xniquet's middle finger technology: August 2009

It’s Just a Mug of Lard

I have always been a grandma boy since the day my mum decided to retire from being a full time house wife and join the work force, so that we had enough to put my sister through Art College. So I was left under my grandma’s rules at the age of 3. Most of the people who knew my grandma, knew her as a sweet old lady who wouldn’t even hurt a rat, but none of them knew about the iron lady that rule with an iron clad fist when it comes to grooming and table manners. For the first 10 years of my life, I was basically a private living in my grandma’s barrack and was put through the most intensive grooming mastery and table manners mastery training (think Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket but minus the vulgarity). For her grooming and manners is nothing to be laughing and gagging around about; and she believes that all good things should be rewarded and bad ones are to be punished. There wasn’t a day in my life while living with her that I do not fear that I was not presentable enough for her and having meals with her was as intense as taking a walk in the field filled with live mines. Today, many may think that I am just generally faking my table manners to impress others while my friends used to think that I might be on the verge of becoming a transvestite because of my overly grooming “protocol”. But thanks to the term metro-sexual, I finally got them off my back. Even though her methods may seem a little excessive but only good things has come from it. She has made me who I am today in terms of self grooming and table manners.

But I never thought that one day it would lead me to one the most horrid experience in my life. It was early morning at Shegar and while my Canadian companions were still resting after a night of drinking, I decided to go down to the lounge of the guest house that I was staying in. Just as I step down and into the lounge, two Tibetan women saw me and they jump up to their feet and started to talk in tongues to each other. Then one of them came over and said something to me which totally sounded gibberish and then she seated me at a table, while the other woman was busy preparing something. Well, I guess they were just doing what they do best – Play host and feed the guest.

One thing that my grandma had thought me is never to turn down sincere hospitality and also I must not leave the table until I finish what that has been served to me. But as I turn my head over my should and saw one of the women walking towards me with her eye fixed on mine and in her hands the single most behemoth size mug which I have a pretty good idea what was inside it. I was right; it was what I thought it was – Yak Butter Tea that was made from green tea leave, Yak butter and water.

Earlier I was told by the Canadian connection that Yak butter Tea was probably the worst drink that they have ever tasted and I should by all means avoid if I do not have a strong stomach. Now look at the mess I got myself into just by taking a stroll downstairs. I try to calm myself down and told myself that it wasn’t going to be that bad. I smile and accepted the women’s generous offer. And now it was just me, the monster mug and 2 sets of eyes on me; I take a gulp of the hot, salty and buttery drink. Bloody fucking hell, the taste was far worse than I ever anticipated; it was like drinking really bad melted butter.

Faking a smile and throwing a thumb up, I manage to keep the ladies’ eyes off me. But now, I have to get to the bottom of this mug and I had a plan. I will try to take little sip that would allow it to slip pass my taste receptors at the side of my tongue. It was a good plan at first but soon I begin to realize that it was too slow and the top layer of my tea was starting to solidify and pretty soon it turned into chunks of lard.

You know what is worst than having Yak Butter Tea? It is having a cold Yak Butter tea.

Really I don't have to tell you how my story ends because you can pretty much guessed since I was stuck with a mug full of misery. Draining down a mammoth mug of green tea with chunks of chewy lard floating in it is probably the worst experience thus far and it will forever earn a place in my life's hall of fame. Usually, I would become a spin doctor and tell everyone how tasty and good this beverage is and everyone should try it. But I think anyone without a strong gut to hold in a steamy mug of lard should never ever go through what I have just gone through.

Let’s just hope I don’t get sick along the way to our next destination - Shigatse.

