Chapter 11

October 26, 2011

Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia

Dear Jeff,

It's 1:53 in the morning. I just got home from my first concert in Alice. We're talkin' small town living here bro...as close to Byron as a chap can get in the land down under. Well, hold up, I'm exaggerating a bit, I'm in the middle of the fuckin' desert. But that didn't stop Naughty By Nature from coming here, coincidentally on the last day of the Jeff Darling memorial. You son of a bitch. I can't wait to meet up with you again and talk about tonight. Seriously, there's no way you didn't have a hand in this happening. Thank you. They obviously played everything from our hey-days. Everything I know and love because of you, bumping it loud without limits in the basement of Cindy May's house, way back in the day when death and disease and responsibility seemed like a century away from us. We were untouchable and we didn't even fully know it. We were too young to realize what we had.

Thankfully, I'm lucky and aware enough to look back on that now.

What am I doing here in Alice? Maybe you know. I don't. I just know it feels right. I belong here for the time being until I wipe my financial slate clean and figure out the new what next. I forget a lot of important things that I shouldn't. But I'll never forget this time of year, and specifically the last solid life talk I had with you. We both shed tears. You were stoned and I was coked out. It was a rare occasion for both of us. You told me you wanted to leave town, maybe move to California and “Kramer” your way into show business. I supported that all the way. If anyone could've done it, it would've been you. I still believe that. It kills me that no one will ever see the stuff we filmed in Vancouver. What fucks me up the most is that losing my Mom made me stronger, but losing you made me doubt everything. I didn't know what to do for a long time. I guess I still don't. In the past three years since you've been gone I've made a lot of changes. Most recently, a very drastic one; I'm on my own again. If you ever want to interject on my life just throw something at me. I'll understand and respond accordingly.

P.S. Two things didn't work out tonight:  I was supposed to go back-stage with my buddy Joe, who is a magician. He was hired to perform tricks for Treach and the boys after the show and I was asked to be the camera man, but a bull-dyke security guard led me astray and I found myself outside amidst a shit load of pointless fights for taxis. I had to walk home alone in the darkness with a rolled up fist-full of coins. And the other thing is they didn't play “jamboree” and I was really pissed.

To the Vagrant Optimist,

                I'm just writing to remind you that you're moving to Australia in less than 3 days and maybe you should quite literally get your shit together and either ship it home or pack it into your dirty, green n' purple back-pack from the 80's.
First order of business; get some sleep, and try not to piss the bed like Tuesday. How old are you man?
Call me tomorrow morning when you're ready to jam. Every remaining hour in Thailand is valuable, so no more farewell drinks and dinners, kapeesh.

jfsdddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddjffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffjjjjjjjsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss


Try not to pass out on the keyboard either.


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A Disfunctional Diary of India- Day 47: The last 24 (or 48 ) hours

START FROM THE BEGINNING 

We were both on a natural high after such a humbling experience with the fellas in Karala, and because of that I'm having a hard time in accurately remembering what we did on this last day (it may have even been 2 days). We had spent the previous night back at the Namaskar hotel and walked to a ritzy movie theater to see 'The Hangover part 2'. The theater was impressive. The movie was a let down. When it was over we ran through a hard rain back to the hotel. Maybe I was hit by lightning, but for some strange reason I don't have much recollection of today's events, other than waiting to meet a famous tattoo artist on a three wheeler outside of a restaurant. He never showed up, and then we almost missed our train to the border, where we would cross into Nepal. It was the first air conditioned train we'd been on and as it zoomed past the farmlands the kids would throw rocks at the windows. I was reading, leaning my head on one that was hit and smashed on the outer pane. How could I forget that.
Next thing I knew, we were on a cramped bus with a leaky roof, eating seasoned cucumbers and enjoying the damp air of a dusty Nepali sunset.

One of my greatest accomplishments on this journey was the writing pursuit of this diary, which I successfully kept up with. Or maybe it was the diary that kept up with me. Hmmm.
Although my time in India was brief, it was a breath of something underrated, something incredible hidden behind a delicate curtain of misunderstanding and dirt. I entered the country without expectations and left with an awareness. A brand new feeling for life that hasn't faded and, if anything, it's still building. There are certain drugs that make the realistic world seem unrealistic. People use them to escape a time and place they don't want to deal with or more proactively, they use them to see outside the box and find a way to rise above it. But India is a drug in itself that makes an already unrealistic environment seem more realistic and easier for foreigners to grasp. It's definitely not for everyone. In fact, to fully embrace it one must let themselves go and check things like time, patience and sophistication at the door. They're not used much here. And it won't take long for this one country to change your perception about the rest of the world. In my case it took less than two months. Now that I'm removed from it I know that there's even more waiting to be discovered behind that fucked up curtain. Until then, Namaste.

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Chandigarh to Karala: Day 41- 46

