, without fail, locals would descend from hillside villages to ogle the extraterrestrial beings recently landed in inflatable rubber spacecrafts. On this occasion, some thirty or forty villagers infiltrated our campsite in celebration of Diwali, Hinduism’s five-day “festival of lights.” Light over dark. Good over evil. Knowledge over ignorance (poignant considering Sonkor’s abstruse utterances).
Folks were banging drums in a rotating circle and chanting “Doh-So-Ree” (a rough phonetic equivalent whose translation I forget). They proffered a small donation plate. Armid (guide) threw in a few rupees and was carried around the circle to “Doh-So-Ree.” We wondered if they’d do the same for a mutant, so we pooled rupees. They didn’t flinch. Three young males hoisted me as high as they could and gave me the tour. All were entertained.
We were under the mistaken, if not altogether ridiculous belief, they were repeating the words “Dancy Day”, not “Doh-So-Ree.” Why wouldn’t rural Nepali villagers chant a traditional festival hymn in English? Duh. Armid seemed to confirm our “Dancy Day” conclusion when questioned. We concluded if the question isn’t understood, the answer is “yes.”
We heard the low drumbeat and constant repetition most of the way downriver, day and night. Their devotion was astounding. I suppose ingesting large amounts of Raksi (Nepali moonshine) helped fuel the fervor. Alex shared the lyrics to the “Dancy Day” dance remix:
Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day, Dancy Day.....
Repeat until the Raksi is gone.
Diwali’s third day is when Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, comes to visit every home lighted well enough to justify her presence. Time for the masses to break out the candles… and fire extinguishers. In Lakshmi’s honor, we deemed it stupid-obnoxious-fire night, amassing the largest driftwood pieces we could find and placing them upright in the sand. The tallest stood eight or nine feet. Although the flames failed to reach the maximum altitude, they were sufficiently robust to elicit baleful grins and mild consternation. The guides weren’t sure what to make of it. If they were displeased, we wouldn’t have known even if they told us. I think they were equally enthralled… probably.
We made a village pit stop to replenish our alcohol supply. As I scrutinized Maoist propaganda scrawled across walls and buildings, an elderly woman approached and began addressing me as if we were old acquaintances. Undeterred by my obvious confusion, she went on for some time. Odd but not uncomfortable, and I detected no ill will in her tone or demeanor. Her voice, and the conviction therein, mesmerized me. She had knowledge to impart and would not be denied. She finished with me and moved on to others. A local man inquired on our behalf. His language skills were inadequate for translation, but he conveyed her certainty she knew us. Predicting my future? Cursing my descendants? Recognition from a past life? Sage wisdom? Incoherent ranting? I found the encounter weirdly uplifting, not quite sure if I wanted to understand or treasure the enduring mystery.
Childish or child-like. The former is pejorative, the latter a prerequisite for happiness. The only way to hone your adult-child abilities is to spend time around kids and time practicing what you’ve learned. Practice makes perfect. We all regressed one afternoon on lunch break while hurling ourselves off a modest sand shelf. At first, we took turns, but it soon became a coordinated effort. Armid won the “Most Outstanding Leap” Award, brandishing a “technique” not unlike a three-year-old flinging himself into a kiddie pool. A sprightly sprint bordering on a skip with flailing arms and infantile ecstasy to match. He’d jump prematurely, land in the sand, and trip into the water. Oh, moments like that…
And then there was the screaming contest. Children often congregated on the riverbank to yell incomprehensibly in our direction. I’m sure it was innocuous and playful, but after six days of it, I retaliated in kind. The exchange went like this:
Children across the river: BLAAAAH! GIBBERISH! BLAH! BLAAAAH!
Me: AAAAH!
Children across the river: [momentary silence] AAAAH!
Me: AAAAH! GAAAA!
Children across the river: [momentary silence] AAAAH! GAAAA!
Me: GAAAA! BLAAAAH! GAAAR! PHLEEEW! [violent body contortions] BLAAAAG! HAAAA! FLAAAABBY FLEW! [more violent gyrations] WALOOOO! MAAAAH! KAAAAW! BLAAAAH!
They couldn’t duplicate the finale, but they made a hell of an effort. This lasted at least five minutes. Perhaps, I need a fMRI scan.
The tour wasn’t without hitches. Mostly, the food was excellent, but on night six we had an ungodly portion of rice and kidney beans. Some of us made it a personal challenge. I’d been eating like a pig with an intestinal parasite. That night was no exception. I’d devoured enough for three adults and a toddler, solidifying my status as a gluttonous moron. I paid. I paid dearly, slipping into a semi-catatonic state, lulled by the steady grumble of my tummy. Had any of Sonkor’s sex-starved fuck-monkeys been nearby, I was defenseless. The debt came due the next day. Noxious flatulence turned to soft-serve diarrhea. I excused myself for the better part of an hour, shitting my brains away between two boulders. Born anew, it was time to face the river.
We concluded our nine-day tour with a fifteen-hour night ride from Dharan Bazaar to Kathmandu on a public bus. Gimme a “Y” for Yippee! It was about what you would expect: broken seats, overcrowding, no rear suspension, terrible roads, unreasonable speeds, near collisions, and the obligatory tire puncture. People were standing, sitting, and sleeping in the aisle. To all that, you can add the minor annoyance of hair fondling. Kids in seats behind us (me and Jason) couldn’t resist giving our locks a twirl. I endured for the sake of diplomacy. Jason was not so magnanimous, yelling, “Stop it” when he could support it no longer. They were stunned into silence before eking out a tremulous “Sorrrr-ry.” I believe they pooped a little. You know what curiosity did to that cat. Sheesh.
Sleeping was impossible. Sedation on the other hand… Someone doled out Valium. I accepted with a smile, choosing numbness over despair. The bus was jam-packed and nearly pitch black with a cruising speed of Mach 2. When I regained consciousness at irregular intervals, it felt as if we were careening down a mountain road on a hope and prayer. I let pharmaceuticals do their thing. Calgon, Take Me Away!
(That being said I’ve been far too cavalier about pharmaceuticals in the past, living under the delusion of uniformity and adequate regulation. Most generic drugs are produced in India and China (including ALL generic antibiotics in the United States). An in-depth discussion is beyond the scope, but suffice it to say, there’s something rotten in Denmark. Malfeasance abounds. Quality controls are suspect. It’s worse than you think. If substandard drugs make it to the “tightly regulated” US, what’s that say for the developing world? Two words: dumping ground. “Caveat emptor and only if necessary” should be thy motto for pharmaceuticals at home or abroad. I wish it weren’t so. For more info, read an excellent book and listen to a superb podcast interview with author Katherine Eban. Prepare to be deflated.)
Claustrophobic much? There’s always business class… on the roof. Arun (the 16 to 22-year-old porter/apprentice/possible slave) decided it was all too much on the floor, so he moved to the luggage rack. Luggage was tied down. He was not. And yet, he arrived intact, claiming to have slumbered peacefully. Namaste. Back to Kathmandu.
