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.

Temple Sex and the Unbearable Heaviness of Being

Khajuraho didn't treat me so well, as I've already iterated. It was that perfectly imperfect size of not being quite big enough or crazy enough for me, while also not being small or quiet enough for me. I like extremes, and Khajuraho was an uncomfortable middle ground. The size was misleading. Having rented a bicycle and gone around most of the town in 40 minutes, I subconsciously concluded that it was peaceful enough to let down my guard in terms of touts and hawkers.

Stupid Hoku.

My second morning in Khajuraho, before I'd even attempted to view any of the numerous temples surrounding the town, I woke up, smoked a joint, and hailed a rickshaw to take me to the train station so I could get the fuck out of there. Like everyone else in Khajuraho, the rickshaw-wallah ripped me off like mad, grinning and calling me 'friend' all the while. When we turned down a dusty, desolate stretch of road, he pulled off to the side and made a motion for me to exit.

"No, dude, I said the train station," I said. He frowned and pointed up the road.

"Is there. Just there. Not far."

"Yeah, but I paid you like a hundred rupees (God I can't believe I paid you a hundred rupees) to get me to the train station. TRAIN. STATION. Not some road with a half-kilometer to go. Chalo."

He shook his head. "The parking lot, they are charge too much money. Walking, OK. Not far."

"Dude, seriously, I don't care how much they charge you, you ripped me the hell off and for that I expect to at least get all the way to where I fucking paid you to take me. C'mon."

He folded his arms and refused to budge. When I began arguing, he flipped on his radio station and drowned me out with Bollywood techno, then opened a newspaper and ignored me. Grumbling, I climbed out of the rickshaw and flipped him off. His ear-to-ear grin returned, and before I could hurl another insult his way he'd about-faced and zoomed off. I started walking. The bumping techno and auto-tuned Indian wailing slowly died into the distance.

The train station was deserted. There was literally not another soul in sight, unless you count the old man shitting on the tracks about 100 meters away. No one official, no one to buy a ticket from.

"Are you fucking kidding me," I spat. I hadn't even brought a book or anything. I wandered through the offices and rooms, under the pitifully turning fans, stepping over littered newspapers and plastic bottles. Not. A. Fucking. Soul. In. Sight. I went out the main entrance to the parking lot. Empty. I couldn't even catch a ride back to town. "They charge too much money," I mimicked the driver in a nauseating squeal. I laughed bitterly and sat on the steps, pulled out a biri, and smoked. It was only 0830. Someone would probably show up. Sometime.

Someone eventually did, I bought a ticket to Delhi, and waited another 2 hours before a couple of rickshaws arrived, overloaded with families hanging off the sides. This time, I wasn't going to pay no motherfucking hundred rupees. I went up to them.

"How much to Gole market?" I asked. They stared expressionlessly at me. One of them spat a red mouthful of pan onto the dirt, and I barely managed to get my foot out of the way. "Gole market? Gole. Market." I repeated. One of them motioned me to get in. "No, how much? Kitne?" They glanced at each other.

"One hundred," said one. His pan-masticating friend nodded subtly at him. I let out a bitter expulsion of wind and turned to the one who'd thus far avoided my eyes.

"Fifty," I said. I opened my wallet and pulled out a fifty-rupee note.

"One hundred."

"One hundred," his friend nodded assent.

"Bullshit," I said. "Sixty, bas." They smiled pitiful smiles and shook their heads. Another rickshaw was pulling up. I began walking towards it, and was stopped by their sudden cries of panic.

"No, no, wait. Sixty, OK," said the pan-chewer. At least, I think. It sounded more like "Nnn, nn, mmmmt, Ssmtmm, mmmkmmm." He motioned me in and the others made room. I plunked down and stared out the window, feeling pathetic and angry and sorry for myself.

I got ripped off far more in Khajuraho that I did in Benares. Everything - EVERYTHING - was ridiculously overpriced, and I found myself struggling to haggle only to still end up paying three times more than it was worth for a bunch of shit I didn't actually want. There were swarming hordes of overweight white people, with their polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts, squinting underneath their baseball caps and visors in the bright sunlight as they nervously followed fast-paced Indian guides sporting wide grins that revealed they'd just made a killing. I couldn't help but chuckle as they passed, shaking my head in reluctant awe as they spewed out bullshit facts they made up on the spot, completely confounding the poor Westerners as they helplessly pawed their Lonely Planets for confirmation of their tall tales.

The infamous tantric temples - "Karma Sutra Temples", as they were called by the touts - were interesting, but as I strolled around the immaculate garden, giggling like all the other white people at the gorgeously carved figures draped around each other in twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes, with even dogs and elephants getting in on the fun, it came to me that temples weren't really my thing. I hadn't even been much impressed with the Taj Mahal years earlier, my favorite experience there being the wonderfully cool marble underneath my bare feet. I took some photos and video, and recorded myself dancing and rapping in front of them for my music video to my song India, (click the link to listen to it) but after a mere half hour I was bored as hell, and wanted out of there. I ate overpriced, tasteless aloo gobhi, bought a little crippled kid a bottle of Thums Up, made small talk with a traveler from Italy and a gang of loud, giggling American valley girls, and decided all I wanted to do was go back to the guest house, smoke a joint, and read until it was time to hit the train. I began to walk.

