Mountain Tales Part I

                         THE ABANDONED CHILD


The days passed in a haze of hash. Chillum followed joint followed bong followed chillum. Old Manali was already becoming familiar enough to warrant some semblance of home. With one main street winding up the mountain and a handful of tucked-away shortcuts that wove past marked guest houses, tattoo parlors, and bakeries, it would be hard not to quickly familiarize oneself. I began to make friends - or at least friendly acquaintances - and the way I couldn't go anywhere without bumping into people I knew was a warm reminder of Santa Fe.

My four-twenty had been a successful celebration, if not markedly different from any other day in Manali. A bhang lassi to begin the day, freshly garnished with some dope leaves plucked from the garden right next to my feet, was so damn delicious as to be a bit of a challenge not to finish right off the bat. Yet after my hallucinatory experience in Gokarna I'd learned to be cautious and take my time with them.

After a day of wandering around trying to find Americans to celebrate with, I eventually huffed my way all the way up the road to Pao, which was Snowman's favorite hang-out. I'd run into the guy numerous times, and though he'd always been friendly and happy to see me he was always hung over and drinking and bursting out into HURNHURNHURNhurnhurn-ing laughs through a haphazard non-memory of the night prior. His stories always ended the same way.

"I don't like remember, HURNHURNhurn, right, but apparently I got in a fight with that guy from Sweden, HURNHURNhurnhurn... Whatever, I was drunk, he'll forgive me, right? HURNHURNHURNhurnhurn."

 I still liked the guy. He was just like a pit bull in human form, panting and drooling and woofing and running around all excited and happy until suddenly, for no apparent reason, he rips a hole through someone's jugular vein. You can play with him and watch his comically-klutzy slapstick with glee, but remember all that muscle under the flesh, and never turn your back for a second or give him a reason to disagree with you. As long as you tread carefully, he's a good doggy.

Pao was full, with not a girl in sight. The place was chock-full of cock. Not all bad people, though. There was Flet, a Swede who ran a guest house and made electronic music, Qank, a Canadian with enviable Ali-Baba pants, and Poot, a Liverpudlian who was adamant I should vote for Ron Paul. Snowman was there too, of course, passing a chillum to Machine, the twinkly-eyed head-waggling dude who ran the place. As always, the place looked covered in decades-old dust, thick like an old library in a forgotten mansion. A shelf of books sans-covers hung crookedly near the entrance, and miscellaneous art covered the faded green walls: my personal favorite for its absurdity - a vision of two Avatar faces with a swirling-caped Batman in front; some not half-bad watercolors of scantily-clad models; and an oil painting of Ganesh sitting atop a brightly-colored semi-truck, mouse at the wheel, covered in images of cannabis leaves and smoking reefers. Snowman had traded Machine his snowboard for that last painting. I hung out with the group of guys until the wee hours of the morn and stumbled my way home, getting lost and falling off a little cliff in the process, bruising my bum something awful.

Pao wasn't my favorite place. I liked the art and the owner, Machine (whos menu was thicker and more promising than any other in town) but I was spending much more time at Shesh Besh, hanging out with a group of folk in the back room, smoking and playing games, with movies or Indian television going in the background. When I'd first arrived there'd been a little kid on the scene, who I'd assumed was the offspring of an Indian guy I'll call Wince and the Slovakian girl he was traveling with, Frizsz. As I'd learned one night, however, that wasn't the case.

"Is that guy yours?" I asked after I'd thrown the giggling kid around a bit and he'd run out of earshot. Wince shook his head and sighed, and I realized I'd broached A Subject.

"No..." Wince leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice. "His mother, she asked me to take him, take care of him, but I do not know where she is now. She said she would call, she has not called. I would not mind, but it is strange thing, no? He is not mine."

"Wait, his mom just left the kid with you? Did you know her very well?"

"No, I do not know her. I meet her in Goa. She is from Puerto Rico, and she asked me to take the boy for only few weeks, I said yes... But is fucking expensive, man, he is eating all the time, and I am have not so much money. Is difficult, no?" He leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. I was baffled, and didn't know what to say. I really dug the little dude. He was one of my favorite kids I'd met on this trip, super-intelligent, like five years old and already speaking English and Spanish and Hindi, always laughing and running around and being friendly. 

