Amurrrrrkunz in Manali

Vivid dreams slowly gave way to consciousness, vanishing from my perception like sifted flour, leaving only a residue of disconnected, fleeting images. A giant wave, a floating garden, tinkling laughter like elven wind chimes... my sluggish brain quit its feeble attempts to link them into any sort of logical narrative as I opened my eyes and took in my dismal room. A ray of sunlight cut through the dust, illuminating my crumpled magician's coat where I'd unthinkingly discarded it in my delirium the night before. Actual warmth penetrated the atmosphere; in my slumber I'd even tossed aside one of my blankets. No pain remained in my stomach, and through the night the bleeding, opened callouses on my rectum had sealed. It was like the day before had been a mere nightmare, a feverish hallucination, or simply hadn't occurred. Except, of course, for the yellow, potato-shaped stain still ruining the white sheets of my second mattress.

I rolled over, avoiding it, and sat up. I felt remarkably fit. Okay. Let's pack up and move to Old Manali, shall we? Get the fuck out of here before they realize what I did to their bed. I threw my few possessions into my oversized rucksack, collected my passport from the front desk, and split as quickly as possible, my jaunty and hurried pace down the road a striking juxtaposition to the anus-clenched zombie-walk of yesterday.

Too lazy to attempt the trek with my huge bag and, despite today's well-being, still a little cautious about being caught shit-pants-ed in the middle of the street again, I got blatantly ripped-off by a rickshaw-wallah for the three kilometers instead. I regretted nothing. The sun illuminated the fertile greenery all around; kingly pine trees, reminiscent of Californian redwoods in their immensity, sprouted from the mountains like dozens of giant, prickly-bearded chins; groups of colorful hippies strolled amiably among Indians, Nepalese, Tibetans, dogs and cows of all ages; above, peeking over the pines like a mischievous four-year old playing Hide-And-Seek, the classic white-glazed Himalayan-postcard summits were just visible, wisps of sentimental clouds drifting picturesquely among them as if aware of their legendary majesty.

We crossed the river. Strewn hither and thither along the banks and boulders were assorted ropes strung across the tumbling current, with lines of honeymooning Indian couples waiting their turn to harness up, cross halfway, and be bounced invigoratingly up and down by the grinning zipline-wallahs. Whoops of exhilaration from the girls echoed amongst the steady roar of the river and occasional horns from cars and buzzings from rickshaws. The buildings of Old Manali, mostly guest houses and restaurants with names like "Chill Out", "Drifter's Inn", and "Hotel Relax" sat above, dotted alongside the twisting mountain road, with plenty of trees and grassy paths extending between them.

I watched carefully for the sign to Rainbow Guest House, the one touted at me from the Nepalese guy the day before, and located it about halfway up through the town, whereupon I directed the rickshaw-wallah to stop. As if waiting for me, the guest-house's owner stood at the driveway entrance, arms folded across his grey woolen sweater-vest. A look of distaste lay over his face in a scowl, though a twitch at his lips made me unsure whether it was in jest or not. He unfolded his arms with some theatrics and shook a finger in my direction.

"You said you would come yesterday, one hour! I wait for you two, three hours." He squinted and raised his eyebrows at the same time; they vanished beneath his colorful, brimless hat, sending both a look of exasperation and good humor. A good trick, that.

I'm going to call him Cappy.

"Yeah, dude, sorry. My stomach erupted like Vesuvius yesterday and I was doubled over in pain pretty much all night. I wanted to come, but I was afraid of painting the streets yellow. It sucked. I can show you the laundry I need to do if you don't believe me." I heard a stifled laugh from the rickshaw-wallah behind me as I untangled my bag and stepped free. He gunned his motor and took off in what I would've thought was an impossible U-turn, killing the engine almost immediately to coast back downhill to New Manali.

Cappy's expression didn't change. "You said one hour. I wait three hours. Now I give room to someone else. Full book. Why you not coming yesterday?"

"Well, like I said, I guess I was trying to mimic the geyser at Yellowstone and I shat my fucking pants. Bed too. You're lucky I wasn't staying at your guest house. Jeez, I'm sorry, fuck, I'll find somewhere else." I began to leave. All at once, Cappy's scowl melted into the smile that had almost been there the whole time, and his laugh echoed down the street, causing a pack of feral dogs to glance over in minute curiosity and a little Tibetan girl to slip on a cow patty.

"Ok, ok my friend, ok," he said, still laughing, "tonight you stay at my friend house. Nice place! The Isreali, he will leaves in three, five days, no problem. Then you come to my place. OK? No problem. Come with me." He grabbed my arm and led me across the street and up a delightful little uneven road, shadowed by a great green cliff cut with a little stone path. For the first time, I noticed that every single patch of weeds covering the landscape contained at least one, usually many more cannabis plants, growing cheerfully and plentifully. They seemed to be amicable neighbors with stinging nettles.

We went up the hill and I checked in to his 'friend's' place. As soon as I'd lay down my bag, Cappy leaned in close and whispered to me, "Don't tell that you move to my place after. OK? Just you and me between." Yeah, yeah, I know. I rolled my eyes at him, smiled, and nodded. He grinned back and clapped a strong palm on my shoulder. "What you think, my friend, you like something? Hash?"

I couldn't avoid a rueful smile as I admitted that, actually, the events of yesterday had overshadowed my intended drug-purchase. Without skipping a beat, he reached into his pocket and produced with a flourish a plastic bag with a hard little black blob, which he immediately broke open to display the faint green tinge inside. He held a lighter to it for a second or two and held the smoking ornament to my nose. I shook my head.

"Naw, sorry, dude, I don't have a sense of smell. Never have. I lost it when I was way little, after banging my head too many times." I reached out and took the morsel. "Looks nice, though."

It did indeed. Much less crumbly, much more compact, and with a creamier, greener inside than anything I'd seen up until this point on my travels. It appeared Manali lived up to its reputation. "How much?" I asked.

"Two thousand," he said confidently. I whistled.

"Damn, dude, I haven't paid more than like eight hundred since I got to India!" I lied. I'd been flagrantly ripped off when I first hit Varanasi. That motherfucker charged me two grand also. And I'd later been informed it was obviously cut with cow manure. I mean, really. At least cut it with incense, like everyone else does, which still fucks your throat up like you'd gargled razor blades but at least you're not literally smoking shit.

"My friend, this very good quality," said Cappy. I studied it like I was a pro, and though in truth I was still very amateur at judging hashish quality, it was easily better than anything I'd yet procured and ingested. But still, Jesus, two thousand?!

Rupees, of course. Not dollars. Jesus. Forty bucks, people. For ten grams, or a tollah in, ahem, street lingo in India. Yeah. I'm a gangsta. And, being a gangsta, there ain't no fuckin' way I'm going to pay forty fucking bucks for ten grams of some of the best hash in the world. Do I look like a chump?

"OK," I said. I pulled the two grand from my pocket and exchanged it with Cappy, who grinned, saluted me, and sauntered off. I shut the door.

Shit.

Why'd I do that?

Fucking twenty meters away there was probably cheaper hash for sale. I could probably ask at the damn jewelry shop and nab some cheaper shit. And probably better. Fuck.Stupid Hoku. Oh well. Forty bucks. Still cheaper than the States, and it's actual straight-up legendary Manali hash, like the dude in Varanasi had claimed with the cow-shit. Now I need some cigarettes, some papers, and a lighter. It hath beguth.

I got the munchies after a while. I was nicely baked and found myself wandering aimlessly. Almost everyone on the street nodded and smiled at me in passing, and a handful of people pursed their lips and arched their eyebrows in approval at my attire (I was currently clad in my curled, pointed shoes, a houndstooth bowtie, Diamond-patchwork Ali Baba pants in all manner of color, and of course my pimp new magician's coat draped stylishly over a black-and-white checkered shirt) and, nodding, met my eyes with a simple "Nice," to which I would grin and bow thanks. Nearby my guest-house was a parking lot full of children in maroon school uniforms playing cricket, with a drowned puppy lying mournfully disregarded at its entrance. I made a note to return with my camera for a shot of the dog's corpse. A little further up the hill, I noticed a sign for a restaurant called Shesh Besh: Fresh and Funky Restaurant, with psychedelic art all over the walls and numerous hippies smoking joints at the tables. It piqued my interest.

I drifted through the gate and down the steep driveway, and noticed I was grinning like an idiot. I had, in truth, been smiling at people all day, quite content and happy to be in Manali, but now that I was high the silly paranoia kicked in and I began to wonder if people thought I was smiling because I was high. Shit. They know. The smile left my face abruptly, as if it had suddenly remembered a previous engagement. I sat at a sunlit table.

Right there in front of me was a folded backgammon set with a cheerful mouse hand-painted on it. The slogan read 'Keep Smiling Always.' My delighted countenance returned.

"I like Manali," I whispered to myself.





Over the next week, I settled into a comfortable routine. Within a day I'd moved to Cappy's guesthouse, right on the river, with a field of apple trees, yellow flowers, and marijuana plants leading right up to the dancing current. I had a genuine hot-water shower - my first in India, a nicely-sized room, and a private balcony overlooking the field and river. The courtyard was always filled with children playing cricket, volleyball or tag, and Cappy's wife was usually at work on her amazingly crude handmade loom, weaving incredible garments with fresh goat or rabbit fur. I'd awaken, smoke a joint to myself and roll another to take with me, go for breakfast at either Shesh Besh, The Beat Bums (a brand-new cafe run by a couple, with a lending book library and actual, honest-to-goodness beef hamburgers) or Dylan's Roasted and Toasted (a cafe known for it's Bob Dylan-theme, with good pancakes, chocolate chip cookies, and real fucking coffee. Some of these places literally put fucking Nescafe in an espresso machine for a latte. Don't get me started), use le internet, and go walking. I quickly discovered the National Park between Old and New Manali, a gorgeous trek that leads one through the pines and mossy boulders along the riverside instead of trudging up the steep, ugly concrete road.