Jon and I both woke up at the same time, in the same way. It was 10:00 and we were surprised and a little unsure where we were. Rony's little brother was sleeping calmly in between us in the middle of the bed. The other guys were out on the floor. We got up eager to take care of business and get on the road back to Delhi, but we knew we had to do it politely. Our spontaneous hosts had a whole day planned for us. They wanted to show us all over town and help them meet girls. It took some time to just settle on a breakfast and a quick visit with Nanu's father who had recently suffered from a mean stroke.
We wanted to be out of Chandigarh by noon, but it was difficult to neglect such genuine hospitality.
Golden Macenzie was fixed and road worthy, and there we stood, out in front of Rony's appartment as the clock leaned on 1:00. The fellas just couldn't bare to say goodbye, so they got on their bikes and rode with us to the edge of town where we shook hands and patted backs while in motion on the highway. Then Jon n' I punched it outta there like Fonda n' Hopper.
I don't remember when we entered Delhi and found our way back to Tony's bike shop, but there was time to walk to the liquor store for a cold Kingfisher before Tony showed up. While waiting in line there I had a few words with a drunk old boy who asked me if I liked whiskey. "It's practically my last name." I said. I'm sure he didn't understand me, but nonetheless he spun around and ordered a small bottle of single malt something-or-other and then placed it in my hands and kissed them. The only words I could muster in my surprise were "Donde-baht Bai", Thank you brother, in bad Hindi language. I know he understood that though, and he smiled and stumbled off down the dark, busy street.
We finally got to meet the face of Tony's bike shop and sit in his air conditioned office to discuss our journey and haggle over prices for minor repairs while we sipped on our Kingfishers. At one point he excused himself and left the office, so I used his phone to call Rimpy, one of the guy's we'd met in Khir Ganga. He was stoked to hear from us and quickly made arrangements to pick us up at the last sky-train station on the edge of the city. We had a lot riding on the hope that we could stay with these guys for at least a night or two. It would help our limited budget out severely. After getting our deposit back from Tony, we had 20,000 rupees ($427.26) each to carry us for the remaining 5 days in India and 15 days in Nepal (30 days for Jon). A bit tricky, considering this crew that we were on our way to meet. They were around the same age as us, and it was evident that they wanted to show us a good time. We would have to do our best to hold back. I felt bad at first because I couldn't remember any of their names except for Rimpy and Bundy, who were the most talkative. The funniest one in the group was short and pudgy with the mannerisms of John Belushi. We learned his name was Pawan when they picked us up at the station. With him was Rimpy and their friend they called 'Priest.' They called him that because he was a spiritual cat who liked to lecture.
The first place we went was Rimpy's appartment where the boys informed us that we needed to take a shower before we proceeded to their village. It hadn't occurred to me how haggard we were after that last long day of riding. It was pretty great to be clean again, but the hot shower made me tired, so we smoked the last of our charas to wake up for an evening without expectations. Little did we know then that one evening would turn into 5 days and 5 nights, living like long lost brothers with this tight-knit gang of Jat Indians in their unforgettable village of Karala. Sometimes life really does save the best for last. This was it right here. This lesser known village and it's next generation of leaders, taking us in as one of their own. It was all very natural at the time, but looking back on it now it feels surreal and I wonder why?
That first night in Karala we met up with the entire gang, including the guys we'd met in Khir Ganga and more. They had their own club house of sorts, which was called "the office." And it was technically the business quarters of Pawan's own cable company. We were still pretty faded and now into the whiskey. We felt comfortable enough to express how funny we thought it was that Pawan owned a cable company and we were all sitting around getting ripped at his office, which contained two squeaky couches, a warped wooden table and a kitchen in the back that looked like it had once been on fire. Like a sandlot team, the Karala boys took pride in introducing each other to us and describing what everyone did for work. They had a man for almost every occasion:
Priest was a teacher, Kala was studying to be a doctor, Rimpy was studying to be a journalist, Bunty was into some sort of business law, Mo was a cop, and the rest of them were players in Pawan's business, which we slowly learned was much more than a cable company.
Over the course of our days there we were taken to every household and introduced to the family of every guy in the core of the group. It was a humbling experience in which all of the elders touched our heads and blessed us. Then we were required to eat a meal. It didn't matter if we were hungry or not. It was customary. And so we left every house feeling bloated and ready for a thanksgiving nap. We slept and ate and drank more in those last days in Karala than we did during our entire journey through India. Those hospitable brothers would not let us pay for anything. At one point I foolishly asked why, to which Rimpy replied "We were taught to treat guests like gods." Amen to that boys.
At night we would always reconvene with everyone at the office for drinks and entertaining exchanges of questions and cultural differences. Jon n' I learned a lot of dirty Hindi words there and educated them in our own dialect as well. Indeed, I truly felt like I was in the Byron town of India. 
We slept almost every night at Pawans's house, in the room that he had spent the sacred first night with his wife in. There were still decorations taped on the walls.
Pawan's house was the place to be because it was located in the center of the village. We found out that Pawan, the loveable John Belushi type was the next in line to be the village leader. His grandparents had been the founders of Karala. There was a shrine for them in a small yard where the family's yak was kept. Because of his inheritance Pawan had his hands in the majority of the business that flowed through the village. Some it was illegal of course, but from what I could tell he did his best to keep it real and clean. It was generally drug free but there was a small gun trade which they joked about openly. In fact, during one of our visits to a family household there was an unloaded 9mm being played with. As I said earlier, it all seemed natural.  It may sound hard to believe but I felt comfortable and connected with this crew. They were on the rise of running the whole village from that office and part of me wanted to stay there and be a part of it.
On our last day the boys took us  out for lunch and a game of 8-ball on the most haggard pool table I've ever played on. Then it was a long goodbye at at the station. I realized how much we'd bonded by how we departed. There were even some tears shed, but I won't mention any names. And I won't forget their names either. They are my Indian brothers for life and I can not thank them enough or imagine a better way to finish our time in India.  Mere bhai theek ho!

Read Day 47

A Disfunctional Diary of India- Khir Ganga to Manikaran to Chandigarh: Day 40

I only use my mobile phone for it's alarm function now. It was set for 6:30AM. Up with the sun, gone with the wind. We had a long, long day ahead with lots of ground. It began with a fast paced hike out of the deep woods that separated Khir Ganga from everywhere else. We power walked our way through it, jumping streams and hopping over rocks like Fred Penner on a coke binge. We found a path that the village kids used everyday to walk to school in Barshani. They led us into the small town where we had cheap breakfast and waited for the bus back back to Manikaran. It wasn't so crowded this time so we sat inside on seats like normal people do. But I instantly wished I was back on the roof when a large group of gay Indian tourists began singing every lousy pop song they could think of, at top volume.

We arrived back in Manikaran before noon to reclaim our motorcylces and backpacks. Then we made a quick stop in Kasol to purchase chillums. The guy we bought them from, Rahul, was a good salesman, but he would not let us go without hitting his own personal chillum first. So once again we did something I didn't plan on doing but very much enjoyed... riding stoned. It helped us focus gain focus on our mission- to make it to Chandigarh in time for a well deserved meal at Sindy Sweets, the same classy restaurant we had indulged ourselves at the first night on the road. We drove all the way into the darkness of 10:00 night traffic. We had the determination of a waterproof match, but when we finally pulled into the parking lot of Sindy Sweets, the flame got stomped out. It was like a bad movie scene as we ran towards the entrance and the security guard put his hand out to halt us while he flipped the 'open' sign on its ass. Strike one. We kicked dirt and then borrowed a street vendors phone to make a call. We had previously made couch surfing arrangements to stay at someone's house, but the idiot wasn't even in Chandigarh that night. He was miles away in Khir Ganga, where we had just come from. Strike two. No place to stay, no food to eat, no patience left. The first priority was trying to hunt down a place to eat at almost 11:00PM. We were weak with hunger and couldn't think straight. We walked back to the bikes and discovered that Jon's back tire was dead flat. Strike three. On the brink of a public blow-up, we were approached by a little Nepalese dude who seemed to sense our misfortune. After many questions he led us to a local eatery and sat down with us while we ordered. I made a comment about his pen and he gave it to me and then left like a 10 minute angel. Never even got the guy's name.

The next task was finding a mechanic shop, where we would have to sleep on our bikes until it opened in the morning. We found a gas station where we filled Jon's back tire up, which gave us more time and distance to locate a mechanic. It took a frustrating hour of slow rolling all over the city with bad directions from everyone we asked. Eventually two cops pointed us to a gas station with a garage that would open at 8:00AM. There were a few drunken locals there who were very intent on helping, but Jon and I had reached the end of our rope and just wanted to rest. The only sober one in the group was sheepish looking kid named Romy. He invited us to stay at his flat, only 5 minutes away. It was a fairly easy decision, despite the fact that I'd wanted to sleep on my motorcycle the entire trip and this was the last opportunity.

It was obvious when we settled in at Romy's place, that we were the first foreign guests he'd had as company. Romy was freshmen in College and shared a small 2^nd floor flat with his little brother. His two friends, Vikky and Nanu came along too, excitedly offering snacks, taking pictures and asking innocent questions while we sat there trying to keep our eyes open. It was as if they had discovered a U.F.O., and as tired as we were, we did our best to hang out with them. We didn't get to sleep until 3:00AM, but we were grateful to experience the Indian hospitality we had only heard about until now.

Read Day 41 - 46

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Khir Ganga ( a day off ): DAY 39