"But... but that kid's awesome! I can't believe she'd just leave him with some random dude. No offense, not to call you a random dude, obviously you're doing your best under the circumstances, but fuck, you are a random dude! What was she thinking? What a bitch!"

He chuckled. "What a bitch."

"Do you have any way of contacting her at all?"

He shook his head and winced again. "No, no..." He sighed. "She is supposed to be here three days before."

"Three days ago?" He nodded. We sat in silence for a while as we contemplated the circumstances.

Next to us, as usual, came the sound of Gammon's sarcastic British exasperation as he pushed Sleeploop's hand aside, correcting his move in Backgammon. "No, fer fuck's sake, three and five, there and there."

"Ah, yes." Sleeploop, as usual, was unruffled by Gammon's apparent surliness. Hailing from Rome, Sleeploop was usually to be found at Shesh Besh, often sitting with Gammon and maneuvering red and black discs from pointed tip to pointed tip. One day I'd started sitting with them whenever I walked in, and though at first I didn't understand the game, it was strangely soothing to watch the roll of the dice and the sliding or tapping of the pieces.

Wince coughed and leaned in again. "Actually, you know, normally I would never do this, it is not my way, but with the difficulties in taking care of the child and not knowing what to do now, I would ask you one favor."

"Ah cha," I said, squinting in sudden suspicion.

"I have some good charras, good quality, cream, you know? Cream? Normally I am never selling, but I am thinking the mother has not returned and I do not know if she will, and I am needing some extra cash."

I began to burst out laughing, tried to hold it, and burst out tittering instead. If this whole thing had been a hashish-pitch, it was the most ridiculously in-depth excuse to try to sell charras I'd ever heard. "Sure, dude, I'll take a look at your stuff. How much are you selling it for?"

"Fifteen hundred." He winced again. "Is good price, very nice stuff, fucking silver, man..." He pulled some out and handed it to me. I unwrapped it, pinched off a piece and squinted at it. It looked aight. Not the best I'd seen, not even close.

"I'll give you a thousand," I said. Wince winced so hard, that's when I thought of his nickname. The abandoned kid ran up to me and burrowed his face in my side, hitting me with soft fists, trying to get me to throw him around some more.

"My friend, please! I have told you, no? This very difficult for me, I am not knowing what to do. Fourteen hundred."

"Twelve." I stood up, picked up the kid, and started swinging him around by his wrists. He screamed with delight. "Twelve or I drop the kid!" I laughed to show I was joking, hoisted the kid up and gave him a smacking kiss on the forehead. Then I dropped him to his feet and he ran off.

"Thirteen, my friend. Thirteen very good." Wince didn't look pleased.

"Aw, hell. Thirteen-five. Why not? Just for the little dude's sake. Buy him some candy." We shook on it. Diablo, the little devil puppy who lived at Shesh Besh and earned his keep by looking adorable as he ripped holes in customers' pants and flesh, ran for the kid and they entwined in a whirling mass of furry and fleshy limbs, playful yips and squealing laughter intermingling perfectly with the restaurant sound-system's pounding dubstep.

The mother did eventually pick the kid up, or so I'm told. He stopped being around anymore, anyway.




                         PUB DANCE


As usual, I was hanging out at Shesh Besh. Sleeploop had graciously granted my request to teach me Backgammon, but was teetering dangerously over the point of patience as I pondered my next move. Simple mathematics had never been one of my strong points. If it wasn't for my friend The Last Princess, whom I'd shamelessly copied off of for most of high school, I would never have made it past ninth grade. Thinking in sixes instead of fives was even harder, even though I eventually learned that the points on the board and the subsequent dice rolls made it instinctively simple and aesthetically comprehensible. Timidly, I pushed one of my faded, chipped red wooden disks a tentative eight points, where it lay pitifully uncovered near a massing army of black opponents.

"What you do?" demanded Sleeploop. He shoved my pawn back to its original position. "Five-and-three. Here and here. See?" A different red disk had marched bravely forth, to be followed-up and protected by one of his companions.