Rape the Moment

As our Land Cruiser chugged down the unpaved road leaving a trail of dust, we slowly made our ascend to the world highest plateau. We work our way across Nyalam Pass which was about 3,800 meters above sea level and we steadily climb up Lalung-la Pass which stood above 5,050 meters. Officially, we were on top of a plateau that is 1,000 meters taller than the highest peak in Malaysia. So, is there any chance in hell that maybe I could get one of them certificate that mountaineers get after that have conquer Mt. Kinabalu? Hell, I’m Malaysian and I stood taller than your highest peak? No? Pffffftttttt…

You know unlike Malaysian highways, here you don’t really have to worry about going to the rest room at a pit stop. Because it is everywhere, I am not kidding you. Whenever you feel like doing number 1 or even number 2, there are no worries about holding back till the next stop. Seriously, you don’t have to because there aren’t going to be any pit stop en route. Just look around you, the nature is your fucking toilet; behind some bushes or a huge rock or trees or maybe a cave if you are lucky enough. People here live and shit freely as they wish; they do not need a designated place for them to aim their penises or squat down, and that my friend is the free spirit of Tibet. (iThink…)

Anyway, it was the same old clear blue sky with white cotton candy clouds, the gray unpaved road and the typical Tibetan landscape filled with the view of the Himalayan ranges. And it was just a little outside of the town of Tingris, the Braille of our facial expression let out in unison the meaning of awe and adoration, as we caught the first glimpse of Mt. Everest - the mother goddess of all the mountains. I was looking straight at the roof of the world. Its funny how just by recalling that moment, I get goose bumps all over. But it went down rather differently there. Just like a pack of excited wild baboon, we pull our vehicle aside and started doing crazy pose and ugly facial expression as we jump around and take turns to snap pictures of ourselves with the north face of Mt Everest. Are we just being disrespectful for not respecting the moment or are we just humans? I really cannot imagine if god were to come down and we all started to react to the same manner as we did today; but I guess it would have been a great “Remember the time I camwhore with god” story. Fucking A?

And so we did what we have to do, and after we have kill and rape the revered vibe of that moment and place, our excitement finally died down and we were on our way to our next stop for the day – Shegar.

At The Gates of Hell

After a real early supper on our first day in Nyalam, I was stuffed, not drunk but almost and I was ready to mingle with some of the trekkers staying in the same guest house. But to be frank, right about now, the last thing I need is some loudmouth trekker telling “Remember the time” stories and how awesome it is that they are going to head out to Mt. Everest base camp tomorrow. Seriously, I don’t get jealous easily but right now I don’t need another half-stoner reminding me that at my current state of health, I am not fit to even think of Everest. I know it is hard to avoid it because most of the trekkers that spends the night here is either going up or has just came back from there and every fucking thing that they spits outta their mouth is either Mt. Everest or something related to it.

So being that sore loser that I was that night, I drifted away from the “Mt Everest” clique like a desolated jerkwater berg and sat down alone at the corner far enough where their conversation seems gibberish and the sound of their laughter seems muffled. Just as I thought my first night here was going to end the moment I finish the strong content that was inside my flask. A fairly young local came up to me and we sorta started talking. The conversation wasn’t as interesting as the one going on inside, as a matter of fact it was full of banality but I do appreciated her gesture of coming over.

My night here was basically between Scylla and Charybids, but if I have to choose between them again, it would definitely be the slow and boring chat with this local Tibetan girl. Well, at least I found out what the nickname of this Town of Nyalam is; the Nepalese traders refers this place “The Gates of Hell' because the route here to the Nepalese border is so treacherous. Here Bhote Kosi River which acts as a physical border between Nepal and Tibet drops into a deep and extremely steep gorge, like a crack on the face of the earth that is almost 1000 foot deep. Well, I am glad I already passed through that and I will not be looking forward to crossing it again on my way back.

We started the next day pretty late because unlike me, most of us were too pissed drunk to even bother sleep last night. Amongst my friends back at home, I was the most lay back ones, but when I'm with these guys, I’m like the Monica Gellar of FRIENDS. You know one thing that I didn’t really notice last night during supper is that how crappy the food here is. Our lunch spread was basically: fish that smells fishy, soy sauce that doesn’t taste like soy sauce, pork that taste like last night’s pork (Wait it is last night’s pork!), noodles basically serve with water, bean curd (well, this is alright) and some tasteless broth with floating vegetables. Maybe it is just me feeling a little cranky but I am just gonna let it slide because I am really looking forward to head to our next town.

