The Lamjung Mahoutsav Part 1: The Funny Boat

This week, Sapana and I took an afternoon off from chasing pimply teenagers around for interviews and headed, along with the rest of the town, to the Lamjung Mahoutsav. A mahoutsav, as best I can tell, resembles a county fair, but lacks the same caliber of people-watching and deep-fried delicacies.  But all the important components are there: food vendors, local craft stalls, mechanical rides that conveniently double as death traps (in the likely event of a breakdown), children running amok, and karaoke contests.

Nepali carnival food!

Sapana and I showing enthusiasm.

The Funny Boat

But rather than sporting cut-off denim jackets and airbrushed tees, a mahoutsav is an occasion for Nepalis to don their traditional dress and walk through mud wearing high heels. Women pull out all the stops during the festival days, dressed in brightly colored saris, midriff tops of woven fabric, long flowing skirts, gold plaited headdresses, and nose rings so big they would solicit gasps from the pick-up line at any suburban elementary school. Sidenote: In Nepal, it’s the grandmothers who have the septum piercings and the facial tattoos, just to give all you haters some perspective.

Happily eating my gola

Rather unwisely, Sapana and I grabbed a gola—a carnival treat in the style of a snow-cone—and promptly found in place in line for the “Funny Boat” ride. The “Funny Boat” is a Ferris Wheel, but decorated in a nautical theme, blaring the Titanic soundtrack, and retrofitted to revolve at a gut-plunging pace. We shared a carriage with two teenage boys, whose grim, thin mouths clearly conveyed their enthusiasm at being paired up with us.  As the “Funny Boat” started to lift and dip, Sapana and I promptly commenced our hysterics. Me—laughing maniacally like a Jack-in-the-Box—and she—shrieking in tears, desperately clawing at the sleeve of the poor lad beside her—did our utmost to convince these youngsters that we might be a wee bit unhinged.

And then, just like minutes following the plunge of the Titanic, it started to... get quiet. Everyone had become… a little green. In a country plagued by motion-sickness (public buses keep a supply of plastic bags on board at all times), I too am not impervious. In an effort to stay strong and maintain our slightly mad persona (not to mention I had completely forgotten the Nepali translation for “I’m feeling a little queasy”), I began muttering vaguely menacing epithets, such as “My gola comes again” and “I will throw my biscuits.” The comedy didn’t last long. Realizing the impending outcome, I began to consider my best options.

Quickly ruling out my gola cup and my handbag, I spent the next few revolutions trying to remember what I learned in high school physics. Does this ferris wheel generate enough centripetal force to counteract gravity and propel the contents of my stomach a sufficient distance away from myself and other passengers? What would be the equation for that?  I was fretfully uncertain. So I resigned to being publically known as “that white girl who puked all over the carnival ride” for the remainder of my stint in Besisahar, when the operators mercifully slowed the ride. My fellow passengers, my clothes, and my dignity had been saved!

Up next: The Lamjung Mahoutsav Part 2: Pro-Wrestling