A rickshaw slowed down next to me and buzzed its horn. Anticipating an offer for some overpriced ride, I ignored it, until the driver started shouting "USA! Japan! Hallo!" (Every motherfucker in India thinks I'm Japanese.) I turned to look, and lo and behold, it was one of the dudes I'd slightly met the day before. A socially awkward kid had taken me to a little stall for an awful lunch my first day, and when we'd gotten surrounded by a few others he'd shooed them away in seemingly unfit anger. This was one of the dudes.

"Hallo, American man!" he cried. I'm going to call him Sickle. He raised his hand to his mouth in the international gesture of chillum smoking and motioned for me to get into the rickshaw. "You wanting come smoke hashish? No price. No charge. My friend." Well, why the fuck not? I could always argue the no-price thing if he was gypping me. I hopped in.

"What's up, dude? So, no price? Only fun?" I asked.

"Only fun," he confirmed. He gunned the motor and we shook off over the potholes, excrement, and random logs. Around cows, tourists, locals and goats, he expertly wove through the lanes on every side of the street until we found ourselves careening down back alleys that reminded me somewhat of Benares. We stopped at a little concrete house, painted sky blue.

"My house," Sickle explained with pride. "Coming in? Chai?"

We entered, I met his family, gave his nieces and nephews some Flarbles, and drank Chai with himself and his uncles, who spoke no English. There was no evidence of hashish or any chillum. As soon as I'd sipped the bottom of the cup of chai, he jumped up.

"Chalo," he said. Relaxing into the flow of whatever adventure I was now on, I let him lead me outside, where we didn't reboard the rickshaw but instead clambered onto the back of his shiny new Honda motorcycle. "Gift from wedding," he explained. The dude didn't look any older than 14. We set off. I was impressed by his cycle skills, as we nearly creamed toddlers and animals and the sides of buildings, careening this way and that out of town until we came to a stop. Sickle had me ascend a bunch of stairs until we came to an unnoticeable building. "Temple," he said.

"Ah cha," I replied. It didn't look like a temple. But inside, crouched in a circle around a shivalingam, were a bunch of Indians smoking chillum. The dude who brought me there motioned for me to take a seat next to a very stoned looking guy with wide, penetrating eyes, who stared at me as though he could see my soul. I didn't know if it was an act, if he was just really stoned, or if he was actually on some other realm. I'm gonna refer to him as Scruff.

"America," he said. His eyes opened wider, as if he'd just peered deep inside me. "New Mexico." Now, that got my attention. He hadn't said Japanese! But being India, it was entirely conceivable (and in fact more than probable) that he'd discerned that information from someone I'd happened to mention it to. Especially in a town as small as Khajuraho. I nodded, unable to let the impressed, slightly astounded look stop itself from crossing my face. He nodded solemnly, and without taking his gaze off mine, packed a chillum, which he passed to me. I took a big hit, invoking the name of Shiva as I exhaled, and felt the tension of the others ease as they saw me smoke a chillum properly, not touching the bowl to my lips but creating suction with my hands. One of them nodded in approval. We smoked a couple bowls like this before the wide-eyed Indian began to talk. We'd been hanging out for about 20 minutes without him letting me know he was fluent in English. I felt a scam coming on.

"You like? It is a very good chillum, no?" Scruff asked. It was OK. I wasn't feeling it overly much, compared to the shit I'd bought off Boner in Varanasi, but I nodded assent so as not to be rude. "I have more. I can sell it to you. I love my plants. They are my guardians."

Politely, I pointed to the three-meter marijuana plants growing in the courtyard, and said, "Yeah, they look very happy. I'm sure you take good care of them." Despite the noticeable lack of any actual buds, the plants themselves looked allright. Not yellowing or anything. He smiled proudly.

"You want see my product? You must not buy, unless you are wanting. Just to see. Mine is the best in Khajuraho! Others, theirs is full of seeds. Mine, you will find maybe one, two seeds in every flower. Is the best!" I restrained myself from telling him that proper marijuana didn't have any fucking seeds at all, and was crystally and  big and gorgeous. I just nodded, smiled, and took another hit of the chillum. I was barely feeling it.

"Yeah, dude, the last weed I bought was more seeds than pot!" I agreed. Fuck it, I might as well take a look. If it turned out to be beautiful buds I would be so happy and surprised I'd buy it at a fool's price. I was getting sick of smoking hashish, particularly as you usually mix it with tobacco, of which I'm less than enamored with. Some real weed would be awesome. Scruff stood up.

"Chalo," he said. I passed the chillum, Namaste'd the others, and followed him and Sickle out the door, where I got on the motorcycle between the two of them. We took off.

It was about 20 minuted later, still speeding into the middle of nowhere, that I began to worry. "Hey, Sickle," I called. "I have a train at like 1800, and it's already 1630. We can't go very far." He grinned and waggled his head.

