The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Jim Bessman, �Ramones � An American Band�

Started September 13 � Finished September 15, 2003; 217 pages. Posted 21 October 2003

This is part ten of an eleven-part story about Kaua�i, which begins here. Part six of the story is here. The rest, you�ll have to find on your own.
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After discovering that my sister gets up even later in the afternoon than I do, we meet up and head to my father�s friends bed and breakfast type resort.

These people have it made, but it�s not like they didn�t work for it. After retiring, this couple bought a bunch of desolate land, cradled between a river and the mountains. They refurbished this area, built bungalows and decks, rented out the bungalows all while maintaining some great island property nestled away from the rest of the world.

Of course, it makes it a pain to run down to the store and get a beer, as the nearest 7-11 is at least twenty minutes away, but they thought of that as well. Guests who split for the airport in a hurry leave behind all their possessions, and upon arrival we were treated to a plethora of different beers, most of the high-class nature, and all free.

They owners presented us with two different hikes, one going up and along the face of a mountain, the other leading past three tree swings and culminating at a waterfall. My sister voted for the waterfall, and off we went.

As her boyfriend hails from Utah and is therefore the whitest whitebread of them all, the mosquitoes decided he would do for their feeding frenzy, and for the first time that I can remember, I was left alone by the bugs. We hike down the first section of the trail and I lit a cigarette, figuring if I was going to engage in healthy activities, I need to counterbalance it so as not to go into some sort of attack.

Two tree swings later, we�re standing at the mouth of a waterfall. Not a huge one, mind you. In fact, it looks to be about four feet tall.

We marvel at the mediocrity of it all.

Our guide points to my sister�s boyfriend and myself and gives us a quick tutorial on how to climb the face of the falls. He finishes by noting that he and my sister are going to walk around the edge and meet us at the top. At first I think this was incredibly sexist. What, girls can�t climb up the face of waterfalls?

Then I start thinking, who the hell said I wanted to climb the waterfall?

But the boyfriend is already headed toward the face, and I follow suit. I�m not a particularly bad swimmer, but I sure as hell ain�t the best either, and I notice that despite my strokes, I�m not getting any closer to the falls. Finally I hear our guide yelling from his vantage-point that I should get out of the direct path of the current of water. I swim to the side and move slowly forward.

Finally I�m at the edge of the falls, which upon closer inspection, is at least eight feet high and more likely around ten, not counting the three feet of water that I�m standing in. And of course, the rope that I need to use to climb up is on the other side of the falls. I try and cross and immediately get pushed back about 15 feet.

Now I�m at the edge again. The boyfriend goes first. We�ve been instructed to emulate the old Batman television show, walking up sideways and keeping our hips perpendicular to the side of the cliff. He gets up to the top, not without some difficulty, and skips to the safety of the side cliff. My turn.

There are two ropes. You start out with one and then switch over to the second smaller black rope to reach the top. I start up the face.

But there�s a problem. About one-fourth of the way up, where it was time to switch ropes, I noticed that in the boyfriend�s exuberance upon making it to the top, he failed to throw the rope back to a position where I could reach it. I hold onto the rope, hanging sideways over the edge of the lagoon, trying to reach the other rope while the edge of the waterfall hits me in the face. My feet are losing their purchase on the slippery rocks.

In addition, the rope is to my right, meaning to reach the other cable I have to support my body weight with my LEFT arm, the same arm that is still strained and sore from my shark hunting exposition. The people on the safety of the cliff edge see my predicament and retrieve the line, throwing it to me.

They miss. They try again, and I catch it with my chin.

Now halfway up the waterfall, the rope, still not grounded by the side rocks, keeps trying to swing me to the center of the falls. I�m now fighting the line, the falls, the rocks, and my already tired arm. And yet I still keep climbing. I can see the top of the falls. Six more handholds — eight, tops — and I�ll soon be back on the deck with a spectacular view drinking some yuppie�s left behind beer.

That�s when my foot slipped.

I swing — straight into the center of the waterfall, feet scrambling for purchase, water gushing straight into my face, my arm screaming in protest. Still I held on.

For a second or two, anyway. Then I was knocked off, tumbling down backward. Of course, this wasn�t a waterfall in the movie set version, so I landed safely, nothing hurt but my pride, although my sore arm had decided to start complaining again about that whole shark incident.

Now I have a crowd watching, as my sister and the guide had arrived to the face of the cliffs. I make my way back to the rope and start again. You would think I would have thought to rest first before trying again.

You would think wrong.

The second try was just pathetic, where failing to find a spot to place my feet, I promptly fell off again. Then, once more without resting, I ascended again. Halfway up I went to grab the other rope, without thinking that I was about to hold all my weight with my bad arm. As I grabbed the cable I was immediately swung into the center of the falls this time being knocked off the rope face forward, slamming against the side of the cliff as I fell.

Waterfalls suck.

I let the current glide me back to shallow waters, the mosquitoes now in frenzied mode since I already had blood on me. After all, that would mean less work for them.


Rating: Worth working in a used bookstore and getting for cheap.

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