I felt the heat of the sun on my back. I opened my eyes and peeked out of my sleeping bag to behold an amazing canvas of trees, mountains, sunlight reflecting off the moving water of a small creek and horses grazing in the fresh green grass. If I ever go blind I'll be sure to hang on to this morning as a perfect memory of the elements. I could have laid there in that grass for the day. We had no plans but to relax and sink into the bliss of the holy land. I did some morning stretches and deep breathing on a big flat rock. Even if you're not into yoga, a place like this has a way of inspiring a person to breath deep and give the body the daily respect it deserves.
We cleaned up our camp area and walked up to the hot-spring to take a dip. On the way we spotted our generous Indian friends.  They had rented a small cottage and were sitting on the steps like a baseball team photo. They looked pretty rough after 5 bottles of whiskey. We joined the roster and had some photos taken. Then we all went to take a bath. Afterwards Jon and I sat out in the sun and ate breakfast and wrote. The day was to be an official day off from everything. And it was. All we did was smoke charas and hang out in the bright openness of the valley. Sometime in the mid afternoon the brightness receded and the temperature dropped, so we went inside. The owner of the place shot us some crooked looks on account of the fact that we'd lounged their for most of the day and only bought a tea and two chapatis. So we ordered a huge vegetable sandwich and got really high with a group of Israelis that came in brandishing a crystal chillum. Eventually a storm forced everyone inside and the peaceful bohemian restaurant was packed with all walks of life, including a group whom we suspected were the Rainbow people. They were a quiet tribe of devout hippies who all seemed to be very musically inclined. They set up and strummed guitars and slapped small drums, providing enjoyment for everyone inside. It wasn't until the sun came back out that things became really lively. Coincidentally, a double rainbow formed in the distance, which got everyone up and outside, dancing and celebrating in the puddles and the lingering mist of the expired storm. The chillums went around in full effect. The guitars began to harmonize. Before long it was night and once again we had no place to sleep. The ground was way too wet and the Rainbow people, who were staying in a cave about 20 minutes away had abandoned it for the same reason. A muddy rush of water from the storm had flooded them out and now they too were looking for a comfortable place to lay.
The night was pressing on. I walked up to the hot-spring with a flash light to brush my teeth. On the way I stopped at one of the tea huts to ask if we could sleep on their floor. It wasn't a problem. We hung around and enjoyed the live music until midnight when the owner finally booted everyone and then we simply moved up to the spacious tea hut and fell asleep next to a warm stove, after a long day of doing sweet fuck all.

Read Day 40

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Tosh to Khir Ganga: DAY 38

I didn't crawl out of my sleeping bag until close to 10:00 this morning. I was still a little out of it from all the charas in my system. We set out on the path for Khir Ganga and found it to be a tricky start. There are many misleading paths that don't go to the holy land. Very metaphoric. The path we were on was a narrow rock face, which was no fun for a guy who still hadn't totally regained his equilibrium from the night before. We found our way safely, thanks to a European dude who was sitting on a rock in the middle of the woods. The rest was straight walking through the heat of mid-day. A few ups n' downs and one stop to refill our water and hit the chillum with two Israelis. About 30 minutes outside of Khir Ganga we came across a rambunctious group of Indians from New Delhi. They were in excellent spirits so we stopped and chatted with them and they gave us shots of whiskey. Then we went on ahead and entered the open valley of Khir Ganga- a heavenly spread of short, soft green grass with big rocks protruding through, amid a small ares of bohemian restaurants in the center. At the top was a natural hot-spring that cascaded down from the mountains. The Hindu religion has a lot of cool stories. This particular one about the hot-spring at Khir Ganga was about the Lord Shiva punching his fist into the earth to make the water forever hot so that his lovely wife could take baths.
          We had arrived in the valley at the perfect time of day. The sun was painting it's own portrait and we stood and absorbed the entire setting for all it's worth. Then we set up at a table outside the first restaurant we saw. We ordered plain chapatis for 5 rupees and then added our own ingredients that we'd brought. This was how we planned to live during our time in the holy land. We each had brought a bag of vegetables, porridge mix and dried soups. We would only spend about 25 rupees at a time in the restaurants. It would take discipline. The restaurants had incredible menus and of course everyone around us had money to burn on the mouth watering dishes. For a few minutes I wished I was a kid again, in the car on the way to the Olive Garden.
We walked up past another outdoor restaurant and sat down at a table with our new Indian friends we'd met on the trail. Jon pulled out a bottle of orange whiskey he'd been carrying since Jari and we drank. Our Indian buddies ordered 8 pizzas and insisted that we eat with them so we did. Just before the sun went down we went with them up to the hot-spring and engaged in the tradition of bathing while praising Shiva. It was a better feeling than the whiskey and charas combined, and I found it difficult to climb out of there as the mountain's coldness crept into the valley. I put on all the clothes I had fit into my small pack and was warm n' happy.
We'd gotten so caught up in all the food and holiness and now it was dark and we hadn't found the rainbow people or a campsite to call our own yet. Out came the flashlights and off we went in search of a spot. It didn't take long to find a nice clean little patch, which we marked with a toilet paper "X" and then headed back to the restaurant to hang out with the Indians again. All we had left to do was score some firewood.
Our friends were eating large again. We got along with them so well that we made arrangements to meet them back in New Delhi in a few days. Then we said goodnight and went off into the open darkness on another mission to build a fire pit and find stones to set up around it. The act of sleeping in the wilderness with a fire and no tent has got to be one of my favorite feelings in life. I only wish we did it more often.

Read Day 39

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Manikaran to Tosh: DAY 37

After a peanut butter porridge-mix sandwich we took a good look into our wallets and crunched some numbers. Jon's got 650 rupees (14 bucks), I've got 1200 rupees (26 bucks), and we've got only three days left with the bikes, leaving two days to get them back to New Delhi. What this means is that we can't stay anywhere for less 50 rupees and our eating habits can't be none too rich either. So, in our last act of salvation on 2 wheels, we've decided to seek out the holy land of Khir Ganga, where we anticipate some worthwhile options. Once we get there we can either set up our own campsite and sleep outside for free, or we can sleep on the floor in one of the small bohemian restaurants there for 50 rupees. It is also rumored that the Rainbow people are gathering in that area so we could even make company with them.
But first, we must find our way there, and of course, its not as easy as 1,2,3. Khir Ganga is a good 4 hour trek from the small village of Barshani, which means we'll have to leave our bikes there. But we don't know anything about Barshani, and feel the bikes are safer in Manikaran, under the watchful eye of our guest house friend, Mr. Tako. He agrees to look after our bikes and backpacks for 45 rupees. It's a somewhat risky move, but if you're not taking risks than you're not really traveling. So we take our sleeping bags and walk to the bus stop to wait for the bus to Barshani. It's 1:30PM and we have no idea when the bus is coming. In fact, we're not even standing in the right spot to catch it, but we don't know this yet. A bus rolls into town and off of it step the nice french couple we had met in the Spiti Valley. We chat briefly enough for them to direct us to the proper spot to catch our bus and then when we shake hands they pass over a generous nugget of charas. Good people. We walk up to the road leading out of town and sit down with a Baba, a girl from Madrid and a Swiss man who's lived and loafed around India for 4 and a half years. He's a real low-talker who's evidently done a lot of drugs. The time is sluggish, but the sun is out, so we smoke some charas with the Baba and enjoy the waiting game. When the bus finally shows up it's packed, way over capacity. There's a mad dash to get on it and Jon and I run around to the back to climb the ladders up to the roof rack. Many people see us and follow behind. As soon as we get up top, the bus begins to move with people still climbing on it in panic. It's an hour and thirty minute back breaking ride of the typical hair-pin turns on the side of mountains. We've become used to it, but this time there are obstacles to duck like tree branches and low hanging power lines. When the bus arrives in Barshani we quickly jump on the roof of a jeep. We don't know where it's going exactly, but we know it will shorten our 4 hour trek. The jeep takes us to a place called Tosh, where the road literally ends.
Now we're standing on a plateau overlooking the village proper and the unexpected sound of trance music cuts through the peaceful air. We get on a path that takes us to a small house where the music is coming from. There is a mixed group of Europeans and young Indians laboring on the foundation of another house. I ask the one guy if there's a place to sleep but he's too stoned to even put a sentence together. He looks to his friend for help and the other guy points me to a place on the edge of the plateau. It's a simple guest house called "The Last Resort". Best of all, it's only 35 rupees each. Our decision to save the remainder of the trek for tomorrow comes pretty easy. By now it's almost 6PM and we're hungry. Time to eat, smoke and kick back.
          We walk into the smoke house and strike up a conversation and a joint with a dude from Milwaukee who talks just like Norm MacDonald and is almost as funny. He's a golfer that never went pro and took off to India, leaving everyone at home baffled. Wish I could remember his name. He tells us about a few houses to check out that may have some music happening down in the village. I eat another peanut butter and oatmeal sandwich after dark and then we set off on a blind walk into Tosh village. We don't find a note worth of activity, but still get an entertaining trip-out from glow in the dark caterpillars that look radioactive. On the way back to our guest house we stop at the small shanty type place that was playing the trance music earlier. There's a tent set up outside and three funky lookin' Indians buzzing around. In the middle of them is a big fat Slovak. He invites us to come have a smoke. We don't know what we're in for, and there's nothing else going on anyway so we make ourselves comfortable and the night unfolds in a barrage of non-stop charas, stories and freaky characters.
                 Here's the story; The Slovak had come to India a few years ago and fallen in love with the budding industry of charas in the untouched region of Tosh. He dropped his anchor in the Parvati valley where he met Patil, the cool, collected Indian sitting beside us. Patil had a good head on his shoulders. It didn't take long to figure that out. The plateau that we were sitting on, over-looking the village, it belonged to him. He had been trying to round up friends to help him build a business there, so it was a match made in some weird heaven when he met the Slovak, who wanted to build his own home rather than pay rent. The Slovak had money, Patil had virgin land. They shook hands and hired the Tosh locals to build a shanty with two rooms and one kitchen. It took 10 days to complete and was by no means professionally done at all, but it seemed stable enough. The new house they were working on now that we saw today is to be a restaurant. The tent set up outside was where the cook and 2 waiters were sleeping. They were friends of Patil's from another part of the valley and had come to help build the restaurant that they would eventually work in. We met all of them in a circle as Patil passed around his chillum. It was impressive. Made of black Italian clay- one of the most expensive chillums on the chillum market. I should have known right then and there that this crew of entrepreneurs were pro smokers. It was a religion for them and the Slovak had fully embraced it as well. Every time they hit the chillum they would yell out "Booomba Shivaaaa!!!" and exhale a mighty cloud.

