Pass the Butterworms: Remote Journeys Oddly Rendered
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Tim Cahill, intrepid voyager and author of A Wolverine Is Eating My Leg, is back, bringing with him another delightful collection of adventure-travel writings that are full of the irreverent wit and appreciation for the absurd that are uniquely -- and hilariously -- his.
Whether taking an icy dip among polar bears at the North Pole, horseback riding on the Mongolian steppes with the descendants of Genghis Khan, or enjoying delicacies like sauteed sago beetle and premasticated manioc beer, Cahill writes about his experiences with his own special blend of enthusiasm and fear. Pass the Butterworms makes delectable reading for the armchair traveler, taking the riveted reader to places where only Tim Cahill would dare go.
ACCLAIM FOR Tim Cahill’s Pass the Butterworms “Adventures that make you smile.… Read Cahill at home, otherwise you might think he has more fun traveling than you do.” —Outside “Hilarious and informative.… Cahill shows himself worthy of his solid reputation and devoted fans.” —Sunday Oregonian “Transcendent … inventively shaped and rich with lyricism.” —San Francisco Chronicle “Irresistible … exciting narratives of doing thrilling things in interesting places.” —Booklist
cassowary. He also ate bananas, cassowary eggs, insects, and small lizards. The only sure thing to eat, however, the only dependable crop, was sago. Sago sap. Sago pulp. An endless diet of sago. It rained three times that afternoon, and each downpour lasted about half an hour. In the forest there was usually a large-leafed banana tree with sheltering leaves where everyone could sit out the rain in bitter communion with the local mosquitoes. Just at twilight, back in Samu’s house, where everyone
was rocky, pitted with small coves and natural arches. The sea surged into narrow fissures, then poured out, rhythmically. One day a small harbor seal swam alongside my kayak for a few minutes. It had a friendly doglike head and curious black eyes. Hundreds of gaudy red and purple starfish were splashed across the rocks that lay just below the surface of the sea. We crossed over to Harbor Island in the gentle rain. The sea, in the depth of the channel, was black as ebony, spectral, under
there being grilled while a man wearing a “ridicule mask” danced about him, jeering. A ridicule mask is a representation of the human face carved out of wood. One side of the mask, however, is bare and featureless. It represents a man whose face has melted. Nyah-nyah-nah-nah-nah. We passed Catala Island under clearing skies. There were caves in the rocky cliff walls where the West Coast People were said to bury their dead. A few hundred feet off shore, a pillar of rock about thirty feet high
maybe a T-shirt. Walk down to the pier, pick up your gear bag, which is numbered and hung on a wall leading out to the water. There are eighteen divers, suiting up en route. It is never very far to a good dive site on Bonaire. Putting on the gear—weights to hold a body down in the buoyancy of seawater, an inflatable vest to compensate for the weights, the tank, the mask, the fins—is the most difficult physical work involved in the dive. I am still barely awake when the boat stops at the north