"No problem, America," he said confidently. "I have you at train station on time. Is my best promise! You have my word!"

"Yeah, but also be cognizant of the fact that my room is a disgrace and I have to pack," I said. "My room mess. I must pack. Must pack. Fifteen, twenty minutes pack. Train at 1800." He waggled his head.

"No problem! My promise! This India! Train say 1800, maybe 1840, 1850. No problem." I resigned myself to the journey. I'm just freaking out, I told myself. This guy's from here, he knows what's up. Indian trains are always late. I'm gonna be fine.

We arrived at this little village in the middle of nowhere. As we were pulling up, the motorcycle ran out of gasoline. I reiterated my need to be to the train station on time, and Sickle waggled his head. "No problem. I buy petrol." I followed the two up to this little temple on a hill. We passed a school. I pulled out my Blooming Flower toy I'd purchased from Doodlets before I left, and amused the children for a moment or two with the folding, colored paper. We hit the temple, and Sickle gestured broadly. "Temple," he said.

"Uh huh," I answered. Fucking temples. I don't fucking care about temples. They're everywhere. It's like churches in Texas. Who gives a shit? They packed a chillum and I smoked it. Scruff was nowhere to be seen. I was feeling uncomfortable around this gang of Indians and I pointed at a tree growing through the marble. "Can I climb that?"

"No!" cried Sickle. "Holy tree!"

"Uh huh," I said. "What about that one?" I pointed to a tree outside the temple. He barely nodded before I was off, scrambling barefoot to the brambles and ignoring the group's cries of dissent. I hit the tree, swung myself up, and scrambled to the very top as quick as I could. Paying no heed to the shouted warnings, I swing upside down and meditated. A moment's peace washed over me. When I rejoined the ground a few minutes later, I saw newfound respect in everyone's eyes except Sickle and Scruff, who watched me warily.

Scruff finally brought out his shitty ass weed and displayed it proudly. Ewww. Barely a nugget on a stem. But at least it was actually green. The last marijuana I'd bought had been a tepid black. I made a show of sniffing it, despite lacking that particular sense, and feigned being impressed. "How much?"

Scruff waggled his head. "How much you want pay?"

Now, this sucks. If they give you a starting price, you can at least cut it in half or a third and work from there. Giving the original price means you're in their terms. I tried to get him to give me a starting point to work from, but to no end. I was his friend, he insisted, so I pay what I want.

Fine. "Three hundred," I said. Three of the group held their heads in anguish.

"No, no, no, no, no possible," managed Scruff. "Best quality."

At this point I had 45 minutes to get to my train, and I was pissed. "I paid 200 for the same amount in Benares," I insisted.

"1000," said Scruff. I laughed.

"Fuck no!" They began to argue. At this point, I wanted out of there so bad, and didn't give a shit, and wanted to catch my train. I eventually paid 700  rupees for some of the most god-awful weed in the world and tried to hightail it out of there. But no doing. Apparently, by showing off my Blooming Flower toy to the kids of the village, I'd done a great evil. Now, I had to buy them all candy. Filled with resentment, I bought a bag of chocolates and was swarmed by groping, grabbing children before Sickle grabbed the bag and threw it away, the kids gallivanting after it in a mob scarier than a horde of gangsters. We fled to the motorbike.

I missed my train. Are you surprised? By the time I'd packed, jumped in the rickshaw with Sickle, and drove to the station, the iron beast was pulling out. The good thing was that because of his promise to get me there on time, Sickle didn't charge me for the whole outing, which I'm sure he would have had we made it. He promised to pick me up free of charge for the next day's train. Yeah, right. I agreed, but ended up catching it myself.

Let me take back any statement I might have made about traveling sleeper class rather than general. Fucking general class. Holy shit.

There was literally not enough room to move. I was crammed in amidst the hordes of bodies, having to force my Western mindset to not be bothered by crotches touching my ass or vice-versa, let alone putting up with elbows, knees, dirty fucking hands, heads of hair, and occasionally chins in my mouth. It was impossible to get to the bathroom. You couldn't lift your foot without bringing it down on somebody. I felt like a cow in an American slaughterhouse, clanging down the iron trail. At one point, I noticed an Indian boy grapple on to the luggage rack and pull himself above the crowd, to perch precariously upon the open door with his toes gripping the mesh across the isle. Good idea, I thought, and hoisted myself upon the opposite door. Ahh, space. 'I could do this for a few hours,' I thought. A foot below me, the mass of bodies was unmovable. I had more room to move than anyone. I felt awesome, and saw slight jealousy in the crowd's eyes. I pulled out my iPod, popped on some gangsta-rap, and chillaxed.

I couldn't get down for 6 hours. By that time, the constant tension in my legs from stretching across the isle was almost unbearable, my ass hurt from its tender perch upon the narrow door-ledge, and I was fucking tired as hell. The one time I tried to get down to piss my bag had fallen and smacked numerous people in the face, and I myself had toppled onto everyone, gashing my hand on a jagged piece of rusty metal. I managed to pee, and get back up above everyone, and considered it a miracle. My hand was bleeding, my legs ached, my ass was sorer than a rapist in prison, and every muscle was trembling from the exertion, but I could breathe. A la ve.