The weather was pretty dismal: rain and more rain. As a result, I found myself reading a little more than a book a day to accompany my numerous solitary joints. I contemplated things and found, to my surprise, that I'd gone through a foundational philosophical shift of some magnitude almost without realizing it. Growing up surrounded by old hippies who'd traveled to India over and over in search of spiritual fulfillment, who'd all gained gurus and delved deeply into the rigors of their own consciousness, I suddenly realized my own interests lay in nothing of the sort, and indeed hadn't for years. No particular profound notion overtook me with this realization, nor any feeling of resentment or wish for rebellion against my upbringing. It was simply interesting to note that, quite easily and out-of-the-blue, I could disregard the entire notion of 'spirit' without altering my worldview in the slightest. Except maybe that it gave me one whole less thing to worry about.

As the days passed, I leisurely attended to my few necessary productive activities. I got my laundry done, sewed my Due Return patch and a few others onto my magician's coat, purchased a chillum, a stone, a cleaning stick, and safi material from a little stand, took the plastic wrapping off of my mattresses so they wouldn't rustle when I moved, and rearranged my little room to better suit my character and feel more homely - a false nose hanging here, playing cards there, etc. The only thing missing was friends, and I realized with a start that I needed to meet some Americans in the next few days or I'd have no one to share four-twenty with.

Luck, as always, was with me. The next morning I trudged up the now-familiar hill to The Beat Bums for a full English breakfast complete with pork sausages, to find the place chock-full of Americans. Well, three of them, to be exact. Two pimply lads shoveling food into their mouths and subsequently spewing it over the table as they strove to interrupt one another, and a disinterested, dreadlocked hippie in the corner, who was pouring thoughtfully over a fashion magazine and occasionally toking the joint hanging from his fingertips. I sat next to the younguns, at the only seat available.

"Yo," I interrupted after a particularly violent tornado of chewed egg flew from the mouth of the Asian-looking fellow next to me, "you American?"

He nodded, raising a glass of water to his still-overflowing mouth and somehow washing the sludge down. "Yeah, dude, fuck," he spewed.

I'm going to call him Frothy. His blond friend, sitting across from him and attempting to construct a spaghetti-milkshake within his jaw, I'm going to call Rrist.

"Word, me too," I said. "I'd been looking for Americans to hang out with, being as it's 4-20 the day after tomorrow." Despite their lack of table hygiene, I forced a smile and held out my hand, which was ignored. "I'm Hoku."

Frothy nodded like he'd already heard and didn't care, only to throw a food-filled rant across the table over the voice of his friend Rrist, who'd been quaffing about how glad he was to be in a city that wasn't overrun with poor people.

"Fucking right? Like thank God and shit. Motherfucking India, man, I'm fucking psyched for the mountain, though, shit, the slopes and the -"

" - all shitting in the street and they don't even give a shit and they don't even have toilet paper with them, how the fuck - "

" - fucking hit the powder and we should've done this the whole time instead of volunteering at that stupid fucking -"

"- HA HA HA HA a fucking stump for a leg!"

I nodded to myself. Oh yeah. That's why I usually don't seek out Americans.

My food arrived. I began to eat and politely tried to shield my plate from their exuberant mastication. Frothy motioned to the dreadlocked guy in the corner, who I hadn't heard so much as a peep from.

"Anyway," said Frothy, turning his attention towards me in a torrent of chapati speckles. I discreetly covered my baked beans on toast. "We're leaving tomorrow, fuckin' no four twenty for us, but that guy," here he jerked his thumb towards the hippie, "Snowman, he'll fucking be here. Shit. He's from Colorado. I can't believe I didn't bang that babe in Rishikesh..." He was talking to his friend again.

To their, uh... credit?... these kids were young. Maybe that's an excuse. They spoke with annoying voices that sometimes cracked like fine china if they got too excited. Their bodies bounced up and down as they spoke, like yipping puppies who hadn't been housetrained. As if finishing a sentence was an illustration of incompetence, the lads fell upon hesitating periods or innocent commas in a flurry, flourishing their newly-formed opening syllables like broadswords. With the added casualties of the menus and magazines spattered with gory remains of half-chewed morsels from their snoutlike lips, the scene didn't half resemble a battlefield. It was exhausting just to watch. Rrist went to the bathroom, and I stood and crossed the room to greet the Coloradan, Snowman.

"Hey," I started, "you're from Colorado?"

He ignored me, or didn't hear me, his eyes dancing greedily upon the magazine in his lap and the spread-eagled, almost-nude model Photoshopped there. I stood awkwardly for another second or two, then sat on the couch. Jimi Hendrix wailed from a nearby speaker into my right ear.

Oh well. With nothing else to do, I grabbed the mixing bowl off the table and pulled out my hash and lighter; I began to roll a joint. At least I could smoke down the way cool couple who ran the place and browse the remaining books in their library. I'd just finished a series of moving short stories by Saadat Hasan Manto about the Partition of India after the British pulled out, and the bloodshed from both Hindu and Muslims against their neighbors in the subsequent carnage. I was looking for something a little lighter. Like Chuck Pahlaniuk.

Suddenly, the dreadlocked Coloradan let out a whooping bark of a cough, making me jump. He thrust the magazine toward me. "DAMN motherfucker, she's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen, right? RIGHT! HURNHURNHURNhurnhurnhurn..." He trailed off into another guttural laugh. I studied the image. It was a sexy, typical airbrushed model, splayed out in front of a tree. Blond hair. Eyeshadow. Completely unoriginal, without a trace of her own face. She could've been anybody. I nodded appreciatively and handed the magazine back. Snowman ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and stuck it between the pages, next to the model's perfectly Photoshopped neck. "I'm making footnotes, HURNHURNHURNHURNhurnhurn!" he said. I nodded again.

"So," I tried again, "you're from Colorado?"

"Yeah, you? HURNHURNHURNhurnhurnhurn." What a guy. What a sense of humor. I liked him, though. Anyone who can laugh just answering a straightforward question must be pretty happy. Or drunk.

"New Mexico. We're neighbors! We should chill for four-twenty."

"Aw, shit, four twenty! HURNHURNHURNhurnhurn. When is that shit? HURNHURNhurn."

"Uh, the day after tomorrow."

Frothy had come over in curiosity and grabbed the magazine from Snowman. "Shit, man, you think she's cute, shit, there was this girl in Rishikesh, shit, man, like damn, she was fucking HOT my brother, allright? Like smoking hot, like damn. She looked like this but like way hotter, like so much hotter, although, ha ha ha ha, it was fuckin' hard to tell at first 'cause she had short hair, you know what I'm saying, like shit - "

"I've always considered girls with short hair cute," I offered. Not that anyone was listening.

"- but she was fucking fine, my brother, like damn, if she hadn't had that short hair she would look exactly like this model, only, like way hotter, you know what I'm saying..." Frothy went on like that for a while. Now there was no food in his mouth, he wasn't quite spattering the walls, but his seemingly endless monologue barely left room for breath and I noticed a white foam coalescing at the corners of his mouth. I shuddered and resisted the urge to hand him a napkin. His buddy Rrist came back from the bathroom, his wrists flopping lamely about his hips.

"Oh, shit, that looks just like -"

"I know, right -"

" - that girl in Rishikesh, right, fuckin' Ver-"

"Veronica, only she - "

" - only she was way hotter."

" - way hotter."

"Way hotter."

Thus agreed, they simultaneously downed the rest of their milk. What weird kids, I thought. Was I that loud and interruptive when I was their age?

"Hey," I said. "How old are you?"

They wiped their mouths with their sleeves (finally, I thought, in the case of Frothy) and chorused, "Eighteen."

"Uh huh," I said. Made sense. Snowman caught my eyes and rolled his. We exchanged a grin. Fuckin' eighteen year olds. Turned out they were rich little spoiled eighteen-year-olds, too... just my favorite kind of person. Though I would be remiss if I hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity. They insisted on showing us their rooms, barely bigger than mine though connected, for which they were paying fifteen thousand rupees a night, smoked us down numerous times, and gave us some acid, although it did nothing for me but leave me with a body high lasting all night that prevented me from sleeping.

Rich kids may be rich kids, but they're also rich kids.

Shitty Times in Manali.

I woke up in a completely unfamiliar state. I was cold. I was fucking freezing. What the hell? For almost two months now I'd barely been able to tolerate a sheet over me while sweating under the too-slow fans of various hotel rooms, and now I was cold? Screw this. I should've stayed in Rajasthan.

As I shivered myself awake, I realized that it wasn't just the temperature keeping me from comfort. I was lying in a sticky puddle of some kind, soaking my pants and shirt and the mattress below. Great, I thought. I must've had a sex dream. Wish I could remember it, 'cause judging from the size of the puddle it was quite a good one. I rolled over, thankful for the clean, dry, second mattress plunked up against the first to create the illusion of a double-bed. Then I glanced back.

My original mattress was stained a kind of ochre-yellow, the middle of the drippy puddle still a centimeter or two deep despite my body no longer creating a depression for it to collect in. Eww fucking eww. I'd actually shat the bed. I shat the fucking bed. I'm twenty-four years old and I just fucking took a shit in my bed.