God, I miss tar roads

As Bloodshot Clear as Stigmata

Driving along the Chinese 318 feels like a [G - D^add11- E^m7- A^m]; if you are not sure what the fuck I mean, maybe you could strap on your guitar or pull up your piano seat and try playing these chords. The sky is so clear and blue; you could through the stratosphere and maybe beyond; the panoramic view of the mountains over the Tibetan plateau makes you wonder just how huge this earth that you thought was getting smaller really is.

Let me take you a little after the border town of Kodari, we have to leave our Nepali ride, bag up and make it up to the Friendship Bridge, then waltz right into China on our feet. (No cars are allowed). Once we pass the arch with the red flag, we were officially out of Nepal and now we are subject to the rules and regulations of the People’s Republic of fucking China. There was a little set back because we waited for hours upon hours before we could get to our Land Cruiser. I guess someone didn’t slip in a little something extra for the officials but I am just too tired to be complaining and I am just thankful that we are back on the road and not locked up in some cell to rot because we were carrying a fair amount of “spirits” with us.

Everything was uphill (literary) after we left the bridge over Bhote Kosi river; the first Tibetan town we came by was Zhangmu (樟木), it was 2,300 meters above sea level. It didn’t stop there, we continue on climbing till we reached Nyalam (聂拉木) which was 3,750meters above sea level and which was also our first pit stop for day 1. If this was Malaysia’s highest mountain then I have already made it 90% to its peak. I swear if I didn’t know better, I would have thought that this was the stairways to heaven.

Maybe it was because of the staring into the clear blue skies and the endless jagged mountains along the way that have given me a sign, as bloodshot clear as stigmata. Who am I kidding? I looked deep into my heart and found that it was drenched with only the thought of her. So be gone my inner demons, stop stalling me, for I am ready to split myself open like the Red Sea and bare my soul to the apple of my eye.

Alright Ramblers, Let’s get Rambling.

My days in Nepal are finally coming to an end. Initially I was going to embark on a journey by bus to get myself into Tibet and head towards the holy land of Lhasa. But it was probably fate or maybe the alcohol that led me into a group of Canadians from Calgary, Alberta. They were about to drive from Kathmandu to Lhasa and I was more than welcome to join them as long as I am willing to help out with the trip. We will start from Kathmandu and drive about 130clicks to the Nepal/Tibet border town of Kodari, after getting through the Chinese border it would be another six days ride cross country before we reach Lhasa. It’s been so long since I have been on a really long road trip and I am really looking forward to it. I really hope that none of this would turn into the tragedy that befell a family of Malaysian in Kashmir.

Three's a company; Four may be a crowd but you don't need to graduate from MIT to know that it would definitely ease everyone’s financial burden and thus more loose change to booze all night, all the way. So I guess in a matter of hours, I will be off with my new found ramblers, rambling outta Nepal and into Tibet. This is how I met Greg, Owen and Susan and the beginning of the end of my run to the roof of the world.

Current: The [insert a Canadian slur here, I can’t think of any] are still getting all provision and stuff for the trip and not to mentioned something extra for our spiritual needs. It might get us a little bit high but I reckon spirits are really necessary to keep us warm against the Tibetan cold weather. As for me I am all set and ready to go anytime now.

P.s. Yes, sometimes I wish I could be there to talk to you too.

Deep Cuts

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Pictures by Cameron Foster a.k.a Camo

I just love the deep cuts on the third picture. Thanks again Camo.

Here's a little reading taken from the post:

the most painless way to commit suicide

Exsanguination

How it’s Done: Frequently the most obvious way to rapidly harm one’s self yet pass on relatively slowly, is to slit the wrists or the carotid, radial, ulnar, or femoral artery. Using a sharp implement is the easiest way to go. Razors or knives are popular. Contrary to popular belief, the effective method for this is not to cross the wrist, but to draw the blade up the forearm . This is the same way Japanese perform Jigai (women) and Seppuku (men), although their is often for more spiritual purposes.

Results From Failure: Extreme loss of blood causing the heart to dramatically slow eventually depriving the brain of oxygen. Also, most often, deep scars and tissue damage.

