We recovered sufficiently after trekking to Everest Base Camp and around. We did some sight seeing, a little celebrating, and a whole lot of relaxing and the time came to get up and move around some more.
We booked a two day white water rafting trip down the Trishuli River. We did our due diligence. We walked from agency to agency, compared offers, haggled a bit, and then walked into another tourist agency and blindly booked a two day trip, barely asking any questions.
It started quite fun. After a few hours on the windy and bumpy Nepalese roads, we were piling into two rafts with a bunch of Nepalese college guys. The trip down the river was calm and relaxing and occasionally interrupted by adrenaline pumping rapids, unexpected walls of water drenching everyone, and a hard paddling moment to try to save the guy that fell out of our companion raft.
Unfortunately, after this ended our guide said we would be doing the same stretch of the river the next day. This was crummy as we were quite sure we booked one two-day rafting trip, and not two one-day rafting trips.
We camped out on the river bank. We drank some raksi, ate a nice filling dinner, and drank some more raksi around a bonfire with our new Nepalese friends. Eventually we got tired, they got drunk enough on the weak rice wine to start dancing with their shirts off, and I knew it was time to go to sleep.
The next day, after some arm twisting, our guide relented and instead of doing a deja vu trip down the same river section on the same raft, we were getting an intro lesson in river kayaking.
Kayaking looks deceptively simple. You are tightly wedged into a little plastic tub, covered in a waterproof polypropylene skirt, and have a double ended paddle to fend for yourself. The kayak is not as stable as it looks, and flipping it back to the upright position is not as simple as one would think.
We’ve spent a good part of the day doing T-rescue, practicing guitar and skim rolls, and occasionally ejecting from the skirt and swamping the kayak. It seemed like we’ve spent just as much time upside down, with water filling our sinuses with water as we did the right side up. It was part of the necessary training, but learning the new skills of righting a flipped kayak came slowly and painfully.
Eventually I managed to pull off a semi-respectable guitar roll and Weronika was strutting around her half rolls. We were tired, sun burnt, and very satisfied with our day of training.
The next, the suffering started. Everything hurt. Even my legs, which sat motionless stuffed into the plastic body of the kayak were sore. My quads, calves, and hamstrings felt like they got a beating. Various minor muscles in my legs hurt as if someone deliberately bruised them. My forearms could not lift my backpack and my upper back was stiff.
Luckily, we hopped on a bus which after a mere 18 hours would deliver us to the Indian border. The ride was painful, my butt continued to get sore after a few minutes in one cramped position on the uncomfortable seat. The road could not have been more bumpy and still passable. The driver took his turn furiously, overtook everything in his path. Looking through the front windshield all I could see was back of truck, cliff, wall, and so on. The trip was meant to last 18 hours, but through his suicidal driving skills he managed to shave two hours off. I still do not know if this is a good or a bad thing.