"Oh, yeah," I said. Since Gammon had left, Sleeploop had certainly filled his gameshoes. "Thanks." He rolled the dice and instantly broke my ranks, protecting himself and making it nigh-impossible for me to make it home. Shit. I rolled again and began to move, but Sleeploop stopped me.

"No. You must roll again, it is... eh... not to be on top." One of the dice, though clearly reading six, had landed upon one of my own disks, apparently rendering it uncountable. I rerolled. Shit. A one and a two. Literally nothing to do. Sleeploop rolled double-sixes and promptly slapped three pairs of disks back to his home, crowing at my expense.

"Aw, fuck, you bastard!" I laughed.

 At that point the restaurant's mascot-dog Diablo suddenly darted out from under my feet, yapping to greet a new arrival. He was a British chap who for some reason I always thought of as Gustav. He had that kind of face. Not fat, per se, though certainly overweight; droopy under the chin yet somehow managing a square jaw at the same time. At first, frankly, I thought he looked like a bit of a twit. Though as his humor ran fast, dry and sarcastic, as befits a proper English bloke, I realized I'd misjudged him and even grew properly fond of him as the night passed. I hadn't spoken to him much, but he seemed at ease amongst the rest of my normal Shesh Besh crew.

"Allright, then?" Gustav greeted us. Sleeploop briefly looked up and nodded a salutation before returning his gaze to the board. Gustav took a seat and immediately pulled out a supply of charras and tobacco, which he began working into a smokeable mixture even as Sleeploop passed me the newly-lit spliff he'd just concocted. I took a heavy drag and unthinkingly reached for the Backgammon board. Incredibly, I made what was actually a good move. Even I could see that. And I could tell I'd done well by the fact that Sleeploop never corrected it. I sucked further on the paper-cylinder and passed it to Gustav.

"Bom," Gustav acknowledged, taking a deep drag. He coughed. Fuckin' hell," he said, "this is only the third anything I've smoked today."

"What?" I cried, mockingly taken-aback. "It's eighteen-thirty! What you been doing all day?"

Gustav laughed. "I've been sleeping actually, no lie. Saving up energy for the party, aren't I? Are you going?"

"A party?" Now Gustav had my full attention. "What kind of party?"

"Oh, you know, they have it every week, really. At Johnson's Pub, halfway to New Manali. Know it?"

"Oh yeah, I've seen that place. Actually I went in there the other night when I was pining for my ex girl, but alas, nothing to be found but booze and ugly solitude. What time does the party start?"

"Ten o'clock. But they usually kick everyone out by one in the morning."

That was early. But still, real dancing? I hadn't gone out to a dance party since I left the States, more than two months ago. In fact, just a day earlier I'd been saying to someone-or-other how much I wanted to go dance. Once again the universe was providing exactly what I wanted, irregardless of whether I believed in its benevolence. If there was a God, he definitely wasn't the believe-or-die arrogant bitch worshiped by the Christians. If dancing was a-happening, a-dancing I would go.

At around ten thirty, I began the fifteen-minute walk down the hill to Johnson's Pub. It was raining slightly, which I loved, being from the desert, and I was listening to my iPod as I strolled. Something about the texture of the damp night air, in combination with the mountain wind circulating the trees around me, dissolved my self-consciousness and I felt giddy and electrified. The Squirrel Nut Zippers were playing in my headphones and the wondrous jazz caused me to almost float down the road, my feet occasionally tapping the pavement as if to make sure I hadn't drifted off into the heavens.

Suddenly and almost without my bidding, my body began to whirl joyously to the music only I could hear. I bowed exuberantly to confused dogs, jumped up and clicked my heels at a passing barrel of monkeys, and positively skipped around a herd of bored trundling cows, who didn't care. Two or three times the blare of a horn made me turn my head in time to catch a car full of grinning Indian faces pumping their fists at me or giving me a thumbs up. I felt awesome. The shuffled-songs in my pocket switched to Zap Mama's triumphant tribute to self-confidence, "Miss Q'n", and the perfection betwixt the vibration in my ears and body synchronized and left me a helpless victim of my rhythmic movement down the road.