Eventually we go into Patil's tandoori room, which I'm going to have in my house (if I ever have a house). It is essentially a room with nothing but pillows on the floor and a small cast iron stove in the middle. There is an amazing speaker system in there that probably costs more than the entire shanty.
We continue to smoke and talk inside until I realize that there is a shady looking character sleeping in the corner of the room. Before I can even hope that he won't wake up, two beady red eyes are staring, specifically at Jon and I. The old man gets up and walks out rather abruptly.  In the three long steps that he takes to exit I already have myself convinced that this man has seen war and most likely killed with his bare hands. He is old looking, but still appears to have the shape of a man containing brute strength. A naturally intimidating figure with a clean bald head covered by a driver's cap from the 1920's.  Jon and I look at each other with wide, baked eyes that bellow "Did you see that fuckin' guy!??" Patil notices our reaction and another story unfolds.
              "His name is Andre. He goes out very early in the morning and walks a different part of the forest every day. Then he comes back here at dark and he sleeps.  "Is he mad at us for waking him up?" I ask.  "No, he just needs to smoke." And with that Patil loads the chillum up to the brim and calmly yells out some words in Hindi. Within minutes, Andre, the Slovak and one of the waiters enter and sit down. Andre takes the honorary first toke and blows our minds. The man is a barbarian. He hits the thing harder than Joe Carter and shouts some crazy shit that sounds like french cursing. Our eyes go wide again. But, Andre turns out to be a very entertaining character. After he gets high he's more like a cave child, communicating in mainly grunts and hand signals. After we let it be known that we're heading for Khir Ganga, he offers to guide us on a shortcut there. At this point we're feeling pretty okay with accepting the offer, except that he's leaving at 6:00 in the morning. We know already that's gonna be rough for us because it's going on 1AM already and I'm so faded I can't walk. Jon has to steer me back to our place where I stop to puke in the out-house. "Nothin' but peanut butter!" I mutter in my best Lou Brown impression. It always helps to have a sense of humor.


Read Day 38

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Mateura to Kasol to Manikaran: DAY 36

The Village Guest House up in Matuera was the most eye-opening place I've stayed at yet. I honestly wanted to hang around a few more days just to get to know the family that ran the place. They were 3 generations worth of genuine human beings. They had an honest business that suited an honest life. Everything seemed exactly as it was there. Nothing hiding behind anything. No reading between the lines. It was hard to say goodbye to. Before we left we took 10 minutes to show the youngest in the family how to start an Enfield. I think he was about 8 years old, but he wanted to learn and wasn't afraid to ask.
It was an easy ride to Kasol where we stopped for lunch, internet and writing. I also pulled the trigger on a jar of %100 authentic peanut butter, which I've been exulting like a new God ever since. We spent a little over an hour in Kasol, perched up in a second level bar, watching bus loads of euro-trash backpackers go up n' down the road.  As soon as we got on the bikes to leave town it started to rain. For some reason it pissed me off. Maybe it was the sight of all the tourists all over the road, but who the hell was I to be such a cynic about it. Fuck me. I've gotten the same looks from people who've been in a place for a long time and think they belong there. Fuck them too. Still gotta lotta growin' up to do.
            Manikaran wasn't much further away, and it turned out to be pretty busy too, but not with tourists. Manikaran is an extremely holy place with a hot spring that runs through it, reaching temperatures of 94 degrees Fahrenheit. There are cement streams and gutters everywhere and people literally cook their rice and vegetable on pots placed in the moving water. It's unbelievable. Very unbelievable.  Sikhs and Hindus gravitate here on a pilgrimage to bathe in the hot water and cleanse the hell outta themselves. It's a lot like the scene at the Ganges river but way cleaner and more comfortable. The streets in Manikaran are so narrow that cars can't enter the city very far, but a motorcycle can just squeeze by, so Jon n' I prowled along looking for a guest house, trying not to sound like the short-dick idiots that bounce down the main drag in Grand Bend. But it's hard to keep an Enfield from sounding mean.
We met a man named Tako who gave us what we wanted; a cheap room and free access to one of the hot spring baths in the area (of course people have to pay to bathe in the natural mystic water that comes from the earth. Religion is a business, remember?). He let us park our bikes in a safe spot and then gave us a sample of Cream charas to smoke in the tub. His hospitality was top shelf. We knew that smoking that shit was going to be a commitment so we took a good walk to explore the town and temples first. The lightly falling rain caused the hot spring to steam up an amazing aura around the main temple. It was National Geographic-worthy and I let it go.
We had a local dish of veg thali and then let ourselves get cold in anticipation for the hot bath. Everything was in slow motion after smoking the cream and then hopping in the water. It did wondrous things to my sore back. Afterwards I took a cold shower. It was my first time bathing with soap in two weeks. I was in there for almost an hour, cleaning myself and a pair of pants I'd forgot to wash the day before. Plus I got lost in the mirror for a while too. I was that stoned. I thought of some great things though, and then I wrote them down. 