"Calling all practicing wrist cutter! I am creating a new gallery for those who love to slit their wrist therefore I am collecting pictures of wrist being slit or wounds resulting from wrist slitting. If you could send it those pictures and your name too, I can add it in the gallery, just so the others can see how cool you really are. "

Please send pictures and your name to:

other sent in pictures:

I just came back from the monkey temple (Swayambhunath stupa) and I have nothing much to say about it because like all the other tourist attraction, I think I wouldn't do it any justice if I waste a pint of my energy typing about it. So you just have to see it for yourself when you get there. But what I can say is that the temple monkeys’ welfare is being very well taken care of.

But what I do have spinning around the wheels of my inner head is Prison Break; hell I was wrong to ever think that Prison Break was lame. When it first came out, I refused to watch it (even though everyone was saying how great it was), mainly for these reasons:

“When you think of Prison, there sure hell ain't gonna be hot chic starring in it. When you have no hot chic, homosexuality and sodomy comes into play. And I just hate open shower room scenes, watching brothers naked in the showers isn’t a hobby of mine. Last but not least, just how hard is it to break outta a fictional prison? Come on it’s in a TV series; the hero always gets out of ass tight situations. You don't fucking need a whole season or two to break out of jail. Right?”

But I am willing to retract every single thought of that because after going through the first season, I am seriously thinking about having a convict’s career. Seriously, now I understand why everyone is like so into that prison shit. But I am glad that I didn’t watch it when it was aired because the suspense and cliffhangers on that series would just bloody kill me. I am a person without the virtue of patience when it comes to TV series. I can’t wait a week for the next episode or months for the next season. So that is why I have the first four seasons stored inside my HD, it’s like watching a really long movie.

On another note, it just amazing how just by sitting there without moving an itch of your ass muscle, you could meet someone who is half way across the world and shares the same repugnance for the church; the same soft spot for 2 (to be exact) fictional movie characters and the same love for a movie and its script. It’s not every day I come across ladies who could memorize The Fight Club word by word. I'm so fucking blessed.

This is Orchestrated Pandemonium

It’s been slightly more than a week in Kathmandu but I think I‘ve already got into the groove of this city. Feeling like a converted Nepali smack right in middle of this country’s capital, I have developed the skill to discern the ordinary from the extraordinary. No longer am I taken by surprise by the “no traffic law” narrow streets accompanied by the constant sound of honks; the survival of the fittest and fastest amongst scooters, taxi, minibus that are trying to squeeze side-by-side through a really narrow streets; walking around on sidewalks where piles and piles of unattended trash accumulate and have turned into somewhat a permanent fixture; pestering rickshaws and street vendors that won’t zip it and just don’t take no for an answer; people rocking their head side to side in agreement; the cadence and flow of the spoken Nepal Bhasa and most of all getting all my water needs from nothing except straight from the bottle.

Or this is just me after being away from my cradle for almost 4 months and I have finally turned into a seasoned traveler. Like most traveler, I simply adore going to streets market in this part of this world. Street markets to me are like a peek into the lives of the locals. I duly believe that street markets are a part of the locals because things that are sold there are daily things that the local depend on and not some overpriced leather stuff sold in corporation owned boutique. The stuffs here are made by real people like you and me trying to make an honest living and not by some repressed slave or child labor in some 3rd world country.

That is why my favorite town here is Thamel. It is like an open market place, some much life, bustling with activity, everybody wanting to sell you their wares. And if you like colors, I tell you the market here reeks of colors, it is almost like you are on dope but the best thing is you are still clear up in the head. I tell you nothing is as rewarding as waking up real early in the morning to get a table at a restaurant overlooking a busy intersection of Thamel’s market. With some flat bread and a steaming mug of Chai, I watch as the market slowly unveils. The market stalls and carpet shops are still setting up their wares whilst listening to the loud traffic and constant banter between shopkeepers.

This is harmonious mayhem; this is orchestrated pandemonium...
this is the Kathmandu at its best.

A street seller carrying his good with his head.

[Most of the pictures are uploaded to my facebook, feel free to browse there]

The Malevolent Momo

The Chinese calls it 饺子(jiaozi), in Japan they call it Gyoza, but here steamed dumplings are known as Momo. Nepali has been inhaling Momo as long as they know it and I was told that at some point of time, Momo has over taken the identity of Nepal.