Eventually, huffing and puffing and realizing I was barely a third of the way there, I stopped to rest against an uprooted tree when yet another blaring horn squeezed around my headphones. I looked up to catch Gustav and an unfamiliar face waving at me from the rear window. I ran up.

"Hello mate! Fancy a ride?" asked Gustav.

"Lovely! Cheers, mate," I said, clambering inside. The stranger turned out to be the Asian-Canadian kid Qank I'd met on 4-20, who I barely remembered. The taxi bounced off down the road.

"Looking forward to the party, then?" Gustav asked.

"I dunno, what's it like? You've been before?"

"Yeah, I go every week. Well, I spend the weeks moving between here and Parvati Valley, usually. They throw lovely parties in Kasol, you should come to one. Real trance music, good acid, good cocaine, psychedelic lights... This is just at a pub, with music, and sometimes there's girls."

"Only sometimes?" I asked.

"Oh, don't worry, I know some girls who are coming tonight. Lovely ladies! But be prepared to have yer bum grabbed by some Indians, of course."

"What else is new?" I laughed. In a country where a lot of relationships are still put together by parents with economic ulterior motives, there is frankly a lot of unnatural gay shit going on. Unnatural because these dudes aren't gay, they're sexually-deprived straight men without a feminine outlet, which renders them rowdy, rambunctious and randy. It's not too out-of-place for some dude to grab your ass (my friend Cortez had his pinched by a cop, of all people), or try to rip off your clothes (especially on Holi), or to try to grab your balls (like that sadhu in Pushkar). As I've said before, I empathize. If it was me, if I was completely denied any type of sensual stimulant other than holding hands with other dudes, you wouldn't e'en want to leave your sheep around me, I'd be so damn horny. My inner Irishman would come out.

We made it to the bar, but were so late that Gustav had to use his well-known-status to call to others who would let us in. Once inside, it was vaguely disappointing, but not altogether a waste of an evening. It kind of felt like being at the VFW in Santa Fe before Dirt Girl came on and actually made people dance. I sidled my way to the bar, and to my astonishment noted they had tequila on the menu! Tequila! The drink of my homeland! Probably some pathetic Indian-imitated concoction, but nonetheless unavoidable. I ordered a double. To my surprise, they brought out a bottle of my old friend Jose Cuervo. Not bad for a pub halfway up a winding road in the Himalayas!

I danced. Not many other people did, but I did. Some cute girls were dancing, too, but sadly my personal method doesn't hold well for partners. I can contra-dance with a caller to some good fiddle tunes, but if electronic music is playing I just gotta flay around like an epileptic and hope I don't punch someone in the face. Regardless, at some point I opened my eyes enough to realize I was surrounded by girls, and all the other guys were glaring at me in jealousy. One particularly gorgeous, sultry girl was directly in front of me, as if she'd been trying to dance with me while avoiding my flailing arms. She noticed I was looking at her and leaned close.

"You're the only guy here who's really dancing," she said. I glanced around. True, all the other dudes were pulling that I'm-gonna-stand-here-with-my-beer-and-nod-my-head-awkwardly thing most guys do. I smiled at her and bowed.

"Sorry I don't really know how to dance with people, or I'd ask you to join me," I said.

"You just dance. I'll be here."

I danced. When I'd open my eyes she'd be right in front of me, either lost in the rhythm or watching me and grinning like she'd seen a pony take a shit on a snail.

When the night was over, we all stumbled towards the waiting, impatient taxi drivers. I was glad I was with Qark and Gustav and didn't have to walk the 2 kilometers back home. I watched her weave her way to the other taxi, when she suddenly turned. "I have to say goodnight to my dance buddy!" she slurred. We stumbled towards each other, clashed, and awkwardly hugged, before getting in our separate taxis and going on the complimentary journey back up to Old Manali.

"Shit," I said to myself. I was so caught up in just dancing, I never even got her name.