After six hours, the other kid had abandoned the train and I was able to somewhat stretch out on the luggage rack. My legs were still tense, having to pinch my heavy ass bag against the wall above the multitudes of people with my feet. One moment of inattention and the bag and myself would have fallen, most likely out the open door onto the gravel and metal of the speeding-past railway tracks. Somehow, I even managed to sleep for about a half hour without unburdening the pressure in my legs keeping me from dying. I have no idea how the fuck I managed that.

I finally arrived in Jodhpur.

Monkeys and Pirates and Ninjas and LANDAVA!

There's a famous V.S. Naipaul quotation about how, in India, all life appears to be sacred except human life.

What a bunch of crap.

It's probably because I tend to dig non-humans more than my mammalian counterparts that I so readily disagree. Non humans, on the whole, are not such dickheads. In India, you see a lot of humans kicking or otherwise harming dogs, cats, goats, cows, monkeys, etc, without provocation or cause. In particular swims the image of an arrogant, swarthy Indian all but strangling a starving mongrel on a chain: on his face a mischievous, cold and cocky grin, in his other hand, a thick stick of bamboo. The tortuous delight on his face is evident as he raises his stick and brings it down with a loud 'thwack' onto the poor, squealing creature. His grin widens as his eyes meet my face. I know I can say nothing, for any intrusion on my part will be carried out exponentially worse on the dog, so I do the only thing I can think of to illustrate my contempt. Without turning my glare from his terrible gaze, I hock the biggest loogie I can manage and catapult it with force into his path.

It's the little victories.

Like when I lose the one cord I need to charge my video camera in Gokarna, and am saving the like 5 minutes of battery I have left for Holi, pissed at myself, cursing my forgetful mind, because you can never capture enough of Holi in five minutes, and I go walking through the Varanasi market and there is literally one stall in the whole place with any cords whatsoever - a pathetic lot - one shitty pair of Apple headphones, two cords for Indian cell phones, a couple feet of telephone cord, and there, holy shit, there on the end, untouched and covered in a layer of dust so thick it's nearly invisible against the cellophane wrapper, thank Shiva, the one fucking cord I need. Shit yes.

Like when I somehow find myself being literally dragged along by a hash dealer despite my insistent, firm 'no's, not twenty seconds after leaving my guest house. Fuck it, I figure, and follow him so he'll let go of my arm. It's kind of the direction I'm heading anyway. We trundle down the stairs underneath the Smoking Ghat and run into a bunch of his homies.

"You want see? Good quality." He says.

"No, dude, I'm fine, I still have." I say for about the seventieth time in the last few days. I make a move to go. He grabs my arm again.

"Best hash. Good price. Just look. No buy. Good price."

"No, dude, seriously, you're starting to piss me off. No hash. I'm good. Leave me alone." I jerk away from him, skip a little to avoid a steaming pile of cow dung, and expertly weave through the crowd towards the closest little stall at which I can get toilet paper and a motherfucking lighter. He's a couple meters behind me, now, but still lingering.

"Stop friend! Hallo!" I cut right and squeeze my way to the front of the stall.

"Toilet paper, lighter." I say, mechanically making the thumb-flick that is the international gesture of lighters. The hash seller has caught up and is once again grabbing my arm. I twist my hand out of his wrist and grab it.

"Look, dude, I am never buying your hash. Ever. I don't care if it's the best, cheapest shit in town, you are never going to get my business. You fucked it up." My tone is still amicable. I'm just explaining it to him.

"Is just business..." he whined.

"Yeah, and you suck at it! Let me tell you something about Westerners. We don't like you guys all up in our faces. I don't know who first told you it was good business, but you should all go kick their ass. You won't leave me alone, so I will never buy from you, ever, just because, fuck you, that's why." He finally backed off. I wonder if I got through to him. I doubt it. But then again, FireKitty did with Boner, and that was a damn miracle.

I'm using pseudonyms now.

Boner is the Indian guy at the guest house who apparently has just five topics of conversation: will you buy some hash, do you need more hash, let's play Spot-It, please play Holi song, and are you sure you don't want any hash. He also greatly enjoys thrusting his hips to dance music and is, bewilderingly, completely fluent in French. His epithet comes from the fact that he (and everyone else at the guesthouse, but mainly him) throws his fist in the air and yells "Landava!" numerous times an hour. If you ask him, he says it's the name of the company he's going to start,  and it means "Fight for Right!" He gets all the guests to join him in yelling landava to say cheers, hello, goodbye, or just for the hell of it.

It took me like two days before I learned it means boner. That little fucker. FireKitty (an American girl staying at the guesthouse) went off on him one day about his constant bombardment of hash offers. "Try talking to me for ten minutes without mentioning hashish, and MAYBE I'll consider it." She finally got through to him and he chilled way the fuck out with his 'good business.' She's the one who started calling him 'Boner'.

