September 20th 4:30pm - Code Red

A six-year-old with Down Syndrome would have deigned day two of our Ladakhi trek from Likir to Lamayuru leisurely.
We tramped through thirsty earth and across sweeping rock-strewn terrain with chinchilla-sized sacks. I was as prepared for our patrol as a Neanderthal would be for his first cell phone combat. I mobilized for our four-day trek with money, one shirt, one fake North Face jacket, and a water bottle.
When my monkey got a nosebleed on day two, I had no pads, tampons, or any material modifiable for evading the panty painting. My ovaries obviously ignored my overtures to arrest my leaky basement for a few days until we returned to Leh and our luggage. I'm persistently afflicted with a weeping womb at the most inopportune times: on twenty-hour flights and buses, the second day of treks, Valentine's Day. My fallopian tubes are as rebellious as a sixteen-year-old pregnant pastor's daughter.
Once, the flourishing emerald and jade flora of a town materialized from the monotonous tawny terrain. Hope flavored my thoughts like a chocolate village mirage. Maybe someone would have tampons, pads, toilet paper, or an extra shirt for sale. The closest item the town had to feminine products was a bag of Lays potato chips.
I decorously folded the plastic bag five times and situated it in my underwear. Every step screamed scrunched plastic bag. I felt like a miniature grocer resided in my underwear constantly crackling grocery bags while positioning items.The Aussies and Brit were as supportive as a pretend parachute. The Brit broadcast that a beloved alcoholic drink is called "Time of the Month." The Aussie variant: "Bitch on Rags."
When we arrived at a Lamayuru guesthouse, I assailed the female owner like a football defensive lineman pass rushing.
"Can I possibly get pads or tampons somewhere? I'm on my period," I pleaded with the rapidity of a desperate woman.
The plastic panty lining was as absorptive as my brain after mention of the words "V8 cylinder."The question mark fronting her face reflected a frog's comprehension of Arabic.
"Um, period. Bleeding women," I stated, repeatedly pointing at my vagina.
Her expression was as blank as my travel journal.
"Once a month, women bleed. Blood. Do you have anything for bleeding women?" At the word "blood" my hands exhibited a cascade from my baby-maker that would be more appropriate for the biblical Red Sea surge.
I contemplated displaying my shark bait underwear.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "Woman blood."
"Yes! Woman blood," I replied with the jubilance of a boy whose balls just dropped.
My bliss was as brief as Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston's engagement.
"Nothing here."
"No shop with something for woman blood?" I whimpered like an injured dog.
"No, nothing."
After a frenzied foray against every individual and shop I located, I determined that she was right, there was nothing for woman blood.
I clawed a pillowcase like a rabid bear, rolled the fabric into provisional tampons more befitting a sumo wrestler's diaper, and elbowed them up with Batman backbone to hinder the crimson wave.
It occured to me days later that I could have folded the fabric into pad-like pieces instead of struggling for seventeen minutes to expel the stopper from my vajayjay.
I vowed from that moment that my bag would boast tampons instead of snacks and they would transform to companions as constant as God is to the pope.
Days after we terminated the trek an Indian Robin Williams informed us that we had completed the Sham Trek. Seventy-five-year-old women and blind men tour the Sham Trek.


lindsay said...

oh god

nikki said...

you would think that india would make your writing a little more conservative, but oh no, not for kara. im sure all the boys reading this article were trembling as they read about your bloody period. haha.