Read Day 37

A Disfunctional Diary of India - The "sacred village" of Malana: DAY 35

The first thing we did today was relax in the sun, out in the orchard style setting of the Village guest house. What a place. I purposely did not take many photos or video because I wanted to leave it all to fond memories.
We were joined in the yard by two South Africans and a Swedish hippie who'd be staying there for 8 weeks because the location of Matuera served as a good home base in the centre of other known villages in the area. He informed us about a gathering of the rainbow people in a place Khir Ganga. Once again, another reference to the rainbow people. We were getting closer to figuring out who and what these characters were all about.
We had some breakfast and then willingly did some chores we'd not been able to do for quite some time. Things like hand washing our clothes and cutting goblin like toe nails. It was such a warming environment that we smoked some early breaths of charas and puttered around until mid day. Then it was time to go and see what was so special about the village of Malana. As usual, we had heard about it from other travelers.
The story behind Malana is more of a legendary tale that goes back to the days of the greeks, when Alexander the great and his soldiers are said to have taken refuge in the village and then proceeded to fornicate with the locals, making the inhabitants of Malana today the descendents of Greek warriors. That's how the story goes. And it's a pretty good story, however it does come with some silly but strictly enforced rules for outsiders who visit the village. Ironically, it is these rules, along with the legend that attract people like us to seek the place out.  The first rule is that outsiders are not allowed to enter the village and walk on the grounds until they are invited in by a local. Once inside the village of Malana, outsiders are not allowed to touch the villagers or any of their belongings. This includes the walls of houses. If you happen to break one of these rules you'll have to pay a fine and your money will go toward the purchase of a goat, which will be sacrificed in a ceremony to purify whatever it was that you touched. Despite how ridiculous it all may sound, it helps to understand that Malana is one of the oldest democratic societies in the world and although it has subjected itself in small ways to modernization, the villagers work hard to maintain their detailed traditions.
           Jon and I hopped on our bikes and rode to the gates of a hydro electric complex that guarded the road to Malana. We had to show our passports to get in, and then carried on along the developed road until we reached a check point where we had to park our bikes and walk it from there. It used to take about 4 days to reach Malana, but now thanks (or no thanks) to the hydro electric project it only took 4 hours. The journey on foot started on a road that was used for hydro electric vehicles only. We hadn't been walking more than 5 minutes when we were greeted by 4 dogs - a mother, a father and two puppies about 10 months old. After a brief stop to say 'hello' they followed along side us as we continued our walk. When the road ended, a long climb up a twisting man-made staircase began. It consisted of natural white marble stones that were staggeringly beautiful but looked hard on the knees. There was a small group of people at the base of the path who had just returned from Malana. They said it would take 1 and a half to 2 hours to reach the top. By now it was 3 o'clock, which meant we only had a few more hours left until dark, so we had no choice but to grind the shit outta this mountain path.
Fifty minutes later we stood looking down into the valley that held Malana. I was proud that we hoofed it up there so fast, but even more than that I was proud of the dogs. The mother and one of her pups had journeyed all the way up with us. The other young one didn't want to do it so the Papa dog took him back.
We figured that the dogs were our invitation into the village. They practically led us in, so we entered without talking to anyone. In terms of appearance I didn't know what to expect, but I didn't expect what I saw. The place was trashed with garbage and animal mud everywhere. It was not pretty or sacred looking at all. We saw only woman and children at first and they displayed a silent arrogance to us that made me laugh. We walked through the village until we saw a big house that was painted with more color than the rest. Up until that point we hadn't engaged in any conversation with anybody. It was evident that this house was a guest house of sorts and the people that ran it were more open to foreigners in the village. They guys there were friendly and let us sit on the veranda that overlooked the village. We chilled out there and had a meal while our guide dogs took a nap.  Jon befriended a young local who seemed drunk. He brought out a photo album and showed us pictures of a tremendous snow storm that rocked the village some time ago (I don't recall when). Then he tried to sell us some 'cream charas' - which is regarded as the best quality hash in the world. It is produced only in Malana and therefore makes the village sacred in another way. 'Cream' should typically sell for 1000 - 1,800 rupees, but nowadays it's more like 2000 for a tula (10 grams). We had to decline for many reasons.
On our way out of the village we met an Indian man who provided his personal explanation of Malana and it's people: "For them there is no India or North America, or any other part of the world. There is only Malana.  They believe they are better than you because of their history and because you westerners eat the holy cow."  I loved his answer when we asked him what would happen if we had to pay a fine of 1000 rupees but didn't have the money (because we didn't).
"They will most likely kill you" he said without a hint of humor.  And with that, Jon and I, along with the two dogs, walked ourselves down the mountain path in 40 minutes. On our way back to the bikes the sky cracked open again and began a light assault of raindrops. Eventually we found the papa dog and the other puppy waiting and wagging tails under shelter. The papa dog respectfully walked us to our bikes and then we were back on the road, coasting through puddles on our way back to Jari. We rode out of the storm and into town with time to buy vegetables and check email. But once again we were forced to make the challenging drive in the dark, up the narrow path to our guest house in Matuera. This time though, it was muddy from the rain, and this time I ate dirt. Rather than go off the edge, I turned into the hill and my bike did a face-plant into the mud. Other than the shock of it, both me and Laura-Jean were ok. As I picked her up a young boy appeared out of nowhere, smiling from ear to ear. "Did you see that wipe out?" I said to him excitedly. He didn't understand. He just kept smiling. I made it back to the Village guest house, parked the dirty bike and went inside to warm up with soup and a sandwich.


If you're curious about Malana check this out.


Read Day 36

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Jalori Pass to Matuera: DAY 34

I got high as hot heaven and slept like a baby last night in that shack. Then felt like the first man awake in the whole world this morning. Even though Jon had been up for hours, hangin' out over at one of the other tea huts.  I sat down and had a drink with him while he caught up on some writing. For the first time in a long time I didn't finish my breakfast. My stomach was talking to me again and it was about to start cussing n' yelling so I passed the plate over to Jon who was rather surprised. We set out on hike to a small lake where we had planned to wash our clothes and ourselves for the first time in over a week. On the way we both stopped to take truly magnificent shits behind two giant boulders about 15 feet away from each other. It was a great moment of conversation between us, and nature even paused to listen in.

          The lake was more like a big pond, nestled into a bright clearing of the woods, with a rocky cliff that overlooked it like the Lion King's perch. The water was too stagnant to clean anything so we climbed up to the perch and basked in the sun while vultures with beautiful markings soared overhead.
         Jalori Pass was surprisingly crowded with students on a field trip when we returned from our hike. They gathered around and stared with curiosity as we loaded up our bikes to depart for Jari. By now we were used to this sort of attention. Jon pulled out his camera to snap a photo of us with our shopkeeper friend and it haphazardly domino'ed into a series of pictures with all the students and pretty much everyone present there on the pass that day. It took us a little longer to get outta there than we planned but it was a good scene. We rolled down the mountain trail into the city of Bhuntar, where we found ourselves in a ridiculous traffic jam. Fuck it. We shifted into neutral and watched the clock tick, while the anarchy of Indian road "etiquette" sorted itself out. The rain clouds made their daily afternoon appearance as we finally exited Bhuntar with many kilometers remaining. I didn't want to do it, but I knew we had to keep riding into the storm ahead. We were completely soaked to the bones in no time, and after that nothing mattered but getting to our destination in one piece. We entered a tunnel that was hollowed into the center of a mountain. It was a long, dimly lit and dusty venture with an increase in fast traffic and decrease in visibility. But just like every dumb fairytale, we came out into a whole new world on the other side. The darkness of the harsh rain clouds was non-existent. There was only sun and colorful people everywhere. For a brief second I almost thought I'd been killed in the tunnel and was now riding through the after-life. The transition was that different. Where we were was the Kulu Valley- a seasonally tourist area of India that is infamous for cream of the crop charas and a large population of Israelis ( I should also mention the mysterious disappearances of people due to the drug culture here). The atmosphere had changed drastically and we were competing for the road with many cars n' trucks again. On a long swinging corner Jon's clutch cable snapped, so we had to pull over, where we were almost instantly greeted by a pack of young Indians with frat-boy swagger. They took a solid gander at the Enfield named Golden Macenzie and then shouted down the street to a kid who came running like he'd been waiting for us all day. He was up inside that bike faster than a sex fiend. It was disgustingly impressive. He installed a new cable and then found more problems; the spring on the kickstand had busted and the wiring for the electrical part of the bike was loose n' hairy. To get all that shit repaired we had to ride to the city of Kulu itself. It was a frustrating go for Jon, but we were lucky enough to find a kick-ass mechanic shop run by a bunch of young cats who took pride in repairing Royal Enfields. It was also the most enjoyable time I've ever spent at an auto shop. The youngest dude, Ari, reminded me of my old Vancouver roomie n' British brother, Benjamin Wise, in both looks and personality. We hung out and ate and bullshitted until the sun went down and the bike was fixed. Then, for the second time that day, we did something I didn't really wanna do, but knew we should. We drove in the dark all the way to Jari. It was just about and hour's journey up and around the mountain roads, with nothing but the moon and the occasional flash of lightning to provide a better perspective of the road. I sang 90's tunes loud inside my helmet to keep my wits about me. We arrived in Jari behind a herd of sheep and three shepherds taking up the entire road. The town was already asleep. There was a light on in one un-appealing guest house. I was prepared to sleep on my bike before that. We were so tired we had almost forgotten about Matuera, the micro-village above Jari, with rumored cheap lodging. We asked and received directions from a local who strictly re-iterated that we follow a narrow path up the hill in first gear. His instructions: "Go up, only first gear, the whole way. Not second gear, only first gear. Don't stop. First gear, all the way up."
I gotta admit I felt the fear when I heard him say that and then I imagined how treacherous this path was going to be in the dark. But there's always a motivator if you look for it. If you really want it. The challenge of maneuvering up this last stretch to reach some holy grail of a guest house was what it was all about. And fuck me, was it ever a challenge. The road was only about 7 feet wide with tight turns, steep inclines and deep grooves that could swallow a tire. This required all senses at full capacity. We did as we were told- first gear all the way. Somehow I knew we would make it safely as soon as we started and that put me in a giddy mood as if I was playing a video game. The Enfields climbed with the confidence of a mountain goat. Although I really don't know shit about motorcycles, I would stand behind the performance of Laura Jean and Golden Macenzie that night.
            Matuera was a quaint little village with wheat and marijuana growing everywhere. The Village Guest House was the first light we saw and we were greeted by one of the owners who waved us in through a gate where we parked and walked to the main house within a flowery courtyard of plants and furniture. It didn't matter how much the room was, we were gonna take it. It was only 75 rupees each (under $2.00- the best deal yet).  From there, things just got better. The room had a couch, two chairs, a table and a screen door. Cloud fuckin' nine! Tunes, charas and chess until 1:00AM. All's well that ends well. 

