Spew Stories

In this section of the site, I present to you stories from real people's lives about things that really happened to them. DO contribute!
For starters, here's Johnny Woods from California sharing a nostalgic moment with me in an e-mail. I think we can all learn from what he writes:

> My dad and I flew into Fresno Air Terminal (FAT) sometime in the late
> 70's. (He had a couple of Cessnas, and we'd fly places sometimes.) At
> the FBO I saw an amusing airsickness bag. It had a cartoon of an
> old-west gunslinger on it, and it was called "Quiet Urp". (Since you're
> in Norway, I don't know how much you know about U.S. history. Wyatt
> Earp was the marshal of Tombstone, Arizona. He was involved in the
> gunfight at the OK Corral.)
> I wanted to buy this bag because it was funny; but as a macho teenager,
> I didn't want anyone to think that ~I~ would get airsick! So I missed
> out. If you ever come across this bag I'd still like to get one.

The second story comes from Samantha Coomber, a pommie in Australia, who visited Nepal some years ago:


It should have been the pinnacle at the end of a successful trekking expedition in Nepal; la piece de la resistance at the culmination of years of far flung jaunts: a light aircraft flight to witness at close range the worlds highest and best known peak, Mount Everest, in the Himalayan mountain range. Well, it should have been, but I might well have known from years of travelling experience and my increasingly gurgling stomach, that neither time nor a Nepalese belly waits for no man (or woman.)

As is so often the case with scenic flights, this adventure nearly did not get underway; postponed three times in as many hours due to poor visibility. So hanging around the airport early one morning waiting for the weather to improve I started to notice, much to my dismay, the onslaught of nausea and the indomitable Himalayan two-step. Mind you, there's precious little else to notice as you kick your heels waiting in Kathmandu's domestic terminal. Was it nerves, fear, or that extremely dodgy curry consumed the previous evening? Or was it the pure excitement at the thought of flying in a small propeller plane over the rooftop of the world? I didn't know, but all apprehensions were pushed aside as the all clear was finally given and I along with twelve others excitedly strapped ourselves into our individual window seats for the flight of a lifetime.

Up, up and away we flew into the crisp blue yonder where a galaxy of towering peaks was all the eye could see: a travellers dream come true. Each of us was handed an individual map guide indicating the name and height of each peak as we moved along, whereby the ever- enthusiastic hostess came round to point out which one outside the window corresponded to the one on paper. However, twenty minutes into the flight, cruising towards the climax of our excursion, things (not the plane) took a turn for the worst. Maybe it was the dramatic hair-raising air pockets we experienced: "are you sure this is normal?" I protested to the hostess as I turned a deathly shade of pale ice. Whatever it was, the smile was soon wiped off her face as the first of three airsickness bags were duly filled. Luckily, due to the slight distraction of the world's highest peak right in front of their noses, no one else really noticed. I was however, determined to damn well enjoy this unique flight and the ninety dollars I had paid out, even if it killed me, which it certainly felt like at the time. Between the unfortunate filling of bags two and three, I furtively recovered my composure and snapped the best photo opportunity I had ever encountered, ooh-ing and arh-ing at the view along with the best of them.

This steely British resolve and my photo snapping came to a grinding halt however when the third full bag was knocked over on to my beloved camera, which of course was balanced precariously on my lap. I think I managed to capture Mount Everest on film, but by this time it all looked the same to me and I began to rapidly loose interest. Ironic that here I was literally on the top of the world and all I wanted to do was lie down and die in my little hostel back in Kathmandu. Well I suppose if I had to expire at this precise moment I was a good deal nearer heaven than my lodgings.

Somehow, I made it to the end of the one-hour flight and we made our way down the steps of the twelve seater, me now a ghastly shade of lime and desperately avoiding the gaze of the aircrew. We were all thoughtfully presented with our own certificate to prove we had completed the flight. Luckily, on mine they had thankfully omitted that I had won first prize as the passenger from hell and that my name was further blacklisted from any more flights. Funny, to this day my camera never was quite the same again.

Samantha Coomber

I got this heart-warming story from Jeannine Fry:

When I was a child, my Mom devised this song, to hopefully distract us kids from the fact that we were carsick, and to hopefully save the upholstery.
It's to the tune of "Are you sleeping"

Are you carsick
Are you carsick

Yes I Am
Yes I am

Hand to me the barfbucket
Hand to me the barfbucket

Puke, Puke Barf.

And actually we've found a good use for Airsickness bags, we like to use them as nice containers to put gifts in. Obviously it's the unused bags that you use for this purpose, but it constitutes a nice surprise. The people never really know what's coming in a bag like that, so it's a good way to surprise them.

Last modified: Sat Jan 2 00:16:00 MET 1999