My first Momo experience was in a fairly clean restaurant that was recommended by the locals and tourist alike. As I patiently wait for my Momo to arrive, I have notice one thing here in Nepal. It seems that family to a Nepali is very important; I am not saying that it isn’t in other parts of the world but somehow I feel strange having a total stranger in a foreign land asking how’s my family doing? But I guess it is the norm here because it isn't an uncommon thing for sellers here to ask you “May I help you?” followed by “How is your family?”. And it was at the moment of thoughts that my half dozen chicken Momo and half dozen buffalo Momo found its way to my table, leaving a trail of steam in the atmosphere. Frankly it wasn’t love at first bite because having tasted treats that looks like it has sort of gave me the impression that it tasted weird but most probably it was the insane amount of Tibetan yak cheese and curd inside. But as the dozen of Momo makes it way down me and got acquainted with my tummy, I was beginning to get pass the taste and as a matter of fact I was starting to fell insanely in love with it. Now having Momo feels like a halfway blessing that I do not deserve. [I really gotta steal the recipe to the best Momo in town]

Thanks to Rabin & Nazzz for mentioning that I shouldn’t miss out eating Momo; now every time I see steam rising from the streets, my senses would sharpen like a bloodhound and my Momo-lust would take over as I scout the surroundings for the stall that is selling this mouth watering treat. I know I shouldn’t be having street food yet as I just recovered from diarrhea, but I have became somewhat a Momo junkie. So screw the sickness because Momo has robbed me of my sanity and I just couldn’t go a meal without it as long as I am in Nepal. I know I should be gaining weight but what concerns me is that what if I lose control and ate too much and end up looking like a Momo.

Damn you malevolent Momo!

How Deep Does the Cut has to be?

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by Lia

This is probably the bloodiest picture so far and I see some nasty cuts on the tights too. Way to go?

You know, I have been asked how deep the cut has to be and the answer is simple - how fast do you want it to end? As long as you do it right and it bleeds and when you bleed out enough, you will eventually get there. Think of it like a flood gate, the bigger the gate is open, the faster the water will flow out and when it’s empty, there’s when you know you are done.

Please send pictures and your name to:

other sent in pictures:

All Hope is Lost

I believe once in everyone life there will come a time when you will feel like all hope is lost; like you live in desolation; when it seems like only the night shrouds all the days of your life… You know where I am getting to and it is times likes these you fucking know that no matter what you do and what you don’t do, it will never ever gonna alter the facts and you don’t even wanna ever step on a weighting scale ever again because it is not showing you what you want them to. I am sure a lot of you out there would understand how hard it is to ever get on a weighting scale again after experiencing that shit...

Son of a bitch, my fucking sickness has taken almost all my water weight with it to hell and I am left with only my hollow shell and I couldn’t believe how little my fucking hollow shell weights. Now all my dreams of ever becoming a wrestler shatter as I read my weight off the fucking scale. This isn’t right, how can someone loose so much weight in 3 days?

Even though my ordeal has left me weighting less than 55kgs (not going to tell you exactly how much because it is too pathetic and I want my pride to remain intact) and altogether left me looking a little less than just skin and bones but I guess I have grown wiser than to ever partake any tap water from here. The Nepali word of wisdom fills my head as it replays over and over again. I shall never ever forget these mystical words:

“MA UMALEKO PAANI PARCHHA!”

…which translated means I need boiled water!

*So please excuse me as put myself on a supra carbo-diet and what better way to kick start than to have lots and lots of Dal-Bhat (Nepali’s Staple meal – Rice with Dal)

**either that or I need to find myself some really skinny friends to make me look fatter.

Diarrhea is Just an Overcrowded Four Letter Word

I made it through my whole India experience without consuming a single drop of tap water but I didn’t wanna jinx it by bragging about how proud I am for not getting diarrhea because almost everyone who goes there usually gets it. But how the fuck would I know that the tap water in Nepal is also unprocessed. It may be totally un-harmful to the locals Nepali because they have already developed antibodies but passersby motherfuckers like me don’t and should at all times use bottle water for drinking, brushing teeth and hey, there is even one time I washed my ass using bottle water because there was a cut.