I can't believe this.

As I stood up to lurch to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper, I realized that I was feeling incredibly shitty.

Figuratively, I mean. Physically. And literally.

On top of being wet and cold, my stomach felt like I was about to deliver that kid from Pakistan who was born with six legs who's been in the news a lot lately. I stumbled over my backpack, heaving and gasping, and fell onto the toilet just in time for a geyser to erupt from my rear. A second spurt threatened to lift me off the seat and slam my helpless body into the hot-water heater above my head. An unstoppable fury of yellowish liquid gushed from me in a godlike torrent, unrelenting and unceasing, heedless to my eventual desperate prayers and sobbing pleas.

This went on for about ten minutes. I could go on in great detail about the contents of what emptied themselves from me during that time, but I think I've gotten scatological enough for everyone by this point. Apologies for my obscenity. However, if it's painful to read about, rest assured that living through that particular layer of Hell was much, much worse. By the time the remains of my badly-digested foodstuffs had slowed to a mere trickle, the flesh around my asshole was raw and red and burned like someone was holding a lit pack of cigarettes to it. Wiping that sonofabitch left me whimpering like a beaten puppy. I turned on the shower to wash myself and screamed as I realized the hot water heater was merely decorative. I gently cleaned myself as best as I could, shivering, crying slightly and feeling pathetic and awful, before pulling on three layers of clothing and gingerly limping to the door, each step sending sharp pain into both my tummy and my nether orifice.

I needed warmth. Wincing and goose-stepping down the driveway and around the hill, I deliriously looked around. I was out of it. I could have sworn I'd just stepped onto the Isle of Wight, in England, where my mother lived. There were Indians walking around, sure, but on the whole they were much lighter-skinned than the general populace of Rajasthan or Uttar Pradesh, and plus, they were all wearing sweater-vests and carrying umbrellas. It was raining slightly, the nippy wind reddening my cheeks and tearing up my eyes. Was I sure I was still in India? Where are the cows? Those dogs over there, they're wearing collars. They look well-fed. Holy shit, that dude's even leaning down to pet them. And he's not doing it really hard, with a stick.  Where am I?

Disoriented, each step burning my butt and gurgling my guts, I nearly got run over by a rickshaw. Oh good. I was still in India. Just down the street from my guest house, luckily enough, I found a little store selling long johns, gloves, scarves, undershirts and other little necessities for keeping oneself from freezing. I pulled on the additional layers in the toilet outside, took a deep breath, and tried to collect myself. I felt like I had to go to the loo again but I was terrified of the force of my excretions splattering all over the Indian-style squat toilet, so I clenched my perineum as best I could and walked, stiff-bodied and uncomfortable, back to my guest house, where I barely managed to fall back onto the toilet before another rumbling vibration of squelch exited me.

Fuck, I gotta do the laundry, I thought to myself. What the fuck? How could I even have anything left in my stomach to spew out? All I even put into it yesterday was, let's see, half of that shitty sandwich... was that it? Oh, yeah, I also had that really gross-looking lamb in Chandigarh. That shit was nasty. Probably the lamb.

And. And. Oh, right... I also had half a non-alcoholic beer when the bus stopped, and uh... a quarter-pint of whiskey. And a quarter-pint of rum.

That probably didn't help.

I wanted to check out Old Manali today, a twenty-minute walk or five-minute rickshaw ride. Despite my lack of well-being, I preferred the idea of walking even with my arse on fire. So I cleaned up, dressed warm, and set out. Manali was gorgeous. Huge pine trees made me feel at home; the path wound next to a beautiful river. Clouds danced through the peaks, clearing just enough now and then to glimpse the majestically towering white peaks of the classic glacier-capped Himalayan mountains above.

Halfway up the mountain, As I gauged it, I was stopped by a Nepali dude touting his new guest house. I liked the guy, the place was 200 rupees a night, in Old Manali where I wanted to go, so I promised to meet up with him in an hour. He told me that I wasn't even a quarter-way up the path to Old Manali yet. At that point, I was reaching the end of my comfort. I needed to eat something, put something solid and healthy in my poor stomach, so I about-faced and strolled back into New Manali.

That's when it happened. A shudder butterflied its way through my bowels, signifying dangerous tidings. Oh, please, no, I said to myself. I clenched my buttocks, to no avail. The shuddering buzzed lower, then lower still. And out.

I'd just shat three pairs of pants at once, in public. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I slowly turned and continued my walking-mummy impersonation back toward my guest house, repulsed at myself and at the drips running down my legs. I realized I had no idea how to get back. I hadn't thought to store that particular nugget of wisdom in my brain when setting off. I went down the only street I recognized and tread slowly up and down the same path over and over again. Fuck, I thought to myself. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Dead end. Different path. Different dead end. Fuck fuck fuck. I've been going up and down this same fucking street so long the shit on my legs is dry. Fuck fuck fuck. I squatted by a parked car and started crying. Why was this happening to me? Well, probably because I ate shitty food and washed it down with too much mixed liquor. But you know, like in a pathetic, woe-is-me kind of way, why was this happening to me? Why, God, why?

Eventually I found my way back again, washed again in cold water, and put on the last of my clean clothes. I really needed to do laundry, bad. I went to the reception desk of the hotel to see if they had a laundry service, but there was actually a sign up that said "Wash Clothes No Allowed," so that was useless. I found a pharmacy and picked up anti-diarrhea pills and soothing lotion for my raw ass flesh, and by that time it was already getting dark. I went to a Chinese food place and ordered nice, soothing soup and lemon-ginger-mint tea. I was feeling incredibly sorry for myself and lonely. I wanted friends. I wanted a hug. I wanted someone to bring me tea and tell me everything was going to be ok. I wanted to go home to my cold, dark hotel room with soiled sheets, curl up on the clean mattress, and have myself a damn good cry.

I went home and did exactly that.

The Rocky Road to Dublin. I Mean Manali.

I'd taken the bus ride from Pushkar to Ajmer so many times now it was almost boring. As the bus wove and bounced its way up one side and down the other of the small mountain separating the towns, my knees automatically adjusted to every bump and sway of the vehicle as it turned, stopped or accelerated. I almost didn't have to hold on to the railing any more. Standing, cramped, in a mass of sweating bodies, we passed the all-too-familiar sights: the women and children balancing enormous bundles of wood on their head walking between towns; the advertisements hand-painted on the rocks for various guest houses (my favorite: Hotel Pratful Palace); the temples; tentative Indian couples nervously holding hands on the spiraling, cement overlook perched amidst the stone near the mountain's top; the barrel of black-faced monkeys grooming each other and occasionally fighting; the dogs lying blearily in the sun, and the cows, cows everywhere. The bus lurched and pulled onto an unfamiliar road. The buses from Pushkar to Ajmer and back seem to deposit their passengers almost at a whim; also, sometimes the fare is ten rupees, sometimes it's twelve, and sometimes it's fifteen. Occasionally I don't get charged at all.

Suddenly, the bus lurched into reverse and began going backwards, the wrong-way down the street. Slowly, haltingly, we reverse-avoided beeping cars and trucks, and then U-turned and began to head back the way we'd come, before jerking into a strange dirt road leading seemingly nowhere. Perplexed, I looked around. The faces on the bus were eager.

We trundled onward through the darkened narrow streets, squeezing around turns that I was sure were impossible, avoiding concrete pillars and walled courtyards by less than an inch. The ticket-taker was throwing himself on and off of the bus every few meters to guide the busdriver, screaming "Chalo chalo chalochalochalo!"

Occasionally there was a jarring screech as he misjudged, delighting the passengers, who were grinning and laughing and standing up and pressing against the windows to watch the seemingly-impossible task handled. The left rear tire went off the road and the bus lurched precariously, finally righting itself, to much general applause. I tapped the shoulder of the gentleman next to me.

"Uh, excuse me," I asked. "Where are we?"

He grinned and pointed out the window. "Old town."

"But, erm, we are going back to the main street, right?" He waggled his head and turned back to enjoying the ride. I considered getting off the bus and hailing a rickshaw, but at that point we'd left any other traffic far behind us and taken so many turns I didn't know where the hell I was. To my relief, we eventually turned back onto the main street and continued the journey. No one had entered or exited the bus the whole time. I guess everyone on the bus had simultaneously decided we were going on a little tour of Old Town for fun, or something? Maybe we'd been ahead of schedule and had time to kill. I don't know. We finally got to the main bus stand (after another two or three likewise detours).

I pulled myself out of the window to avoid the line to the door and hopped into the street. A rickshaw skeeted around me, horn buzzing like a cacophonous swarm of mechanical bees. I looked around and quickly found my bearings - woefully amazed that I could, having been here so many times - and set off in the direction of Mangilal tailors. I hoped the damn coat would fit, was fit, and rocked. I hopped the ramshackle remains of a demolished building, littered with piles of garbage waist-high, and clambered over them. Mangilal's was a strange sight; a giant glass building plastered with images of models in stylish attire, a mere glance at the place suggesting imposing wealth and power, yet the quickest way to get there was to climb over this ruined building and trash piles. India all over.

I hopped the second wall, slipped a bit on a cow patty, collected myself, and entered. Without even acknowledging the men in suits standing around to help customers - I knew the drill by now - I walked straight to the Employees Only section, pulled open the door, and skipped up the stairs. The polite old gentleman in charge of the place stood and warily shook my hand.

"I was expecting you on Saturday," he said, a slight tinge of scolding disappointment in his voice. I shrugged.