                         ACTUALLY, NO ACTUALLY

One day I got word that my ol' travel buddy Actually had appeared on the scene, two villages away in Vashist. Though we made plans to meet the following day, I had no particular plans and felt quite like wandering aimlessly in the mild rain. I decided to go wander around Vashist, which I hadn't checked out yet, and see if I bumped into her. Either way, I concluded, a nice high walk in the rain. Poifect.

I set off through the beautiful nature park leading to New Manali. I loved this path, the moss-covered boulders strewn about amidst the mammoth pine trees, and I tried to walk there at least once every couple days. If you followed a discreet little trail of painted white rocks instead of the main concrete pathway, it took you alongside the river all the way to the new city, and to what was frankly my favorite thing I'd yet seen in India: a tree growing out the side of a steep cliff face, grabbing tensely at the side of the trail with all its might. Its roots had created almost a perfectly circular rim around a ten-meter drop, the main girth of the trunk directly across from the edge. If you were careful, you could walk all the way around that mossy, wooden rim back to where you started.

Personally, I think they're cool, but after you've seen a couple dozen temples, they are all the same. What really gets my bewildered-noodle going at the majesty of beingness is natural stuff, like mountains and rocks and trees. I'm still pissed at myself that I didn't go to Hampi and see the crazy ethereal boulders whilst it was still cool enough down South. Oh well. Next time.

 As I entered the park, ducking through a jagged hole in the barbed wire fence rather than pay the 5 rupee entrance fee, I was immediately greeted by a sadhu who'd presented himself to me the day before. With a wide grin, he took my hand and shook it.

"Hallo my friend!"

"How's it going?" I kept walking and he quickly turned to hurry after me.

"Very good, very good. Where you go? New Manali?"

"Naw, I'm gonna walk into New Manali and then get a rickshaw to Vashist."

"Vashist!"

"Yeah. I just learned that one of my good friends, Actually, just arrived and I want to just go walk around and see if I happen to run into her."

"You go Vashist?"

"Yeah... I go see if I find my friend. In Vashist."

"I come with you?"

I hesitated. I kind of just wanted to walk around alone in the rain and see if I ran into Actually, but hell, why not? "Sure, ok." He fell into step beside me.

"Vashist, everyone know me in Vashist. Everyone know me. Everywhere everyone know. I am famous!" He grinned, blackened teeth under reddened lips. "All India, you go places, they know me. I am whole world famous, yes."

"Cool, dude, I know a lot of people around the world too."

"You want smoke?"

"Yeah, allright."

We sat by my favorite sight in India - more spectacular to me than the Taj Mahal or the floating white mansions of Udaipur, and even competing with the Karni Mata temple of rats - that wondrous tree gripping to the trail. The sadhu cocked his head in curiosity as I edged my way around the periphery to kiss the bark of the main trunk. I came back, and he began to load a chillum of straight charras, no tobacco in the mixture at all. After imbibing and sharing the stuff, obviously mushed together with all kinds of incense, the sadhu produced a near-empty pint of whiskey, which he gulped at with vigor. It was barely ten in the morning.

Ah hah, I thought. One of those sadhus, is he? He offered me a sip. Fuck it, if this guy's gonna follow me all the way to Vashist, fake lil' sadhu that he is, I might's well go for the ride. I took a small sip and handed the bottle back to him. He downed the remainder, threw the bottle over the cliff, where I heard a tinkle of shattering glass, and stood up briskly. "Chale."

Off we went, following the white stones which I'd accompanied myself with but with which the sadhu seemed unfamiliar. Yet he wouldn't shut up about how used to the place he was. "I know so many peoples in Vashist, you will see. I am famous! I show you many guest house, restaurant, all the best, they give you good price, Indian price. With me, you see. Get out of the rain, get good price on food. Very good. You come with me."

"Word, dude," I said, "but I'm actually looking forward to walking around in the rain. Where I am from, desert, like Rajasthan, yes? So I like rain. I want to walk in the rain, shanti, no hurry, maybe run into my friend. No guest house, no restaurant, just walk in rain, ok?"

"Yes," he replied confidently. "I show you best places. You come with me, no problem."

"Listen, thanks for the smoke down and sip of whiskey, but I am going by myself, understand? You can come with me if you really want to, but I am going wandering aimlessly, in the rain, and don't want to go anywhere in particular. OK? Just walk in rain. No guest house. No restaurant. OK?"