Read Day 35

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Recong Peo to Jalori Pass: DAY 33

We left at 7:00am sharp and skipped out on the dinner bill. Trust me, they deserved it. We were eager to wind up somewhere in the Banjar Valley by the end of the day. Once again we gunned it, as safe n' smooth as we could. Some serious road work with explosives and huge falling boulders being moved by heavy machinery delayed us by about an hour. We made two stops, outside n' inside Rampur. Another welding job for Laura Jean- this time it was the carriage rack. And then an internet stop to make contact with one Mr. Vishnu Helper, our man in Nepal. We'd been informed by the Israelis, who'd just come from there, that the monsoon season was on the way and that our plans to trek the Annapurna circuit may be thwarted. The city of Rampur was rampant with hot, bustling action. We had to park our bikes a distance away from the internet place, so we bought a big half of watermelon from a street vendor and asked him to watch them for us.  Jon got locked into a conversation with a guy that seemed like a waste of time at first but payed off in the end. He provided directions by a smaller, more secluded way to our destination. It was all ours; a narrow, but smooth road that slithered rapidly through the mountains, progressively enfolding sunspots of greenery. By late afternoon the cold, snow-capped landscape was behind us, and we felt as if we were driving through the fresh forests of B.C. again. Jackets came off and sleeves rolled up. It was camping country, and we drove with eyes open wide for a place to set up as we kept on toward Banjar. Finally, we reached a high point, where the road leveled off to a shelf of seven chai shops and a monastery. We stopped there for a meal, knowing it would likely be the last modest place before hitting the lowlands touched by tourism. The shop owner was as friendly as they come. He dressed like a bartender of a wild west saloon, with a mustache that curled slightly at the ends. He cooked us cheap, hot, delicious food and then offered us 10 grams of charas for 200 rupees, which re-up'd our supply to last for the remainder of the journey. It was another 30km to Banjar and once again there were thunderous dark clouds advancing on us. There was one spare room available at the side of one of the chai shops. It was perfect, in the most haggard sort of way, with yellow newspapers and faded posters as wallpaper. There was a floor board in the center of the room that shook the entire place when stepped on. I will forever compare this small living quarter with every place I sleep from now on. The shop owner came to have a smoke with us once we were settled. We got acquainted with the small cast of locals and spent the rest of the evening playing chess in a smokey chai hut, with a storm that sounded like dinosaurs fucking outside. 

Read day 34

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Kaza (return) to Recong Peo: DAY 32

Back to 97% health. We joined the two Israelis we met the day before and had an Israeli breakfast out in the front yard of Jamaica's place. We had a good hug out with the memorable man Jamaica and were on the road by 9:30, hoping to make it to Rampur by dark, but doubting it. We rode harder and faster than normal, stopping once for cookies n water. As we rolled back through Recong Peo I noticed that the front wheel well of my bike had cracked and was about to fall off. It needed to be welded right away. I found a mechanic shop that was buzzing like a hive while Jon found an internet spot. I hung out there at that shop for over an hour, comparing my dirty hands to theirs. They spoke no English whatsoever, but there was a level of mutual respect that was evident in our similar appearances. The weld job was only 100 rupees. When I met up with Jon it was 5:00pm and the sky was about to unload some mad rain. We decided to shut 'er down and stay the night at the same guest house we had found before. The room was exactly how we left it. We smoked our last joint of charas and then tried to place an order at the kitchen. It was an awkward disaster. After the lousy dinner we planned our next day, played a game of chess, wrote and hit the bed.
I had this day chalked up as one of our least positive days on the road, but looking back on it now I gotta laugh. All setbacks aside, we were still free and on the move. That's not something a lot of people can say honestly. And it makes me think hard. When one starts taking the great simplicities for granted, it's time for a soulful uppercut.

Read Day 33

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Buddha's Birthday in Kaza: DAY 31

It started with a sleep in. Then a breakfast of melba toast n' veg. When we went outside to tighten up the bikes and fill up for our long trip to Rampur we found that Jon's bike, Golden Macenzie had been tampered with, and not at the same level as the previous village kid stupidity. No, no. This was a full blown attempted theft that would have been successful if the front wheel hadn't been locked. The bastards had got the bike started and left it on when they abandoned it because of the lock. The battery was plum-rot dead, which gave us a bit more to do with our morning. The blossoming village of Kaza was more like a really small town. They had a new monastery with a fresh and colorful paint job and so it was decided that Buddha's birthday would be celebrated there. We got a formal invite from our buddy Jamaica, who we pinned as the unofficial mayor of Kaza, and then we learned more from Dorje in Kibber, that all neighbouring villages in the Lahaul / Spiti region would be making the trip to celebrate in Kaza. By noon it was nearly filled to the brim with people. Jon and I walked up the only street in the town, through the white-washed houses, across the river to the new monastery where every able-bodied Buddhist and/or Hindu had flocked to wish the big guy a happy one. We had missed the song n' dance so we walked around the spacious grounds and scoped out a lot of happiness. We entered the main prayer hall of the monastery and were floored by the paint job and the skill that went into the wall art. We paid birthday respect by giving the traditional three bows to the giant gold Buddha statue and within a matter of minutes later, we were rewarded with free a lunch that was incredible. In search of a place to sit down and eat we found Eli the Israeli fiddler and Agee the intellectual Indian, with two more Israelis and a 50 year old Hungarian dude who swore constantly, as if he just learned the F-word. We sat around and ate in a circle, talking about travelling (what else) and where the best food was in every village or stop along Highway 22. We all walked back to the heart of the town looking for Jamaica for different reasons. I just wanted a bottle of apple whiskey. My plan was to catch a buzz while playing chess n' watching cricket at Jamaica's restaurant. But when I stopped in at our guest house I was hit with a huge wave of lethargy, so heavy that I had to lie down. An hour later I was fighting world war three in the bathroom that didn't have running water.  My night was pretty much over, but I still had things to do. I had to settle a bill with Jamaica and deliver a bottle of apple whiskey to the Hungarian who had tossed me some cash. I drank some electrolytes (a traveller's saviour) and went out into the chilly night. I got everything accomplished, with one brief intermission of puking my guts out, which made me feel good enough to hang around and watch some criket at the restaurant. Then I yakked up a litre of water on the walk home and went to bed trying to figure out the lesson of the day. I couldn't come up with anything.