Stuff was getting routine in Varanasi. It was just about time to leave. I was still having a great time, even though some of the friends I'd made were gone. Most of the Holi Gang - FireKitty and her friends - RobinSong and The Cat from America - Arm and Karr, an awesomely relaxed couple from Amsterdam, and Shipper and Mistletoe, a British couple who lived in a caravan in a gypsy camp and built ships - had moved on. There was just myself, Upman from Italy (though he was born in Karnataka), who sported a swell little moustache that made his grins mischievous, Village, a dude with an awesome face he could contort into crazy expressions, and Hammock, who spent most of his time reading in the hammock. Along with the Indians, of course - Boner, Rulez, Kook, Mercutio, little D (Babu's 3 year old deaf son), and Babu himself, who runs the place. Babu doesn't get a pseudonym because Babu's the man.

Every morning, a gang of monkeys would descend upon the temple next to the guesthouse-rooftop-chillage point. Upman, Hammock and Village were throwing food to them, arousing much interest. One of the bigger ones came over to investigate. Upman and Babu began feeding little slices of melon rind through the bars, and the monkey was attempting to pick at it but they kept pulling it back at the last second. The monkey was getting irritable.

Some of the other monkeys detached themselves from the group and wandered over too. We played with them for about 20 minutes, and the tug-of-war over the melons eventually freaked them out, puffing their cheeks and gaping at us in astonishment. Eventually they dispersed. We started throwing bits of melon to the monkeys at the temple. One of them got into it and would climb all over like we were playing fetch. At one point a melon had landed way up at the top, and the monkey was giving us a hurt look. He began circling the temple, two meters under where the melon had landed.

"He went around the temple, the monkey." said Upman. The monkey returned and looked at us, scratching his head. Upman began pointing skywards.

"It's up there, dude!" I called, in the high-pitched voice that eeks out of me when talking to animals or little humans. Upman kept on pointing. The monkey gazed piercingly at Upman's finger, and began scaling the temple.

"No way. No way. No way. Didja see that?" cried Upman.

"No way." I replied.

"We're like telling the monkey." Upman pointed and began to imitate the monkeys' calls, hooting and screeching. The monkey stopped, looked back at us, and resumed climbing.

At that moment, a murder of crows flocked out from the tip of the temple. The monkey shook his fist at them and disappeared.

"Oh, he found the bird nest!" said Upman. "Ah, they're all going up now!"

Sure enough, a troupe of monkeys had swarmed the temple, and were now scurrying to the top. One made an excellent jump from one peak to another.

"Oh, man! Did you get that?!" exclaimed Village.

"Naw, shit, I missed it," I replied, disappointed. I was filming the whole thing.

That's how Upman showed a troop of monkeys the route to a crow's nest, and how he deserved his nickname.

Varanasi was a fun blend of chillage and amazing experiences, but I decided to go the next day to the train station and get a ticket onwards. I walked around, watched some funerals, drank some lassis, ate some dosas and samosas, gave out Flarbles to street kids, and headed back to prepare some magic. Since I'd performed a number of tricks for everyone two nights before, they were always after me to display something impromptu, and I needed some stuff in my pockets. Upstairs was another Indian guy - I'm gonna call him Amerikka.

For some reason, despite my protests that I completely lacked Japanese blood, and despite three other actual Japanese people staying at the guesthouse, they'd decided my nickname was 'Japan', so hell, one of the Indians gets to be Amerikka. The first four letters of his name are the same anyway.

Amerikka had brought along someone I hadn't met yet, who all the Indians called Actually. She looked somewhat familiar, and I realized she looked very much like the combination of two of my friends back home. She had short brown hair, impeccable posture, and one of those voices that was melodically husky and rasped by cigarettes, making her go from growl to squeak at a moment's notice.

"Hello," I said. "Are you staying here?"

"No, I'm at [another guesthouse]." An unmistakable American accent. The sound of my people. She lit up a cigarette.

"Oh, cool. Where you from?"

"Chicago."

 "Sweet."

Amerikka piped up. "You want to stay here? Good place."

"It's true." I confirmed. "This is the nicest guest house I've seen so far.  Other ones have like 'rooftop restaurants' but they're just, like, restaurants. This place is really chill, and I've met some awesome people."

"It seems really nice." she said. "I don't know how long I'll be staying, though. I'm going to the train station tomorrow." She coughed. "Apparently it's like impossible to get a ticket to Delhi in like sooner than three or four days, but that's actually fine, 'cause I wanted to hang out in Varanasi anyway."

 "Word. I was going to nab a train out of here tomorrow as well." I said. Actually bummed me a cigarette.

"I haven't smoked this much in ages. I was at an ashram for like a month before I came here, and I really thought Varanasi would be a place to chill out, but I've just been smoking cigarettes and drinking like every night!" She laughed. "It's crazy!

We went through the usual traveler banter: how long have you been in India? oh, word, and Varanasi? swell, I've been here about that long... How long are you staying? And in India total? Sweet. Where are you going next? She'd been in India about a month and a half, relocated to Varanasi right on Holi, was about half done with her trip in India, and wanted to go up to Himal Pradesh.