"Yeah, sorry, I got caught up writing my blog and I even caught the bus all the way here to Ajmer, but then I realized it was nearly 8 o'clock already so I had to just catch the bus right back." That had sucked.

"But I was expecting you Saturday," he continued, as if he hadn't heard me, his eyes filled with shame, as if I were a wayward son of his who'd disgraced the family name, "and we are open until 9:30. And you did not come also on yesterday." He said this pointedly, as if I'd been a bad, bad, boy, and motioned for his assistant to collect my coat.

"Sorry. Someone told me the bus quits running at 8 and I did not want to pay for a rickshaw back. And the general consensus in Pushkar was that you'd be closed on Sunday." I flashed him an apologetic smile, which went unreturned. The assistant produced my coat with a flourish and helped me put it on.

Sweet. Very nice. I looked pimp. We'd argued for days about the width of sleeves on my coat, and he'd finally acquiesced to an extra inch of wrist room, but unfortunately and unrequested, had made them longer as well. They stretched almost to my fingertips and just looked as if I was hiding something in them already. Oh well. I'd get some other, cheaper tailor elsewhere in India to shorten 'em.

"Perfect," I said. "Absolutely perfect. Thank you. How much do I owe ya?" I was sure that they'd upped the price a bit for all of my tweaking. The assistant scrambled off for the bill, but it was surprisingly two thousand rupees cheaper than they'd originally said. A mistake? I tried to hide my shocked smile of enthusiasm as I opened my wallet and peeled some five-hundred rupee bills off the sizeable wad of cash within and handed them over.

"You come over the wall?" The elderly man asked.

"Aw, yeah, you were watching me, huh?" I grinned and nodded proudly.

"You should not do that. It is dangerous."

"Nah, it's not dangerous. It's way more fun than walking all the way around," I said.

"Someone could follow you, rob you. It is dangerous. Go around," he said with a glare. I frowned dubiously at him. It took less than 20 seconds to walk across the open lot of the destroyed building, and I was in full light and full view of everyone on the street the whole time. Not exactly a mugger's ideal zone.

"Uh, ok," I said. We shook hands, both pleased that our business together was finished. He invited me to come back any time I needed a tailor, quite unconvincingly I might add, and I responded "Of course," with the same inward 'yeah-right'. I left the store, quite happy that I had my coat and could now leave Pushkar, and climbed over the wall and the piles of trash, ignoring the elderly tailor's parting advice.

"Hey," said a voice. I turned to see a couple scrawny adolescents walking slowly toward me, holding a knife. They threatened me with it and slashed at my cheek, leaving a bloody gash, and, crying, I opened my wallet and with a grimace took out my debit card and cash- 

Oh, wait. That didn't happen. I hopped the wall and joined the chorus in the street, thrilled to have a magician's coat, wonderfully happy I was at last continuing my journey.

The train to Delhi was relaxing and peaceful. I had a lovely sleeper bunk without the hellishly-cold AC, and the eight-hour journey would take place as I slept. Then, wake up in Delhi catch a five-hour bus to Chandigarh, which I knew next to nothing about except that it was in Punjab. It sounded pretty dull from the travel guide, but I figured I could bum around the city for half a day, eat some tasty Punjabi food, and then catch the ten-hour evening bus to Manali from there so I arrived nice and fresh in the morning. A sound plan, I thought, and drifted off to sleep. It went smoothly. I arrived in Delhi at five AM, caught an almost immediate bus to Chandigarh, and arrived at ten-thirty, ready for breakfast.

Chandigarh freaked me out. It was so.... clean. It didn't feel like India at all. Where are the cows? I thought to myself as I watched the passing streamlined, tree-lined avenues through the smeared dirty bus window. Where are all the people? There were little bits of trash here and there, and a few piles gathered together, but it looked like someone was actually going to do something about them. Weird. The buildings were spaced far apart from each other, as opposed to being built on top of each other, and surrounded by high, tasteful walls. It seemed vaguely imposing and bereft of welcome. Or life, for that matter. I shook my head. At least there were liquor stores around, so there would be no necessary twenty-minute ride to Ajmer for reasonably-priced intoxication; and oh yeah! I could eat meat outside of Pushkar! Dead things! Awesome.

I caught a rickshaw to the most interesting-looking attraction in the city: Nek Chand's Rock Garden. Apparently this dude Nek Chand had a bit of time on his hands, and began to collect discarded bottles, tiles, rocks, glass, concrete, sinks, electrical waste, etc, from abandoned half-demolished building sites around the city. Like a true gangsta, he recycled all this stuff into 'his own vision of the divine kingdom of Sukrani' in hidden spot in the city's surrounding forest, despite the fact that the site had been designated as a land conservancy and his work would, therefore, be illegal. It didn't faze him. He spent eighteen years fashioning these items into a twelve-acre complex of linked courtyards, filled with statues and sculptures. His life's work was discovered by the government in 1975 and set to be demolished, but public outcry in favor of the rock garden eventually overturned that decision and it became an established attraction.

Entering the garden, at first I was disappointed. The walls were kind of cool, made up of thousands of tiny little rocks all stuck together, and it must've taken ages. Occasional stone bumps rose from the walls and floors at regular intervals, catching your eye in various guises. You'd swear you saw a humanoid shape glaring at you, and then it would turn out to just be a strategically placed rock. It was aight. But ultimately it was just walls with protruding shapes.

As I kept going through the labyrinth of stone passageways, however, it got cooler and cooler. You could see Nek had improved his technique over the years. Now there were figures, looming, staring, grinning with joyous expressions. Some had two heads, some more, some less. Patchwork tiles covered everything, and I eventually found enormous, man-made waterfalls, splashing out of the rockwork and dripping enchantingly around twisting ropes of stone that resembled tree trunks or vines. It was like something from Carrol's Wonderland, and just got more and more spectacular as I kept moving. Bridges, columns, towers, little houses, waterfalls, figures, sculptures, faces, animals... they all seemed woven into some kind of wonderful dance that had been frozen at its most epic moment, the mirrors and shards of glass glinting at me as if inviting me to join in. I was impressed. Good going, Nek.

After a couple hours of wandering the Wonderland, I stepped outside and decided to walk back to the bus terminal. It was still early. I had plenty of time. The sparseness of the buildings and the vast spaces between them had made the town look huge as I first rolled in, and forgetting to check the overall size on the map in my travel guide, I'd hired a rickshaw unnecessarily. Oh well. Walking would be nice. I passed a liquor store and bought a quarter-pint of rum, which I sipped as I strolled back through the enormous, beautifully maintained rose-garden, which boasted over 1,500 varieties. Marijuana plants grew like the weeds they were alongside the little stream running through the garden. I threw on some headphones and rapped along with Biggie as I meandered through the garden, finishing off my rum and hesitating about what to do with the bottle. Anywhere else in India, I'd just throw it, but Chandigarh was so clean... But amazingly, I found an actual trash can some paces later.

It was nearly time to board the bus as I returned to the terminal. Pleasantly tipsy, but far from drunk, I bought another quart of whiskey this time, as well as a sandwich from a little corner store. I got on the bus and began to read "Senor Nice", Howard Mark's sequel to his smash-hit autobiography "Mr. Nice", which I'd picked up in Varanasi. Marks was a dope-smuggler from Wales who'd got busted in the late eighties for bringing in thirty-tons of hashish. He'd worked for MI6 and the Mexican secret service while selling hash to the IRA. The tagline from his first book went: "He was Britain's most wanted man, He has just spent seven years in America's toughest penitentiary... You'll like him." And I did. I'd also read his second book, "Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories," which was a collection of his favorite drug writings from everyone from Hunter S. Thompson to Aleister Crowley.

When I'd bought "Senor Nice" from a bookstall in Pushkar, the guy working there had gotten very excited. "Howard Marks! I know Howard Marks!" he'd exclaimed.

"Yeah, he's awesome. I think a movie just came out about him," I had said, half-listening. The man hadn't let go of my hand.

"He has come to Pushkar. He likes Pushkar. Howard Marks, great man. I am good friends with Howard Marks!"

"Uh huh, sure, dude," I'd said. Everyone claims top have met the rich and famous in India. I'd shaken his hand off and reached for my change.

"No, sir, believe me! Howard Marks! He was here! Look!" He'd spun me around and forced me over to the wall, where there was one solitary picture: sure enough, Howard Marks, grinning, wrinkled, Rolling-Stone face, joint in hand, with his arm nonchalantly around the shoulders of the bookseller, had been standing in this very spot.

"Holy shit, dude, you do know Howard Marks!" I'd exclaimed, astounded and a little jealous. The bookseller had swelled with pride and pointed to the floor behind us.

"He smoke with me, right there. Great man."

All these stories about dope made me wish I hadn't left my last spliff as a present for the little dude at my last guest house, who'd obviously been crushing on me. Oh well. I stretched out as much as I could in my bus seat, opened the window, and let the kilometers roll by. Soon I would be in Manali, amidst some of the best hash in the world.

The luggage rack on the interior of the bus ended just above me, while the exterior rack hung on the bus’ roof less than a meter over that. The window was big enough, and I was getting bored. I’d been getting on buses way too early since arriving in India, which meant either grabbing myself an actual seat or standing in the aisles. The most fun way to do it is to wait until the whole bus if full, so you have to swarm with the rest of the mob up and onto the roof. I hadn’t ridden on a roof since arriving in India, and it was getting to me. I swung myself out the window, to the shock of the person sitting next to me, and clambered onto the roof, where I basked in the wind and sense of freedom. Being the only one up there, I got the immediate impression that this wasn’t a roof I was supposed to be on. Yet it was cozy, and built with being up there on whoever’s mind. 