"Yes! Yes! I know all best places, no problem!"

I surrendered to the communication breakdown, knowing whatever path the sadhu wanted to take, I'd be going wherever the hell I wanted. I pulled a joint from my pocket. "Smoke?"

"No my friend! Only chillum! I am no smoke cigarette! No tobacco, no joint, nothing but chillum!"

"OK. Well, sorry I don't have anything else." I lit up. A familiar face appeared along the pathway, Asian-American like me. At first I thought it was 18-year-old Frothy and wanted to hide amidst the boulders, but realized it was Qank, the Canadian I'd met in Pao on 4-20. We shook hands and I handed him the joint.

"Hoy hoy," I said.

"Yo," Qank replied, inhaling deeply, "goin' to New Manali?"

"Naw, actually, I'm going to Vashist. I just learned my friend Actually is there and I wanna go walk around in the rain and maybe bump into her, maybe not. I just feel like a good rainwalk."

"Hah, Vashist is a piece of shit just like Old Manali, but feel free," said Qank.

"I'm WhiskeyDick," interrupted the sadhu.

Obviously, that's not his real name.

"Do you want to come with us?" WhiskeyDick continued. I glanced at him with curious disapproval.

"Yeah, ok," said Qank. He about-faced and began to walk with me and WhiskeyDick. He smoked nearly all of the joint before handing it back to me, I noticed, 'mm-hmm'ing and 'yeah, right'ing everything the little sadhu was saying, interrupting and not listening.

"India is number best country, all so much spiritual in everything," touted the sadhu.

Qank snorted. "Huh, yeah, dude, so much spirituality in poverty and filth everywhere, right?" He grinned at me. I furrowed my brows back at him in puzzlement.

We got to New Manali and I hailed a rickshaw. "My friend, you pay," said WhiskeyDick confidently. I felt quite irked. It's one thing to not say anything and enjoy the ride, which I was going to pay for anyway, but another altogether to straight-up shift payment onto me like I'm his bitch. I put it down to another communication failure and said nothing. Qank followed my former advice and soundlessly sidled into the rickshaw.

It was a very bumpy ride, even for a normal Himalayan rickshaw venture. Down the mountain, across the bridge, up the other mountain. Only about 6 kilometers altogether, but my bum felt like I'd gone on another camel safari. We neared the village center and hit a traffic jam of cows, rickshaws, goats and taxis. It was drizzling a little outside and I nearly jumped out to walk, but the jam suddenly cleared and the driver was able to drop us off right in front of the amazingly carved temple marking the hot spring entrance. I leaped out of the rickshaw in joy; Qank and WhiskeyDick were more reluctant.

"Ha, man, this sucks," said Qank. "It's raining. Fucking stupid weather."

"It's barely drizzling, c'mon," I replied. "Let's walk around a bit."

"Naw, let's find a restaurant to hang out at until the rain stops," said Qank. WhiskeyDick nodded enthusiastically and grabbed his arm.

"Yes, yes! I know many good restaurant!" cried WhiskeyDick.

"I kinda wanted to walk around in the rain and see if I happened to bump into my friend Actually," I began, but the others had already begun discussing which restaurant to visit. I rolled my eyes and chimed in. "How about Rainbow, I heard they were good." It was called 'the place to be' in Lonely Planet and I was hoping it were true.

It wasn't. It was completely deserted.

"Oh well," I said, "let's walk around in the rain!"

"Dude, fuck that! It's all cold and wet," whined Qank. "Let's go hang out somewhere and smoke some hash." Eventually I conceded to follow WhiskeyDick and Qank to a local place for tea, where the little sadhu loaded another chillum.

"Please, sir, may I have one chai?" asked WhiskeyDick. Sure, I nodded. He motioned to the waiter and I unzipped my bag to pull out my vest (it was getting kinda cold). WhiskeyDick noticed the bottle of whiskey I'd purchased earlier, for use in tonight's ventures.

"I can have sip of whiskey?" he inquired. Why not? I'd sipped his, and he'd smoked me down. I proffered him the bottle, which he gulped at two or three times, downing at least a third of the bottle.