"Sweet. I think I'm going to Kujooraho - "

" - Kajuraho - " she corrected.

" - and then hitting Rajasthan. Rajasthan's my favorite."

"I've heard that from a lot of people, actually."

"Yeah, well, I'm from the desert, and I'm like a total desert person... you know the style of clothing that's all decked out with mirrors and stuff? That originated in Rajasthan, and the camels and shit are all decked out... it's awesome."

We ended up hanging out the rest of the night, smoking and chilling and drinking and talking. Amerikka kept ordering more beers and filling up Actually's glass. At one point, Actually mentioned she wanted to swim in the Ganges.

"Oh, sweet, me too!" I exclaimed. "Shit! You're the only other person I've met who actually wants to do that."

"Do you want to share a rickshaw to the train station and then hire a boat or something?"

"Yeah, definitely." I was psyched. I'd mentioned swimming in the Ganges to everyone I'd met, hoping someone would take up the call with enthusiasm, but so far I'd received either vague 'oh-cool' s or 'Oh-My-God-it's-so-dirty-why-would-you-want-to' s.

In between joints, beers, and games of Spot-It!, I reminisced one of my favorite earliest memories.


"When I was like, six, my mum was staying at this ashram in Lucknow, right, and there was this awesome girl who was I think a couple years older than me, and she showed me how to get around the whole city, just on the rooftops, never touching the ground," I said.

"Wow, that sounds fucking awesome," said Actually.


"Yeah, hah, I had such a big crush on her. You know, for like a six year old."

"We should do that tonight!"

I cocked my head. That would be excellent. "I'm down. Where should we start?"

The next day at two I was wandering the ghat, looking for Actually, when I was waved over by Mercutio. I call him thus because he could almost be mistaken for Leonardo Dicaprio's homie in that modern version of Romero + Juliet, his skin was so dark. He was awesome, one of my favorite dudes. I'd seen him attempting to bring some tourists to my  guest house ten feet away, but he'd been waved off irritably as they struggled up the stairs under their huge bags, following a street guy I knew to be a slimy bastard. Mercutio had shrugged.

"They don't want listen another fucking Indian." he'd said with a smile. I had laughed a lot about that, almost as much as at the guy who'd offered me a guesthouse, hash, and then, with a grin, a cow, gesturing broadly to the foraging feral beasts with a sweeping hand.

Mercutio was sitting with Amerikka. "You waiting for girl?" he asked.

"Yarrr." I said.

"Sit here. She come. You have joint?"

"Uh, not on me. Up in my room, maybe."

He waggled his head. "Ah cha. This our place. You can do anything here - smoke joint, drink whiskey. Sabkuch malega. Is no problem." He pointed with his chin. "She come." I looked up and saw a distorted, shimmering version of Actually through the fires as she descended the stairs, the smoke from the Burning Ghats streaming up and raining down.

"You want I get her?" asked Amerikka.

"Nah, thanks man, I'll go. I'll get the stuff from my room, too." He waggled his head obligingly.

I was just entering Manikarnika ghat when I saw Actually sit down by the fires, then immediately stand up and begin walking back the way she'd come. She was moving at a quick pace. I had to dance my way around cows and people and dogs as I followed.

"Oy!" I called. She turned around. Tears were streaming down her face.

"Hi," she said with a laugh. "Oh, god, I got something in my eye. It fucking burns." Her eye was, indeed, red as hell, and pouring out liquid quicker than the dude peeing next to us.

"Aw, man! That sucks. But no worries, it's probably just a bit of searing flesh floating around."

She laughed. "Oh god, right? Fuck! This hurts. I need to sit down."

"Amerikka and Mercutio are right over there, it's a nice spot out of the smoke to sit."

We went. Her eye didn't stop tearing up, but it also didn't stop us from attempting the train station. Along the way to the main street where the roads were big enough to nab a rickshaw, we noticed dozens of places that would be, if not easy, at least possible to ascend. We nabbed a rickshaw at what I knew was at least 5 rupees over the price, but for less than two dollars, careening through the streets around cows, goats, bicycle rickshaws, people carrying insane loads on their heads, cars, sadhus, beggars, and stalls selling everything from silk to chillums, it seemed like a much better deal than any overpriced ride on an amusement park. Ain't nothin' like a damn Indian autorickshaw.

We got to chill in the nice A/C tourist ticket booth, which was far shorter and faster of a line than the Indian one, with couches to boot. Lucky fuckin' 'mericans. Actually went to find an ATM as I held our place in line and got our Acquisition of Ticket Request Forms. When she returned, she was still clutching a sodden mass of tissues to her eye.

"Daaaaamn. Are you OK?" I asked.

"That was crazy! I could barely see anything and I had to cross the road, and nearly got killed and then I ran into somebody! I couldn't see him at all!"

"Shit, that sucks! I'm sorry."

"Aw, whatever. I'm sorry I'm like bitching about it." She chuckled.

 "You're not bitching at all. You're like a total gangster. Where are you going?"