I realized that if this was my chance, I should film it. I scooted over the side of the roof and back through the window into my seat, unzipped my backpack, pulled out my video camera, and climbed back up before anyone could say otherwise. I filmed myself happily spouting off joyous and extremely witty tidings which were unfortunately rendered incomprehensible over the sound of the wind. After a few hundred meters, the bus slowed down and stopped. Okay, time to go back in then, I suppose. I swung for the fourth time through the window to be greeted by a sea of grins, all turned my way. Even the ticket-taker was smiling as he slowly pushed his way toward me.

“OK, I won’t go back up there again. I promise,” I said. He shook his finger at me in a mock-scolding. I bowed. He chuckled, and we resumed the journey. I settled back into Howard Marks’ post-dealing days and his search for the Welch connection to South America.

I looked up from my book at some point, startled out o my engagement by the sudden loss of electricity in the bus as it hit a particularly nasty swerve. Outside, it had grown dark. With a start, I realized that the slow increase in side-to-side, up-and-down motion of the bus over the past few hours had been due to us entering the crazy, legendary road up the beginnings of the Himalayas towards Manali. I remembered as a child the insanity of the bus to Laksman Jhula, and I used the vivid imagery of that memory often in attempting to describe India to people:

“So, you’re on this kind of junkyardy bus, right, with people literally everywhere, crammed in like sardines, and also sitting on the roof and hanging off the sides, going up this crazy, windy mountain road covered in potholes and rocks and all kinds of shit, and it’s just nuts. The road doesn’t even seem like it’s big enough to even fit the bus, right, but this is a fuckin’ a two-way street. And you like look up and see another bus or like a semi-truck even heading right at you, and you’re like, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, and your bus kind of inches over to the left, right on over to the edge of just a sheer cliff dropping down hundreds of feet. And you’re just like, oh my god, I’m gonna die, but all the Indians aren’t even phased, of course, and the bus drivers just wave at each other and tootle on the horn (actually, ‘tootle’ is the perfect word for these horns, cause they don’t just go ‘honk’ like American horns but they go like TEEdleDEEdleDEEdle and all kinds of other ones) and then they fuckin’ go past one another and one of your bus’s wheels literally goes over the edge of the cliff and I swear, you can look down sometimes and see these fucked-up remains of other crashed buses down there, and you really think you’re gonna die, but you just gotta trust that you’re gonna make it, and of course you do, and when the bus stops the driver pops the hood and the whole engine is held together with rubber-bands and duct-tape. True story. Fuckin’ India, man.”

That description was based on hazy childhood memories of busing up the mountain - and like all good stories contains a degree of hyperbole - yet I was surprised to grok that the description was ultimately accurate, with one crucial added factor I’d somehow forgotten about: the bus drivers all think they’re Dean Moriarity. They bomb up and down those mountains at speed, almost like they’re on speed, careening around the sharp turns like they’re playing Mario Kart. I put my book away. I didn’t need any other entertainment.

I was a little miffed at myself for taking the night bus, now. I kind of wished I could see the great big drop and the growing mountains. But even under the darkened sky, you could see it was there. Little twinkling lights like grounded stars shone from the peak across from us, and they went down, down, down. The edge of the road was also visible bounding away right beside the rear tire, and even shrouded in darkness it was very apparent how steep and long that fall was.

As we ascended the mountains, more and more people got off at villages along the way, and people began to move about the cabin and stretch themselves out on the seats, shutting their eyes and trying to ignore the impossibility of sleep on a ride such as this.

I did the opposite. I stood in the aisle and grabbed onto the luggage racks on either side, then swing upside down and stayed that way for a good long time, grinning ear to ear and madly jerking this way and that like a bat on a roller-coaster. The ticket-taker grinned at me and waggled his head. Two guys sitting near me laughed and thumped my back when I re-righted myself.

When we stopped for chai around two in the morning, they shared a biri packed with hash with me. It was much stronger than the stuff in Pushkar or Banares. In return I offered them a swig of whiskey, which one accepted and one declined. We conversed as much as possible in pidgin English, then rejoined the little group standing around a small fire, adding cardboard. A little Tibetan girl who's face was swollen from some kind of burn on her left cheek grinned at me and we played peek-a-boo and run-away-from-the-monster for about half an hour. The ticket-taker offered a swig from his whiskey bottle. The sky began to lighten slightly. We reboarded a different bus, a little more crowded, for the last leg of the journey.

When we arrived, two British guys who'd been on the second bus seemed to know where they were going as they were immediately approached by a rickshaw driver and gave him an address. I sidled up to them.

"Hey, mind if I share a rickshaw? My name's Hoku. Where you going?" I asked. They told me. "Is it cheap?"

"Oh, yeah, fantastic price." I shouldered my bag. Another rickshaw driver grabbed my arm. "Please, sir, just around corner, very cheap! Three hundred rupees!"

A mocking laugh burst out of me. "Three hundred! Dude, I haven't paid more than two hundred rupees a night, like, anywhere."

"Ours is three hundred," said one of the British guys. A moment of silence.

"Two hundred OK, please sir!" I waggled my head and followed the rickshaw guy, who as it turns out wasn't a rickshaw guy. The place really was right around the corner. A light drizzle was misting my face, clouds drifted gently in front of the shadow of the mountain. It was nice. I checked in, downed the last sip of my whiskey, and went to sleep.

Push That Car!

Since the rain, I haven't been as angry at Pushkar. The rain helped sooth me and realize how very much I'd allowed my predispositions to clot up the emancipation that's a by-factor of being in the present. Since the rain, I've also been inspired for the first time in ages, finally catching up on my blog, practicing magic, and writing some heartfelt if sloppy hip-hop.

This evening I'm to once again take the bus into Ajmer to attempt to pick up my coat, but I'm finally resigned to the fact that it would be a bigger waste of time and money to leave here with a useless jacket than to spend a few days further to ensure I have a technicolor dreamcoat capable of achieving the impossible. Resignation is really the wrong word; what I feel is more of a relaxation, whereas merely a few days prior I felt as fatigued as a soldier after a useless compromise.

Yesterday I awoke still giddy over the simple fact that I'd performed magic the night before. Nothing leaves me with more satisfaction - or more of a notion that I'm doing what is required of me by my inner sense of direction - than mesmerizing strangers through the art of legerdemain. Lowly sorcerer though I am at present, my tricks limited by my lack of years of practice, I feel a deep soothing well up from within me whenever I perform the simplest of miracles. This is the force that apparently hooks all magicians. The looks on their faces. The need to aid that particular stimulation with guidance and good humor, some physical shock or torture thrown in for good measure, and to hook the skeptical in the sheer bewildering nature of it all. Best of all is if you can hook the skeptics, which, when one is not run amok by one's own nervousness, is laughably easy to do. "It's easier to dupe a clever man than an ignorant one," famously wrote Robert-Houdin, "the more he is deceived the more he is pleased, for that is what he has paid for."

Pleased with my own performance, and still having a small bottle of rum half-full, not to mention a hash-stash that was more than adequate, I proceeded to read and practice tricks for most of the day, venturing as normal into the heat only when my grumbling stomach could wait no longer. As twilight neared, however, I felt a sense of regret that I'd continued in my pattern of ignoring the town and decided to take a walk around the lake, which I'd yet to have done. I'd spent all my time in the very market I despised, and blaming the town itself for being full of tourists. Silly bastard. I set out, and came soon to the closest ghat. I took off my shoes as customary and slung 'em into the nearest empty 'Place-for-shoes-keeping,' then descended the stairs.

The full moon hung above the temple-gouged skyline of the lake, tall staffs rising majestically out of shadowed domes reaching for the stars; in the near distance, an ascension of bright white lights curling around the mountain framed the stepped path leading up to the Saraswati temple, which in the darkness very much resembled a stairway to heaven or an alien force-field leading to a larger ship. A dead or dying tree's sillhouette, it's base surrounded by a circle of  polished stone, pure white in the moonlight, cut across the moon's reflection in the water of the nearest bathing pool, stone and rectangular, separated from the main lake only by a thin wall of stone in my vision. About halfway around the ghats, to my right, some sort of puja was happening.

This was nice.

I walked toward the puja and through it, the light somewhat blinding after only the moon's illumination. People were descending the steps in groups, washing themselves in the water and offering up a prayer. Before them, almost floating on the water but for the thick stone steps connecting, sat another gorgeous, imposing white temple, decked out in flowers. Likewise awash with flowers were the floating candle prayers I'd seen before in Varanasi. Kids were playing in the water, too, and running back and forth giggling or angry, playing games and settling scores in between the barefoot bodies of the solemn yet beatified adults, who largely ignored them as easily as they did the cows, dogs and birds, occasionally aiming a halfhearted kick at them all, children and beasts.

The rest of the lake's perimeter was quiet, a few leafless trees' silhouettes looking like something out of an early Tim Burton movie as the shadows of their branches loomed across the snow-white stone walls and around the numerous domed tops of surrounding temples. Halfway around the lake, I came upon a group of sadhus squatting on the steps further up, bare-chested and wearing only tattered orange skirts. They waved me over.

As I approached, one of the sadhus, with a disarming, enormously friendly grin, dropped half a banana in my hand. It looked as if it had been chewed in half, skin and all. I myself have eaten bananas this way, actually preferring it to the skinned version (something in chewing the texture is helped by the leathery strands of the skin), so I chomped on it merrily. The sadhu looked at me sideways. He took the banana from me and, as if showing a three-year old or an imbecile, showed me how to peel it. He squinted at me.