Read Day 32

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Kibber to Kie Gompa to Kaza: DAY 30

A frustrating beginning to the day prevented us from making it to Kie Gompa on time for morning 'Puja' – meditation, prayers and offerings to the Gods (and free porridge). It was an easy 7km from Kibber, and we were up n' ready to go with time for Chai. But when we went to fire up the dusty bitches, I found a small stick jammed into the ignition key slot. The teen-dude-brat squad of the village had taken a liking to our bikes. We had noticed but never expected a dumb move like this.

When I was a real young turd, I stabbed holes in the dashboard of my Dad's new car for no reason but childish curiosity. Curiosity for what? I still don't know. It was the only time I can remember getting spanked. Finally, I can completely share that anger my Pop's felt. It took Jon and I just a shade under a bloody hour to fix the ignition and as we rode out of town I wanted to kick every boy we passed on general principal.

It was 9:00am when we arrived at Kie Gompa. The 'Puja' was over. I could smell the leftover porridge as we entered the monastery grounds. One of the monks greeted us and took us to a very old kitchen that felt more like a cave. There we were introduced to a monk named Tenzin. Every monk in the monastery is delegated different duties that they carry for a full year. The concept is to become as professional at your duties as possible in those 365 days. And when it's over, you take on a new duty and pass your last ones on to other monks. These are things like cooking, making trips to the village for supplies, painting, and serving as an English speaking spokesman to all visitors. Yeah, there aren't too many monasteries that have spokesmen but a place like Kie Gompa is in the monastery Hall of Fame. Tenzin was a tenacious monk who was as hyper-active as a monk can be. He had come to live in the monastery at the age of 8 and had been present for the last two visits from his holiness, The Dalai Lama. He took us up to the decorated room where his holiness stayed. There was so much art to look at, and so many questions to ask about Tibetan Buddhism. That's where Jon n' I first got interested in Thangka art. Tenzin was doing his best to explain the meaning of the Buddhamandala and TheWheel of Life, but he couldn't always get the words right. He kept writing his English blunders on a small pad of paper he kept at his side. Then, like classic Shakespear, our Indian friend Agee entered the room and I recognized him right off the bat- he was the guy who taught me the rules of Cricket, seven days back in Sarahan. He had made it to Kie Gompa by hitching a ride with the jeep-full of Americans we met the same night. Agee turned out to know even more about Tibetan monasteries than Cricket. The dude had done his homework, and was happy to act as a tour guide alongside Tenzin. We spent the rest of the morning in the monastery and learned a lot about reincarnation. I admired how strong Tenzin's faith was in the Buddhism. I'll probably never know that kind of faith, but I respect the hell out of it. Some carpe diem type cats from Goa had just set up a small restaurant and guest house near the Gompa, so we had a meal there and then Jon n' I took an hour to hike up to the top of rocky mountain that overlooked the entire region of Kie. We headed back to Kaza in the mid afternoon. It was a slow, peaceful ride because I had Agee on the back of my bike. He was coming to Kaza for the same reason as us; the next day was Buddha's birthday and there was a festival in town. It was sunny n' warm when we arrived and checked into our cheap guest house with no running water, but a spectacular view of the mountains. I walked over to Jamaicas to pick up our backpacks that we'd left with him. Jon took Golden McEnzie to the mechanics again. I forget what the problem was this time. It took quite a while to find Jamaica, but eventually he hooked us up with two bottles of home-made apple whiskey, which we took back to our room and sipped on while playing chess with the windows open. Neil Young provided the soundtrack and Agee showed up to teach us the strategy of proper “castling”. Jon won his second game against me before we went for a late dinner at Jamaica's restaurant. He was making chicken curry just for us. It was our first time eating meat in a month. I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would, but it was good.

We had a relaxing pow-wow with Jamaica, who brought a third bottle of apple whiskey. I think I liked him a lot because he reminded me of Flan- always either workin', drinkin' or eatin' (sometimes all at the same time). He talked about his big plans for the future of Spiti valley and I agreed to help him with a website he was working on (it's not very good at the moment). We also talked about the Rainbow people, with whom he'd hung out with for 2 days. I don't remember where or when I'd first heard of them, but I'm a bit intrigued. The apple whiskey tasted strong, but didn't last. So Jon and I stretched the night out, smoked some more charas and played two more games of chess. Tomorrow is the rubber match. 

 Read Day 31

A Disfunctional Diary of India - A full day in Kibber: Day 29

I woke up this morning and realized that almost every dollar I have to my name is in a soft leather wallet in my back pocket. Come to think of it, they aren't even dollars, they're rupees. About 10,000 of em' to be exact, and no major assets or possessions except for my video camera, which was cheap as chips, and my Mac, which I left in Thailand. Nearly everything I brought out to South East Asia over 20 months ago, I've left behind or sold at the Sunday night market. I haven't changed my clothes in well over a week (for Jon I think, it's been longer).  I brush my teeth, wash my face and exercise my mind everyday. I obviously haven't shaved. My skin is dark, my hands are calloused and my back is sore. But this, what I'm doing with my life right now, it's my favorite thing to do. It's a labor of love with no payment. And if you think traveling is not a labor than you should stay at the 5 star commercial resort where you belong. It's not about a new stamp in the passport anymore, it's about the life changing moments of culture shock, the unfathomable inspiration, the long distance friendships that survive on the memory of a few hours in a place you'll never be again. It's the academics of the world.

When I walk outside and absorb my surroundings, it's all I need. Regrettably, I know this feeling will pass, despite my efforts to keep it alive. For now though, money and material things don't hold the value of a sunset or an honest act, or a clear, open road. I'm both proud and a bit worried that when I do return to a Western style of living, that it won't make as much sense to me. There's a huge difference between physical happiness and spiritual happiness. The latter being more elusive. Most of us live in a state of physical happiness, and right now, at this moment, I'm not so sure that's for me. But damn, how fast things can change....

Some other things happened today too.

We gave the bikes a rest and spent the late morning cooking n' writing in the sun, out on Dorje's 12'x15' patch of grass. We hiked up to a plateau at about 4,600 meters, overlooking the village of Kibber and revealing another secluded village off in the distance. We had heard that there was a cable car that ran across to it so we set off in that direction. On the way we ran into a pack of local kids demanding chocolate. I gave em' the last of my candy and they hung out with us for a while, talking our ears off in a mix of English and Spiti dialect. It was almost 3:00pm when we found the cable car. The walk was longer than expected, on a dusty desert road. So much space around us- made me feel like a field mouse. Dorje had told us that the cable car was free and only took 5 minutes to cross the canyon. When we saw the bloody contraption we understood why it was free, but had a hard time believing that such a thing was used on a daily basis. The cable car was a metal basket rigged up as a pulley system that hung on a heavy chairlift wire. It was not electric. Once inside the basket, the single passenger had to manually pull themselves across to the other side using a guide rope.