But I guess my brain must got eaten away when I was totally checking out the erected cherry-top twin Himalayan's peaks on the inferno-hot Russian girl who were staying next to my room when she passed me by as I was going in my room after getting some bottle water to wash up that godforsaken morning. After that all I could think about is what a lucky bastard that guy would be to hike up to her twin peaks that I totally forgot about my no tap water policy.

And to make things worse, I thought I was really strong and have developed super antibody after I took a bath in the Ganga; so I totally didn’t see a doctor and rely on Gatorade to rehydrate myself from all the liquid loss that which I was quickly losing from my ass and mouth. I cannot remember a time when I purge so hard that I couldn’t even feel my anus anymore; and the puking was the worst, on the second day, I was practically vomiting white foam because there wasn’t anything in me to throw up anymore.

On the third day I practically turned into a green like an Orc and a perfect stranger who was working in that hotel told me that I should really go to a hospital because I was getting worse; and top of that diarrhea in this part of the world isn’t a thing to joke about. According to their Ministry of Health, west of Kathmandu, a deadly diarrhea broke out in April and has recorded 235 shitting related deaths; there’s like more deaths than the A(H1N1) death in Malaysia. I mean I am not afraid of dying but to die of a shitting disease would be such a disgrace. You gotta be fucking kidding me; I don’t want my friend to be told that I died of shitting. I would rather slit my throat and bleed to death than shit myself to death. So I accepted that kind stranger’s gesture to bring me to the hospital for treatment.

You know, this isn’t a satire for all the third world country that doesn’t process their tap water but seriously please come out of the dark age and do something about it, I mean people are shitting themselves to death and I totally think that diarrhea is really a fucking bitch.

Just Like How I Imagined It

I feel like I am hanging on a cobweb; just sitting here, wondering what I am suppose to do? What is this that is going on inside my head? Here I am finally here in Kathmandu and just a stop away from Lhasa, Tibet. Yet I must confess that I am still holding on to the thought of someone which at this particular time I am really fond of. Yet there is a millions cacophony voices inside of me that just make things worse than it could ever be. I don’t know what the logic in this is anymore. What the fuck are you doing this to me? I don’t mean her but my head. Clearly I am fucked in my brain. Someone please crucify me upside-down!

Leaving India was kinda another revisit to the heartbreak hotel. Frankly I made no close friends or met anyone there but believe me when I say I am feeling sad about leaving this place. The colorful culture and indescribable experience has left me shouting out for more and a part of me wanted to stay on. I guess India did crawl under my skin and it became a part of me (but I don’t smell like India). I can never remember a single time where I got so baked in my life; I have to thank the Bhang Wallah for popping my Bhang cherry. But this vagabond has got to do what he needs to do; that is to bottle up his emotions and keep moving on to satisfy his wanderlust.

After Delhi, just under one hour and I was in Kathmandu International Airport which totally remind of the airport in Kuantan – small and tiny yet self sufficient. I was glad in some way that I was out of Delhi and venturing into a totally new country and I can’t wait to see what Nepal has to offer. The moment my jet on which I arrived dropped me here, it was like I have travel back through time and landed into a medieval village. From the airport, I was sardine canned in a beat-up mini bus that took me through potholed twisted lanes teeming with people, cars, bikes, cows, buses, and motorcycles going in every direction - most of them straight at us, swaying off just milliseconds before impact.

I step off the mini bus which seemed like my imminent death at that time, and I quickly forgot about all the ordeal of being in a sweat reeking, jammed pack bus of death. I turned and watched life on the street of Kathmandu. A panoramic reel of people, food vendors, shops, children, blacksmiths, men squatting, raw slabs of red meat splayed out on iron benches, men at foot pedal sewing machines, splashes of color in fruit, vegetables, saris, buildings and the worst case of wiring that I have ever seen in my life. There is so much going on but this is everyday people’s life at its best.

Feeling I have been teleported to a scene in a movie, this is Kathmandu, just like I have imagined it…