"Uh, yeah..." I said. "Thanks." I palmed the rest of the banana and discarded it at the nearest moment, all the while pretending to continue chewing. "I actually prefer them this way."

We walked down to the waterside and they all began began bathing. I positioned myself alongside them squatting on the edge, and splashed the water about my head, face, arms and legs. Then we squatted back on the ghats and another of the sadhus offered me a biri.

"Word," I said. "Thanks." We smoked in silence for a while. The rest of the sadhus began to peace out, and motioned for him to join them, but he waved them off good-naturedly. After a while, he began to speak earnestly to me in Hindi, and I grasped vaguely at some stuff.

"Uh, I'm from America... no, I'm not Japanese, from America... Hoku. HO-KU. Yeah. Hoku.... and you? Ap Ka Nam Kya Hai? Oh, cool... What?.... Sorry, I don't understand... uh huh... What?... Sorry.... yeah, no..." The conversation was getting away from me.  He gestured vividly with his hand.

"Sex? SEX?" he practically yelled. Oh.

"Yeah, dude, sex is nice," I began, stupidly and tentatively. "You haven't had sex, right, being a sadhu and all... You? Sex? No?"

He shook his head. "No sex." He looked half-ecstatic and half-crestfallen.

"Uh... how's that?" I ventured lamely. "Is nice?"

He nodded vigorously. I thought he might snap a vertebrae. He frowned. Something was on his mind. "Sex? Girl?"

"Erm... yeah, I've had sex with a girl. More than one. Uh. Yeah. It's nice." I knew Indians were, especially at present, extremely interested in the whole Western attitude towards sex and how it might just potentially be better than being unconsentingly married to whomever your parents think is right for you, or being without it all your life. But I didn't really know what to say, not yet having had this conversation with a sadhu.

"And... boy?" he asked.

"Not really... I mean I guess I had a threesome with one of my best friends one time..."

"Boy?" he asked again.

"Yeah, he was a dude, but the other one was a girl, and well, the dude and I didn't really do much..."

He leaned over. "Penis?" he asked.

"Uh... landava!" I exclaimed, unable to think of anything else to say. He grinned and pointed at my crotch and repeated his question. "Yes. I do indeed have one. And it works and everything!" I was taking this in good humor, despite being slightly uncomfortable. He reached out and grabbed at my crotch. I grabbed his writst. "Woah, dude... no offense, but I'm like not attracted to you." He looked sad and motioned towards my crotch again. "No. Sorry. Not your fault or anything. I don't want."

"Please?" he asked, almost begging. I felt almost sorry enough for the dude to let him touch my penis. Shit, why not? Aw, shucks, buddy, if I was completely unable by my culture to touch a woman, or a man, to never get laid, ever,  I'd be gagging for it and pleading with all kinds of tourists to take me, let me touch 'em, whatever.

Maybe not back in Santa Fe. All you'd get there is fat white Texans. Not exactly my style.

Nor was this guy's. I pitied him. And if there's one thing that turns sexuality off, besides being the wrong gender for one's particular preference, it's being pitiable. He scooted next to me. He tried to lean his head on my shoulder. I stood up. "Sorry, dude, but I'm gonna go get some food."

"No hurting!" he gasped. I shook my head.

"Naw, no bad feelings. No hurting. I just don't want. Good luck, though."

"Please!" he cried. Poor little miserable blighter. I wondered briefly if it was some Indian gal in a wet sari, saying the same things with the same desperate manner, if I would go for it. Hell naw. That kind of vibe is just plain unattractive. Poor little sexless sadhu. I reached out to shake his hand.

"Nice to meet you, dude," I said. He grabbed my hand and pulled it towards his own crotch. I pulled away. "Dude, no! I said no and I mean no! Sorry but please piss off." I began walking away.

"No hurting!" his voice followed me. I turned around.

"Naw, man, no hurting, but you very-bad need work on your game," I said, and continued on my way. I still felt picked up and energetic, the full moon rippling slightly in the water to my left, monkeys hooting somewhere on my right, and I decided to head for a pleasant-looking array of lights on the edge of the lake, obviously a restaurant of some kind. I felt peaceful.

At least someone had tried to get into my pants tonight.

The place with the magical-looking lights from the lake was a downer. Ugly white people. I split. Shit, I'm gonna head back to Baba's, I thought, maybe there'll be some folk who remember me as the magic guy and wanna see more tricks. Baba's was full, and lacking rain, it was full of pre-ordained groups. I sat at the barren table in the midst of the groups and opened my book, a zombie novel which, segregated as I was, made me self-conscious. I wished I'd brought a magic book or something so someone would talk to me. New people arrived at the group nearest my table and a woman asked me if I minded the children sitting with me.

"Not at all," I said.

It's funny how often I end up at the kid's table. Which is usually more fun, and where I fit in the best. I said hi to the two little German girls, each around 9 or 10, but they seemed very self-conscious, so I turned back to my book and ordered another beer.

"Excuse me," said a voice. I looked up to see a cute British girl bending over me. "What book are you reading?"

"Uh, Handling the Undead. It's by the guy who wrote Let the Right One In, which was awesome..."

"Yeah, my friend recommended it.to me. May I read the back cover?"

"Sure." She did so, intrigued.

"It's really good," I said. "Although it's starting to kind of get preachy about the existence of a soul and Heaven and stuff, so if it ends like that I'm going to be really pissed off, 'cause it's got great potential up till now..." She shot me a sharp glance of distaste and walked back to her table, where her boyfriend was waiting for her, his face wrinkled in a glare cast in my direction. I settled back into my book. Literally not thirty seconds had passed when -

"Excuse me," said a voice. I looked up to see an even cuter, tattooed girl bending over me. "What book are you reading?"

You're fucking kidding me. Zombie novels, guys, that's the way to go.

This gal didn't scoff mockingly at my distaste in Christianity's presence in a zombie novel, so I said I'd give it to her when I was finished, in about 20 minutes. She resumed her place in the multitude next to me. The kids were still ignoring me. Eventually they all stood up and left, the woman interested in zombies giving not a backward glance in my direction. Too bad for her, I'd only had 4 pages to go.

A gentleman near my dad's age, a little younger, balding, with dorky glasses that enhanced the obvious laugh-lines around his eyes, was looking worriedly at the full tables. I knew I had more room than anyone. I gestured they should sit with me. They proved to be incredibly pleasant folk, so that the conversation and laughter didn't ease between us at all, and the final four pages of my book remained unfinished. Everyone I've met from Spain has been exceedingly joyful and welcoming. I can't wait to go there.

Actually, it's about time for me to go and hopefully purchase my finished coat. If you'll excuse me.

The Secret of Magic

"At any and every moment many things are happening. This happens here, and that happens there. Almost all of the things that are happening are, let's be both realistic and honest for a moment, unrelated to each other. All of life, all that happens, I believe, is coincidental. But people hate coincidence; they want everything to be connected. That is why people love magic, believe me. Magic indicates connections that aren't really there. The telephone rings, the curtain is ruffled by the wind, a dog barks, I set down my glass on the table... The magician merely has the ability to encourage his audience to perceive two or more of these unrelated events as connected in some way. And then the magician takes credit for it." 

                                                                               -The Incredible Mayadhar

I’m currently residing in what has been already established as one of my least favorite (actually, we're amongst friends here, why not be honest) most hated cities in India - Pushkar. I'm sorry if some of y'all like the place but I've been out of my game, out of my luck, dissatisfied and lethargic for over a week, waiting for my magician’s coat to be finished, and though I know without doubt that my own choices of perception have contributed largely to my current stagnation, I hold fast to the certainty that the city itself has at least a little to do with it.

In Varanasi, for example, if I was bored, I could simply wander outside and get lost in the maze of alleyways, constantly bombarded by funerals and pujas and weddings and basic insanity of enough sorts to make even the most idle of observers fascinated. But I pray I don't hold Varanasi up to any sort of standard to which the rest of India should compare, for I doubt any will come close.

Yet in Pushkar, for example, I already know all the streets and all the items up for purchase, and I'm already sick to death of the clothing stalls and the strictly-vegetarian food and the forced-handfuls-of-flowers and the Rawanhattha players with their wonderful stringed instruments made of bamboo and wire, asking me what happened to Actually and why she's not here anymore even though she promised to buy one off of them.

It's not my business, my fault, or my worry. I don't care.

I'm sorry, dude, I don't care about your sacred lake. No, Actually's gone. She's in Delhi. No, I don't want to throw some flower petals in a river and give Brahman money. Nope, I don't want any shoes. Oh, Actually? She's gone to Delhi, and then to Darjeeling, I think. No, I don't want a rickshaw, a chai, or a falafel. I just want to be left alone as I wither in this stagnant tourist city and wait for my damn coat to be made. I just want a falafel. I haven't even made it to the main street yet, and I'm bombarded with questions. Behind my sunglasses, my stoned eyes search for escape.

I'm already dripping with sweat before I'm halfway to Baba's, the only place in town where you can get a beer without them having to run down to the basement and discreetly fill a teapot with watered-down mild Kingfisher Premium. That whole facade usually takes about 45 minutes. For shame! Whereas at Baba's, you're guaranteed a nice, lukewarm beer within a half-hour. It usually fizzes up something awful, so when it arrives I crack the aluminum top and hesitate cautiously. This one's ok. I open it fully and fill my meager glass.