She'd been going to Himal Pradesh, but at the last second she decided to head to Jodhpur. "How long of a journey is that?" she asked.

"I have no idea." I replied.


"Where you go?" asked the friendly old railway ticket man, who laughed in good humor whenever the tourists had fucked something up on their Acquisition of Ticket Request Form.

"Uh... What was it... Kujorahow?" I stumbled.

"Kajuraho, yes, when you wanting leave?"

"As soon as possible."

"Ok... the 14th, yes?"

I did some quick math. Today was... wait, what the fuck was the date? The 9th? 10th?

"Yeah, sounds good." I managed. That would be a Saturday, right?

"Two hundred seventy rupees." A little more than five bucks for a twelve-hour train ride. I'm down.

We rode back into Old Benares.When I checked my ticket, I was appalled to realize that my sense of time had been skewed by the lack of a necessary schedule, and today was the 13th. That meant I would be leaving tomorrow. I was surprised and sad. I wasn't done with Varanasi yet. Not just because of recent adventures, but I wanted the time to say a proper goodbye to Babu and Boner and Upman and Village, and play some more Spot-It! and have a generally good time. Shit.

 Actually's eye was still weeping, but she wasn't deterred. We met up with Amerikka at the same little juice stall next to the Burning Ghats we'd last seen him. He offered to take us across the Ganges, and he paddled us all over. Actually took a turn at one of the oars. We got to the other side, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

"Mmm, that's kinda salty!" Actually said with a laugh as she surfaced. Ewww. We grinned, turned, and watched the smoke from the Burning Ghats across the river mingle with the twilight.

Not every body is burned in Varanasi. The fires are meant to purge bad karma, so children, pregnant women, and 'snake people' (who's fingers have grown together, and who are considered sacred) are carried into the Ganges attached to stones, and set adrift. When the monsoon season hits, those bodies and the bones of the burned are carried away.

Sometimes, the rocks come off before the monsoon.

"Look, the dog is eat the body," said Amerikka disinterestedly. We'd just come out of the water. Indeed, about three meters away was a bloated, purple figure in rags only barely recognizable as the remains of a person. A beige mutt, who looked like it ate surprisingly well for India's standards, was tearing at the rags.

"I'm glad we saw that after we swam in the Ganges," said Actually. We went over to take a closer look. One big purple bump, one medium purple bump. "Is that his head, do you think?"

It was strange how not strange it was. I suppose after seeing the daily accumulation of bodies, the parades of them down the street, unrelenting, for over a week and a half, one grows somewhat desensitized. We strode around the beach for a bit, drying out, and went to get back in the boat. By now the dog was ripping at what we'd guessed was the stomach, and, yup, those definitely looked like intestines being masticated. We hopped in the boat, bade goodbye for now, and went to our respective houses for a nice shower before attempting the rooftop venture.

The hardest part about playing Ninja in India is finding a place where no one is looking at you. After ages, we decided to at least try the temple they said was impossible (undergoing renovation, the place was not in use at the time, and would hopefully be unoccupied), and went in that general direction. Excellent. It was secluded enough, and looked easy enough, for our purposes.

It took us about an hour and a half, and lots of maneuvering, but we eventually climbed onto the black-and-white-checkered marble floor of the temple. We had to duck and scurry underneath the view of what I presume were the people watching over the temple to make sure stupid fucking American tourists didn't climb in. We had some close calls, but we got close enough to the area underneath my guesthouse rooftop that we could hear Upman and Village talking and laughing.

Unfortunately, then we were discovered. Someone went out onto their porch and saw us slinking by. We were obvious. It was embarassing.

"Uh... Hi," I said. "Hallo." He was unimpressed.

"Where you going?"

I motioned upwards, to the green balcony visible not six meters above. "My guesthouse," I said. "Uh... is this not the way?" Talk about the lamest fucking excuse in the world. His expression, humorless, was unchanged. He pointed back the way we'd come.

"Go."

"Uh... can we, like, try climbing up?" I managed. I felt like a featherless pigeon in a cockfight. His eyes narrowed.

"No."

A little shaken and humiliated, but not too much, we returned to the climb from whence we'd come.

"That was still cool," I said.

"That was awesome," Actually replied.

Someone, who was probably fucking with me but was backed up by other people, who also might have been fucking with me, had said you could see dolphins in the Ganges at sunrise. No fucking way. If it were true... that would be too awesome. Actually and I stayed up for the sunrise and meandered sleepily to the ghats. When we sat down, of course, we were accosted gently by a sadhu wanting to smear red shit on our third eyes and ask for money. He muttered a Sanskrit chant, reached out, smeared a dot on my forehead, and stuck out his hand.

"Fifty rupees."

"No, dude, sorry."

"Forty rupees."

"Om buhr, buva swaha, tat savitur verenyam, bargo devasya deemahi, dhiyo yonaha prachodayat," I replied. I stuck out my hand. "Fifty rupees." He smiled, but didn't move, and began reciting another chant. I raised my fist. "Landava!"

He burst out laughing, and departed. At that point, Actually noticed something floating in the water.