"Woah, dude!" exclaimed Qank, "It's like not even noon yet!" The little sadhu grinned and began to stuff the whiskey bottle into his shoulder bag. "Can you believe these 'spiritual' guys?' quirked Qank.

I swiftly nipped the bottle from WhiskeyDick's fingers. "This is for me and friends tonight." He clasped his hands pitifully, scrunching up his face in anguish.

"Please, sir, one more sip!" he cried. Qank snorted into his chai.

"Dude, it's still early as hell and you already downed a whole bottle earlier! Fucking chill out!" I said. Qank looked at me and rolled his eyes. I zipped up my bag, whiskey inside, and tried to ignore the little sadhu, who'd ordered an omelette and was attacking it with relish. He offered me a bite, which I declined. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to go and fucking walk in the fucking rain and maybe run into my friend Actually. I wasn't planning on having a whiny entourage around. I turned to Qank. "Listen, no offense, I really came up here to just walk around in the rain and try to run into my friend Actually. You don't have to come; I know walking in the rain isn't everyone's thing, but I really want to right now, so I'm going to go do that and you're welcome to come if you want, but if you don't, don't."

"Naw, I'll come, dude. Why not?" I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Honestly, I kind of wanted to walk around by myself at this point, but hell, that being the case I should never have let WhiskeyDick follow me in the first place. My fault. I stood and pulled some cash from my wallet to pay for the chai. "Kitne?" I asked the restaurant owner. He stood silently for a second, mumbling under his breath as he calculated.

"Sixty," he finally said.

"What?" I cried. "For three chais?"

"Three chais, one omelette," he replied. I turned to glare at the sadhu, who was licking the last bits of egg from his plate.

"The omelette wasn't mine." I said. WhiskeyDick looked up from his vertical plate, shock and hurt in his eyes.

"Sir, you pay for my omelette!" he cried.

"You asked if you could get a chai, you didn't say anything about an omelette. You didn't even ask me. Hell no I'm not paying for your omelette."

"You must pay!" Did he really just say I must?

"No, motherfucker!"

His eyes widened pitifully. "Please sir, I have no money..."

"Well, you should've thought about that before buying an omelette, huh? If you'd have asked me, maybe, maybe I would've bought you an omelette, but you didn't ask and I'm not paying for it. You can't just expect people to cover your bills because you're tagging along after them after you invited yourself. Sorry." I handed the restaurant owner the money for the chais and shrugged an apology. He waggled his head in return, and I left the restaurant. I just wanted to start walking already, but at that moment Qank recognized two passing hippies and we stopped to exchange salutations. This gave WhiskeyDick enough time to work out some kind of compromise with the restaurant and rejoin our company. I glared at him, but he grinned back, very consciously oblivious.

Qank's friends made their excuses and meandered off. Qank and Whiskeydick looked expectantly at me. "Is this little fucker still with us?" asked Qank. WhiskeyDick grinned at him. "So, where we going?"

"You follow me, my friend, there is waterfall! This way!" The sadhu made off, away from the city square. I stayed where I was.

"No, dude, listen... I don't want to go to a waterfall, I don't want to be shown any sights, I want to wander, aimlessly and probably in circles, just boringly around the village for an hour or two. You can follow me if you want to follow me, but I am not following you anywhere. Ok? Understand? No problem?"

"Ok, no problem!" he cackled. "No problem!"

"So," said Qank,"where are we going?"

"I don't know!" I almost exploded. "I just want to walk around!" God damn, why didn't I insist on coming alone? There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute.

"This way, very nice!" cried the sadhu. He began to bound away. Fuck it, I thought, and trailed behind. Qank shook his head and followed. WhiskeyDick led us on a merry green path which was, in all honesty, quite beautiful. Trundling over little streams and bridges, passing goats and little shacks and Nepali children playing and giggling. Every restaurant or guest house we passed, however, WhiskeyDick would begin reciting its merits and trying to get us to go inside, ignoring our increasing frustration with his lack of tact or shame.

"Nope!" I began to interrupt every time he opened his mouth.