The vibe at Baba’s that evening is chiller than usual. There’s an attractive girl playing a ukulele and singing what I swear is a Backstreet Boys song, only done with a whole lotta soul and a different melody. People from all nations fill the tables, banter being kept up in at least five languages, which being American I cannot of course understand.

I had been extremely lucky this time to get a table on the edge of the balcony, with its view of the market below; the fresh oranges and grapes and bananas being sprayed generously with disgusting Indian tap-water to keep them looking fresh; the muddy (hold on - that's not mud) puppy nearly getting run over as it runs up to enthusiastically greet every motorcycle and rickshaw; the bored cows - unconcerned with the whap they receive in the nose or third-eye from passing young men on motorcycles - slowly chewing their cud; the beggar kids grinning at each other before throwing on alarmingly realistic looks of despair, sucking in their stomachs and running to surround and thwart the most timid-looking of the tourists; it's all business as usual down there. The most common sight of all is the absolutely gorgeous tourist women - oblivious to the basic ethics of the country they're visiting - wearing ridiculously short shorts or skirts and tank-tops, knees-a-gander, titties nearly flopping out as they gaze around the merchandise, while aghast and hopeful and desperate Indian eyes everywhere stare openly, unscrupulous and astounded.

I would be a liar if I said the last sight doesn't tend to hold my attention most. Even as, smug in my superiority, I sneer at and pity the Western girls (goodness, woman, don't you know where the fuck you are? Cover up, for godssake), my eyes can't help but linger upon their shameless bodies as they skip, jovially and naively, past the wide eyes of the gaping locals, only to lock onto the nearest brightly-colored garments; they emit girlish squeals that make me cringe even as I have to adjust my pants.

The wind is picking up and sand hits my face, even high up on this luxurious balcony. I hail the waiter and order a bottle of water and another beer, then retire to the sink to flush out my eyes. As I stand, under the pretense of straightening my bow-tie, I survey the room in the mirror. Dammit, where the hell is the scene at? Every table was segregated, friends-already-made, no room for new meetings.

I shake my head and resume my place at the table, to thumb through an incredible book I’d picked up in Jodhpur – “Net of Magic” – all about the tradition of street magicians in India, known as jadugars.. I engross myself in the 7 siddhis, or powers: animan, the power to become minute or disappear, mahiman, the power to become large, laghiman, the power of levitation, prapti, the power of materialization, prakamya, better-known in the West as telikenesis, isitva, basic hypnosis, and vasitva, mass-hypnosis.

As I familiarize myself with these principles and their basic uses, the wind picks up. An enormous gust throws used ashtrays and empty plates amongst the terrace. Many people gasp, or yelp, though the girl with the ukulele simply plays and sings louder.

A few raindrops hit my face. For a split second I smell, or imagine I smell (I lost that particular sense during one of my many concussions before the age of seven, yet every once in a while – approximating twice per month – some sensation hits my nose with unusual clarity and I’m able to fleetingly grasp its odor) the scent of rain in the desert, which reminds me of home. As the rain picks up, the rest of the tables retreat to their neighbors; an unavoidable intermingling.

I feel a joy as the rain and the wind gains power. Some bursts fly in even to cover the back wall of the terrace with droplets. I know I’m the only one still sitting close to the rain, dressed all in black, grinning from ear to ear, and I wonder if I look cool, and I wonder if they think I look cool, and I wonder if they think I’m doing this because I think I look cool, and I wonder if anyone’s looking me at all, but I hope they are, because I feel really cool for the first time in ages, and suddenly I stand up and lean off the balcony and reach out with both arms for the rain without even thinking about it and I really hope someone’s looking at me ‘cause I’m fucking cool.

But all this goes to my head, so I need to go downstairs and outside to the street and really get soaked, because now I know I’ve been being a little bitch for a week now, moaning and complaining about Pushkar. And if being soaked by rain in the desert can’t sooth me, nothin’ can.

I’m not very surprised that of all these hippies in Pushkar, not a single one is out in the rain. They ain’t the type. Nope. Not like my hippies back home. Man, back home if it be rainin’ even the gangstas come outside for that shit, man. I’m feeling superior again. Outside in the rain. But y’know what? I’ve been feeling mostly inferior all this time, so fuck it. I’m a gangsta.

I buy a pack of cigarettes from the closest stall, and some matches, and light up. Then I go ambling around aimlessly, stomping in puddles, trying to keep my ever-growing-damp cigarette from going out. All the Indian men are grinning at me - whether in amusement or empathy or harassment or envy or respect or something else entirely I have no idea - but for a second I feel as if I really, actually don’t care, not like I don’t give a fuck, which I’d been feeling a moment earlier, but more as in an acceptance that there is no real harm in me wandering around a little square in the rain trying to smoke a soggy dog-end, and that’s what I want to do.

And that’s fine.

I look up into the rain and I feel the pitter-patters of the patterns of my past.

In Jodhpur, it had been similarly lethargic. Actually and I, apart from the fort trip, which was pretty cool but nothing to write home about (the pictures tell more than words e'er could), had been hanging around, trying to think of things to do. 

Ok so the zipline around the fort can be summarized thusly.

Flying Fox fun flying fast over forts

a course that is short,of course, but out of sorts,

by which, I mean, not a usual sight to see

like witches flying an unusual flight indeed

Dangling, spinning tourists, not going slow,

but certainly not as fast as one could go,

Nevertheless, it was pretty and a quest,

but it's shitty to invest in being what I detest

I just hate feeling like a tourist. Not that I detested Jodhpur, (God, I sound like a whiny little bitch in this story, 'Meh, meh, I didn't like that city, meh meh meh meh,' honestly my actual outlook has been quite optimistic, I swear...) in fact I dug the elephant and the omelette house and the blue city, but - yes, I'll admit it - I was comparing it to Varanasi, which I was still enthralled with.

Still am, in fact.

And we wanted something to do.

That's when the guest house dude suggested we take a camel safari. Not a normal, 'touristy' camel safari, oh no, something much more enticing.

We'd get to sleep in the sand dunes. Either under the stars, or in a yurt, whatever we wanted. And we could watch the process of opium being made, performed by gypsies. We could race camels through the desert. This would be no normal camel safari. It would be an awesome camel safari. And at only 500 rupees each per day over the normal 'tourist' camel safari price, what could go wrong?

Obviously, it was a normal camel safari. We went out on camels, stayed with a family for a night, and came back.

You'd think I would have learned something by now.

We argued with the guy, who I'm gonna call Dickweed, and got him to give us a thousand rupees back, which was a hard struggle, but not nearly what Dickweed owed us. Still, happy to be getting anything back at all, we checked into another place, half the price, double the size, with a private balcony and a huge bathroom, about a block and a half away. Dammit.

Another shit ton of rain hits me.

Some images emerge.

Like finally following in the footsteps of the Australian and the Austrian, in ignoring the instructions of the instructors, to hurdle headlong high over the magnificent view of Mehrangarh Fort, as the lake glistened and sparrows flew under me, swooping between the lines: the only ride I hadn't been filming and so the only one I got to really experience.

Or like being ridden into a little shop in a desert village where we could get water, cigarettes, and, most important, MaaZaa, with just the dude's little kids as our guides; one would occasionally lose his shoe, hop off, and climb back up the camel easy as could be; he'd wrap his arms around me and rest his head on my back and somehow go to sleep without falling, wobbling crazily with the lurching steps of the camel.

Or being perched over that fucking crowd on that fucking train.

When Actually left to go to Delhi, there was a group of Indian dudes hanging around her within seconds. And it grew. It began with a couple of them offering us biris, though one isn't supposed to smoke on the platform (which drives smokers wild; the old Indian dudes go to the bathroom while the train is moving and throw them down the loo), then when we sat on the bench more and more of 'em showed up until there was about nine standing in a semi-circle, just watching Actually. She took it in good humor, puffing at the biri and joking at them. They weren't threatening, really, or connected, just curious as hell. But as a precaution, Actually and I claimed we were engaged and off to be married just to calm 'em down. 

Lately, when surrounded by people who I don't feel comfortable with in India, I've taken to spouting off rather witty fluid bullshit with, if I might say so, quite intoxicatingly rapid diction which leaves the non-native-English speaker either bobbing their heads in pretend comprehension or smirking at me because they know I'm blabbering. Usually it's the former.

"How are qualified? School-qualified?" quipped the guy who'd first handed me the biri. I gave him a proud nod.

"Indeed, I actually just completed a doctorate in tomfoolery from the Wichita School of Michigan, with a phD in abnormal psychology," I proclaimed. Actually stifled a snort.

The guy seemed unimpressed. "How are work? How are work for government?" I think he thought all questions began with 'how are'.

"Sometimes, when the government is confounded by sinister things it hasn't seen before, it requires the aid of a thaumaturge," I said, "and I've been called in here and there."

"How are money? How are you make much money?"

"Oh." I deflated. I didn't want to imply I had a lot of money. Stupid bragging. "Well, uh, actually it doesn't pay very well, but, uh, my room and board is usually covered by the state branches of the Onomatopoeia, and it's a luxury tax, you know, so, uh, the risk is highly mounted..."

At this point his gaze had turned back to Actually, who was engaged in attempting to persuade the second dude we'd met that he really didn't need her phone number.

"Give him a fake one!" I said low out the corner of my mouth, rapid enough to remain a jumble for most present. "I know a great one! 01505438082-"

But she'd already convinced them they only needed her email. We wrote down a fake one, and they all eagerly passed it around, copying it into their phones and writing it on used juice boxes. She laughed out loud at them all and they looked sheepish. They departed one one one.