"Oh, my god, is that a dead kid?" she said, more fascinated than repulsed. I followed her gaze.

"Woah. Damn." We stared at it. "Wanna go take a closer look?"

"Ok."

We ascended the ghat. The small figure, as bloated and purple as the corpse we'd seen the day before, resembled a chicken carcass long past its sell-by date, its legs held bent and aloft, open at the groin, on its back floating peacefully amidst biscuit wrappers, flower petals, and softly knocking boats.

This resemblance to a chicken was aided by the fact that the body had no head.

Morbidly intrigued, Actually and I edged as close to the rim of the ghat as we dared. The child bobbed slowly up and down not three meters away. A passing boatman, maneuvering expertly as always amidst the accumulation of filth and boats, noticed our locked gaze.

"Hallo? Boat?"

The innocent phrase, spoken so often it was part of the passing scenery, was so out-of-place in that moment that Actually and I burst out laughing. We couldn't stop. It was hysterical. The crowd of Indians who'd predictably gathered just to watch us appeared bemused and perplexed, but we nearly fell over hooting and hollering and pointing at the boatman and the floating dead kid.

Maybe you had to be there.

We said adieu so that Actually could attend her sitar lesson, and I went to do some errands. We'd made plans to revisit the games of the day before, and I got some rum so we could play Pirates and Ninjas. It's only proper pirating if you have some rum while you're on your ship. However, it's very improper to drink on the Ganges, even if the boatmen never give a shit, so I decided to mix it with Coke to disguise it. Then I thought, fuck, I'm in India, I need Thums-Up, not Coke, and besides, 'Rum n' Thums' has a nice ring to it.

I met up with Actually, we hired a boat and returned to another, busier side of the river. It was getting a little dark.

"What time is your train?" she asked.

"Oh, no, I read the ticket wrong. I don't leave 'til Saturday." I said.

This was a lie. I had spent the morning not only acquiring Pirate-juice, but running to the station to procure another ticket. This adventure was too much fun to miss. That morning I'd thrown the I-Ching about it; my first since beginning my travels. For the outcome of leaving that day, I'd gotten The Army (Discipline) changes to The Abysmal. For the outcome of remaining in Varanasi, I'd gotten The Clinging becomes Companionship. It seemed a fairly obvious choice. I dunno why I lied about it.

We rented a boat and went over to the other side. This was a much more crowded area. But on the plus side, there were no corpses to be seen! We waded ankle deep into the water.

"Ooh, it's a lot colder than yesterday," said Actually.

"It's a lot colder," I replied. Nothing like the warmth of the day before. Maybe there hadn't been enough hot ashes dumped in it today.

"I'm a little scared," said Actually, laughing. "Should we just do it?"

I laughed, a little nervously. I was picturing those guts being ripped and chewed by the dog the day before. Something slimy touched my foot. What the fuck was that? "Uh.... yeah."

"Alright, I'm just gonna like dive the fuck in," said Actually.

"Ok."

"You wanna do it too?"

"Yah. Should we do it at the same time?"

"Yes."

"Ok.... ready?" I said.

"One, two, th--" She didn't even finish, her voice ending in a cigarette squeak as she plunged headfirst into the Ganges, leaving me standing like a bitch. I jumped in. It was quite warm, actually.

"That's nice!" I exclaimed merrily. "That's not bad at all!"

"Oh my god, that's much nicer than I thought. I'm gonna chill a little bit."

We chilled. The last rays of the sun were sparkling on the water. A group of Indian men gathered at the water's edge to stare at us.

"Hah, I'd rather get swim in the Ganges and get stared at by a bunch of other people than not swim in the Ganges at all," said Actually.

"Yeah," I replied.


That night, we scaled the roofs of Varanasi like crazy. We got so high up, we were looking down at my guest house and then we were looking down on that point. It was awesome. There were some really scary parts where we nearly died, and we nearly got caught a couple times in really iffy places, but we managed to Ninja it up until the wee hours of the dawn and get away with it Scott-free. Thank Shiva that Babu wasn't chiding or put-off by letting us in at 3 in the morning. Au contraire, he smiled and told us there was some beer upstairs, his speech made almost unintelligible as usual by his bulging mouthful of paan. Actually and I continued to hang out until our separate departures by train (by this time I'd come clean about my ticket-swap).

Now I'm in Kajuraho. My room is twice as much as it was in Varanasi (a whopping $4 a night! Wow!), but it is twice as big with twice as big a bed and an attached bathroom, and food is hella expensive (Fuckin' three dollars for a Masala Dosa, you gotta be shitting me), but the town is nice and quiet and peaceful. Wide open streets, lots of room, easy to get to sleep at night. It won't be like sleeping in Varanasi. I won't be listening to little D running in circles screaming joyful sounds he can't hear while being chased by his grandpa until 5 AM, or Babu's grandmother shrieking in agonizing pain before she wanders dazedly out of her room and shits all over the stairs, or constant chants of "Ram Ram Satyahai" from funerals all night. It will be nice and chillaxed and clean.

I've got to get out of here as soon as possible.