The five of us departed the bus in Likir, I with the grace of a tranquilized flamingo. I wobbled with my waterbottles and backpack and bucked into dirt dregs. My astoundingly bad balance constantly confuses me, as I have American football defensive lineman legs. In seventh grade, my thirteen-year-old acne-afflicted male infatuation referred to me as "Kankles," and "Thunder Thighs."
Ladakh's arid desert orbited like the obstinate ocean. Reverberating sand dunes stretched, and in the horizon, a snow-spiked mountain range amiably reared. Our guesthouse overlooked the golden Buddha of Likir's Gompa. The bathroom window viewed the Buddha as superbly as if Siddhartha himself had stipulated where to shit. Common to many Ladakhi guesthouses, our communal eating area constituted floor cushions and low wooden tables ringing the room. A Goliath-sized gold-gilded stove dominated the center of one wall, and the shelves behind paraded with piles of pots and pans as impressive as Cleopatra.
It was in this seated ecstasy, the hostess' happiness and her family dominion, that Wrist Breaker Wanker let loose a lethal fart. The rancid and repulsive smell penetrated nostrils and affixed itself in nose hairs. The stench resembled a consumed rotting cadaver that had festered for months in his anal cavity before exploding from his anus like a torture device. The Brit's butt bomb saturated souls seconds before our hostess entered with chai tea refills.
Her nose crumpled at the rectum roar's stench. Tears gathered as she struggled not to catapult the tray and careen from the room roaring like a wounded lion. The Brit's poop fumes were so repellant that he did the only thing he could do.
"I am so sorry. The smell... I'm just sorry. I'm... uh... having stomach problems," he said, as serious as global warming.
Her response: "Wear a sweater. Stay warm."