And now I'm really happy that I'm standing here soaked in the rain, but I'm getting cold along with wet, so I go back upstairs to Baba's. The waiter's standing there with my food and he says, "Where are you sitting?"

"Uh, there," I motion to the nearest bunch of people who've sat together to be out of the rain, where I also see my book lying. I pull up a chair. They seem to be Italians, and at the right moment I try to introduce myself. They're Argentinean. Shit. Oh well. 

One of the dudes picks up my book and motions to me, asking if it's mine. I give him a thumbs-up and nod affirmative. He asks if I'm a magician. I nod again.

"Finish your food and show us some tricks, then!" he cries. I gulp down my Aloo with my right hand, wrapping pieces of chapati around each mouthful. Not bad. Greasy, spicy potatoes, wrapped in bread. Just what the doctor ordered. I finish up and show the dude sitting next to me some simple tricks with the objects at hand. I electrify matchsticks, pull cigarettes through one another, and twist my arms in ways he could never hope to accomplish.

By this time I've caught the attention of some of the other people around the table. They want some more. My mind races. I read someone's mind. Even more people are paying attention.

"Uh, hold on," I stumble, "I just need to get some stuff from my guest house."

The dude wrinkles his forehead. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. No worries."  I race down the stairs, thinking about what tricks I should nab. The storm's almost subsided, though a few specks of rain hit me here and there. I'm feeling filled with energy for the first time in ages. That storm did the trick, I think.

I love doing magic tricks. Better than anything.

I'm at the center of attention, where I'm most comfortable.

I'm showing off.

People are happy and amazed that I'm doing so.

What could be better?

I can't find my deck of cards so I grab a new one, then wonder if they'll think it's a trick deck simply because it's wrapped in celophane and taped at the end, then realize it doesn't matter what they think, that in fact it's better for them to think it's a fake deck 'cause then they won't know how I do it.

I perform magic tricks for a whole table of strangers for about half an hour. And I'm happy. And I get thanked for my magic. And I wander to my temporary home, smoke a joint, and go to sleep.

The Secret of any magic trick is simply knowing what's connected and what's not.

The Consumer Demon of Pushkar

Now I'm in Pushkar. Pushkar is a wonderfully appropriate place to update my blog, for there is nothing to fucking do here.

Wait, I tell a lie. One can shop. One can shop and shop and shop. It's ridiculous. I haven't felt like this much of a consumer for years, eyeing the merchandise upon the shelves, a little fat white devil on my shoulder giggling and rubbing his thorny hands together in glee and pointing out how much cooler life would be with a sword or dozens more Ali-Baba pants or colorful striped shirts or utility belts or curly-toed leather shoes or psychedelic striped hats or a two-foot Shivalingam or albums of Rajasthani music or books and books and books or carved wooden toys or, fuck, look at that thing, I don't even know what it is but it's fucking awesome and I want it. I'm throttling the leash on this miserable creature, the undying, All-American, whitewashed gobbler of unquenchable purchase-thirst, yet his strength is such that I barely control him as he gnashes his teeth ravishingly at overpriced, mediocre commodities as though dying of materialist starvation.

I've got to get the fuck out of Pushkar. But I have to be here for four more days.

The reason for this, though I'm proud of how little I've actually purchased from these grinning street vendors - one pair of patchwork chord Ali-Babas, one colorful striped shirt, sunglasses and a black kurta for myself, and some gifts for friends - is that I made the one big buy I'd planned on since I originally decided to come to India. I'm getting a hand-tailored, pinstriped magician's coat, old-school with coattails and all types of pockets. I can't freaking wait.

But until it's ready, four days from now, I have to stay in Pushkar. Which, as I've mentioned in odious rambling, hasn't got anything to do except spend money. So I suppose I'm going to be hiding in my hotel room for a while. And, occasionally, updating my blog.

So, where were we?

I finally arrived in Jodhpur. Legs and buttocks aching from the ridiculous, crowd-straddling train ride from hell, I hobbled out of the station avoiding and ignoring the immediate hustle for my rickshaw business, and scouted for a phone shack. Pulling out my slowly-deteriorating wallet, I searched for Actually's phone number, accidentally dropping a few dozen rupees in the process and attracting even more attention from the touts. I picked them out of the dirt, wiped them off, and sat down at the still-to-me-ludicrously-named STD booth. I tried the number. No beans. Either her phone didn't work here or it was out of juice or something similar. I hung up and moseyed into the throng once again.

"Hallo sir? Guest house?" cried the nearest rickshaw-wallah in near-desperation.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I want something very cheap though."

"Good price! Three hundred fifty rupees!"

I shook my head. "Hell, naw, I want something for like a hundred. One hundred rupees." He looked appropriately aghast, as is their wont, and shook his head, managing with this simple gesture to somehow convey that although the task of finding a guest house was arduous, painful, and difficult, he was going to help me out of the goodness of his heart.

"No, sir, no available for one hundred. Two hundred fifty, maybe. Very difficult."

"Uh huh. It's ok, dude, I know you want your commission higher than a measly fifty rupees. I'll find someone else." I began to walk away, and he predictably grabbed hold of my arm.

"Ok, ok, two hundred rupees! Two hundred only! Good place!"

Ah cha. Oh well. I'd only be staying there a night anyway. I accepted his ride and we bounded off over the potholes.

The five or six workers in the place, lounging around bored watching Bollywood TV, lit up when I walked into the room, only to have their faces fall when I was followed by the rickshaw-wallah. Jodhpur is infamous for the unreasonable commissions rickshaw-wallahs demand from guest houses to which they bring tourists, nabbing for themselves anywhere up to fifty percent of the price of the room. What I should've done is walk around and find the nearest cheap place to the station. The guest house managers are usually so happy that you've shown up without a money-grubbing rickshaw-wallah creeping in ahead of you that the rooms can be haggled down to three or four times cheaper than you could get otherwise. But alas, this time the poor guys were going to lose out. The rickshaw-wallah shook my hand enthusiastically on the way out.

Pictures of the guest house owners shaking hands with Jason Schwartzman, Owen Wilson, and Adrien Brody, attired as they were for the film 'The Darjeeling Limited', lined the walls. I dumped my shit on the bed and was excited to learn that not only was the room pretty nice for the price, the internet was free, and I had actual, honest-to-Shiva hot water in my bathroom. A hot shower! The likes of which I hadn't seen in a month! Lordy, lordy, lordy! I used the internet to check my email, and found one from Actually vaguely stating the location of the place she was staying, 'by the clocktower'. I went out exploring and, surprisingly, found it without much hassle.

There was a room available there for 200 rupees that would be big enough to sustain the both of us, with very high ceilings and a nice painting of a camel on the wall. I had to go and check out of my old room not 20 minutes after I'd checked in, with the unlikely excuse of 'we've decided to catch the train to Jaisalmer tonight'. The folks at my recently-retired guest house were sad. I'd been the only one staying there.

Jodhpur isn't exactly the nicest city in India. Ultimately, despite a mammoth, picturesque fort overlooking the whole city, and many buildings being shaded a pleasant sky-blue, it's just another city teeming with the usual cows, touts, and litter. There was an elephant. That was cool. And there's this one omelette shop where I had, seriously, the best fucking omelette I've ever had. But ultimately, it wasn't an ideal place to linger for longer than a day or so.

However, one attraction in particular had been on my to-do list since planning my trip to India in the first place. As I'd read in my travel guide, the gigantic fort itself had recently been equipped with a criss-crossing course of six ziplines that would send one hurtling over the walls and surrounding environment. That sounded like my cup of tea, along with a couple other attractions scattered around India, such as paragliding off the Himalayas in Menali. Most of these sweet-sounding rides were priced at roughly $20, so I figured I could splurge a bit here and there.

I remember back in Varanasi, my enthusiasm for these sorts of attractions had been completely deflated by a punk-rock lesbian chick at the Blue Lassi. I'd been talking to the people next to her, excitedly listing off the things I want to do, and she'd made a point of interjecting how stupid all my plans sounded at every bullet-point, making me feel small and insignificant.

I'm going to call her Tnuc. Because she was a total cunt in the insulting sense of the word, but the word 'cunt' literally means goddess, and her condescension was the complete opposite of a goddess. Backwards, even.

Well, actually, no, lots of the goddesses of mythology worldwide were total condescending ho's. Maybe she was a cunt.

Whatever. I'm calling her Tnuc. Tnuc was a bitch.

"...I was thinking of going on these ziplines over a fort in Jodhpur -"

"My friend said that was really dumb," she'd interrupted.

" - and then up in Menali you can apparently go paragliding off of the freaking Himalayas -"

Tnuc let out a snort. "Yeah, for like five fucking minutes."

" - and also in Menali I heard you can roll down a mountain in a huge inflatable ball - "

At this, she'd thrown her emptied clay cup with a smash into the street, making a startled cow look up, and glared at me in withering scorn.

"That's the faggiest fucking thing I've ever heard," Tnuc sneered.

I don't know why I'd let this bitch get to me - I only ever met her that one time, for that one conversation, and she obviously had something against having fun - but for some reason all my childlike joy at the anticipation of these type of activities had suffered a blow in the damp cold of her cynicism.

Luckily, in Jodhpur, once I realized I was in the very city where you could fucking zipline over a fucking fort, Actually also thought it would be fun. So up to the fort we went.

Fucking Tnuc. It was really fun. We met up with a group of tourists from all over, including an overly rambunctious Australian (aren't they all?) and some of his travelling friends, one of whom was from freaking Santa Fe, New Mexico! I'm gonna call his Balsamic.

We're fucking everywhere.