"Sir, here is very nice guest-"

"Nope!"

"I know good restaurant, just over-"

"Nope!"

"Want buy some good charras? Just this way, my friend-"

"Nope!" Qank began to chorus the world along with me. The little sadhu wasn't put off at all, and continued to trot briskly along in front of us, stopping abruptly whenever a potential sales-opportunity presented itself. We came to a gateway leading to a courtyard, at which point the sadhu was just vanishing around the next bend. Qank and I exchanged a look and without saying a word, ducked into the courtyard and up the stairs, where we crouched on the balcony.

"Fuck yeah! We ditched that little ass," said Qank.

We silently watched the cricket game below for a while.

"So," I eventually said, "this your first time in India?" One of the usual questions. Traveler-small-talk usually consists of the following: where are you from, how long have you been here, is this your first time, how many times have you been, where else are you going, where else have you gone, etc.

"Ha, yeah, and probably the last," he said.

"Really? Why? This is the best country in the world!" I said.

"Psssht. Not for me. I fucking hate it here. It's so noisy and trashed and ugly..."

"It's too vivid?" I chimed in, in a tribute to the Tom Robbins character Switters.

"Yeah."

"But, we're in the mountains!" I cried. "It's hardly even India at all! It's like... almost sanitized up here." I almost spat the word, ugly as I've always found it.

"Meh, I can't wait to get back to Canada. I'm done with this place."

At that moment, WhiskeyDick somehow located us. Seemingly oblivious to our attempt to ditch him, he bounded up the stairs and sat down next to us with a plunk. "Ah, you like cricket?" he said, glancing at the game below.

"Yeah, cricket's aight," I halfheartedly responded.

WhiskeyDick looked longingly at my backpack. "My friend, please, one more sip of whiskey?"

"Allright, fuck this," said Qank. He stood up and moved intimidatingly towards the little sadhu. "What's your problem, bro? You can't have his whiskey. We don't want you following us anymore. Go the fuck away."

"Woah, dude, chill," I said. "He's a little annoying, but you don't have to get all pissed." Qank held up a hand.

"I got this, dude," said Qank. He took a step towards WhiskeyDick and pushed him. "Fuck you want, bro? Huh? Fucking leave us alone!" He pushed him again.

"Dude, cut it out!" I said. Poor lil' WhiskeyDick looked shaken.

"You wanna fight, you little fuck?" said Qank, pushing him again. I blinked, turned, and walked down the stairs, began to speed-walk down the path back into Vashist. I wanted no part of this shit. Who'd have thunk that between a Canadian and an American, it would be the former to escalate an annoyance into a fight?

"Yo, dude, wait up!" came Qank's voice from behind me. "What you running away for? Why you walking so fast?"

"That was fucking stupid," I called back. He caught up to me, and looked a little taken aback.

"What? I got him to leave. You scared? Why you running away?"

"I don't want to be around either of you stupid motherfuckers right now. Why the fuck were you trying to start a fight?"

"Hey, I was just trying to help you out..."

"Yeah, well, I don't appreciate your help. Escalating shit doesn't fucking help, especially in India. You're just acting like an asshole. Yeah, he was annoying, but that's no call to start pushing and shoving. Leave me alone." I started walking away, mumbling. "All I fucking wanted was to fucking walk in the fucking rain and maybe fucking run into Actually... "Qank hesitated, than followed me.

"Hey, sorry dude, I just wanted to see if it would help..."

"Yeah, well, it didn't. Fighting never helps. Idiot."

We walked wordlessly for a while. The tension began to settle and we started talking. For some reason, it seemed my chiding of Qank had increased his respect for me, and he no longer pessimistically put-down every subject that came up. I actually began to like the guy. Eventually I realized we'd joined an unfamiliar path, which was heading down the mountain towards the river. The rain began to pick up. Even I was getting sick of being damp. Ok, fuck this, I thought. Failure of a mission. Oh well.

I stopped next to a steep incline and kicked a rock over the edge, watching in tumble down until it came to rest in a pile of garbage with an audible tinkle of breaking glass. I turned around.

"Let's go back to Old Manali," I said. And we did.