Jon n' I sat down on the rocks and scratched our heads while applying the classic convincing conversation tactics that cause us to do the crazy things we do. If Matty Munro was there we would've been over that canyon and back by now, but the jam just wasn't in us today. No jam.

Before we walked away from it we were met by an Israeli named Eli, who was also astonished by the sight of the cable car. He sat down and pulled a violin out of his ass and played a glorious symphony tune. It set a pretty high bar for the most random moments I've experienced. We left him, still undecided about trying the cable car, and walked back to the village. About 2 hours later he strolled into Dorje's yard with the same chocolate mongering kids following him. We all went out onto the road and played with them until we heard the hurd of cows, yaks, sheep, goats and donkeys all being led back to the village for the night. It was an amazing scene as we watched the small population of villagers, both young and old, running to gather at the entrance road to help round up the slow stampede. This was totally everybody's favorite part of the day. Jon n' I joined in, running around with the animals shouting “Hyah!” Jon was even able to get on a donkey, which ran him up a set of stairs and then bucked him off. Smart ass. After all that excitement it was dinner time. One of the trigger reasons we were staying another night in Kibber was so we could try Dorje's momos. He told us they were special and that's all it took to convince us. They definitely were the best I've had. Best chili sauce too. I got the recipes for both. Afterwards we smoked charras with Eli and brushed our teeth under a fat, full moon.

Update: The website for the Serkong Kibber Homestay is up. 

Read Day 30

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Kaza to Kibber: Day 28

Porridge and melba toast for breakfast. Followed by a stop at the Mechanic's for a new clutch handle and then we were up n' away, ascending out of the Spiti Valley towards Losar. The state of Himachal Pradesh can be navigated in a convenient circuit during a generous period of time that begins in early June and runs favourable road conditions as late as November. But this was the mid-month of May however, which left it a guessing game for road authorities and tenacious riders alike. There was no telling how far the road would go and/or if the Rhotung Pass that connects the Spiti Valley (where we were) to the Kullu Valley (where we wanted to go) was open or closed. In the tradition of Vagrant Optimism we asked check point officials what the status of the road to Kullu was whenever we could. They all said the same thing: “You won't get much farther than Losar.” So there was, of course, a personal challenge issued and a good looking day to do it in. We hit Losar in no time and rode right past it with balls-out mentality. If we could make it through the Rhotung Pass (which in Tibetan means the pile of corpses) than we had a shot at making it all the way to Kullu and Manali. If we didn't make it, we would either meet our demise to whatever the hell was obstructing the road, or we would have to turn around and drive all the way back the way we came.

It was most definitely the hairiest part of our journey. The road was a series of narrow, hair-pin turns going up an unpaved, rocky terrain. We climbed above 3000 meters in first gear and found ourselves riding with heavy snow on either side of us. It was a bitter cold, but the sun was out, melting the snow into streams of water ran down from the mountains in puddles beyond pools in the middle of our path. We rode through them with our feet up on the leg guards of our bikes and took our time to navigate every obstacle and turn while the road got relentlessly muddier and more challenging. “If one of these ladies (bikes) goes down, we're surely fucked.” I thought out loud. And with that we reached a formidable patch of snow that completely blanketed the road. We could go no further. It was a soft-serve ice cream mix of chocolate and vanilla – relief and disappointment. Lick it up and turn back.

We paused at a majestic summit point to take photos and were about to sit down and make lunch when Jon noticed the dark clouds moving in on us, almost at eye level. It didn't take us too long to get back on the main road that would lead us to Kibber, where we would spend the night. A little outside of Kaza we were waved down by a small group of workers on the side of the road. They invited us for a fresh made pot of chai, so we pulled over and brought some melba toast to our side-o-the-road sit down. We made some hilarious small talk and took some photos, then carried on to Kibber. The road that led us into the village provided a heavenly view as it opened up to a panoramic of colorful mountains and deep gorges that held on to the hands of the sun and guided it gently down.

At the recommendation of Jamaica, Jon sought out the Serkong home-stay while I cruised around the village handing out hard candy that I had left in my pockets. The owner of the home-stay was a warm hearted fellow named Dorje. He was a good friend of Jamaica's and invited us into his carpeted kitchen where we drank tea and dried our cold, wet feet by the small stove in the centre of the room. We ate a solid, home cooked meal of Dal and curd on rice and then retired easily from such a challenging day.

Read Day 29

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Nako to Kaza: Day 27

It's now been five days on the road and we've become familiar enough with our bikes to give em' proper names. "Laura Jean" (a tribute to both my grandmothers) is black with tarnished chrome. She's been good to me up until today when I dumped it while taking a corner on a sandy patch of desert style road. My first wipeout. Call me crazy but it felt pretty good. I know it must've looked pretty funny because I did a couple of speed wobbles before the bike skidded out from under me and I went off the side like I was sliding into second base. Safe! But with a bruised ass. I got up and dusted myself off, bummed that Jon had missed it. He was ahead of me.
Jon's bike, "Golden Macenzie" is a burgundy wildthing that's already had a couple crosses to bear. Added to the bent foot peg and shifter are the back breaks which seized up on him today, leaving him no choice but to break with the front, which any avid motorcyclist can tell you is pretty deadly. But no one told us and so Jon dumped it hard while crossing a small creek. That's when the clutch handle broke off. We tied it back on with rope and surprisingly everything's been alright since then.
We arrived in Kaza and met a Punjabi dude that went by the name 'Jamaica'. We had heard about him through another rider we met during our second day.  Jamaica was a fast talking, hyper-active business man with the air of a street hustler. He was hard to read as honest at first. He owned 2 guest houses and a restaurant in the small town, and of course everybody knew him. He gave us a nice room with a TV that we didn't even turn on for 300 rupees (under $6.00). In the evening we went for tea at his restaurant, which was simply a big room full of soft mattresses to lounge with small bench tables to eat off of. It was my idea of what a half ass opium den would look like, which prompted me to ask him if he knew where we could get some. No. We relaxed and watched a cricked match on the tele while conversing with two other Canadians (the only other people in the restaurant). They had been trekking around the Spiti Valley for nearly a week and had a lot to say. Jamaica sat down with us to show pictures and tell stories of others like us who had felt the northern touch of India. By the end of the night I knew Jamaica was a sincere cat. We returned to our guest house, smoked charas and packed smaller bags for the next day's exploration of Kibber, a village that was once the highest drivable village in the world, until the town of Comic got a road. 

Read Day 28

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Reckong Peo to Nako: Day 26

Today was the best ride yet in terms of scenery and road quality.  I saw landscapes that I never could've imagined in my dreams and that the camera could never truly justify. We cruised 119km with no stops for food or drink, only photos n' deep breaths. Our plan to camp out was compromised again when we hit Nako and found a family home-stay house that we couldn't turn down. Two big beds, a couch n' chairs with a table and beautiful backyard with a view of the rich fields enfolding sunny spots of greenery. I walked around the friendly village and sat in on an intense card game being played by the elders in front of a shop. They would slap the cards down on the pavement like bombs and I was almost convinced that was the main objective of the game. When I came back to the home-stay Jon was cooking soup on the pocket stove. I love these kinds of meals... set up on an old wooden table, chopping vegetables with pocket knives, making open faced sandwiches while playing catch with a joint and a mixed bottle of whiskey. We're very good at that. The rest was easy- Jon took a power nap and I read and passed out on the couch.

Read Day 27

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Sarahan to Reckong Peo: Day 25

I love waking up to music. It's a rare occasion when one gets to wake up to the sound of live music, but that was the case today when there was a wedding parade walking through the streets. The sound came drifting through the dorm window like the smell of a fresh baked pie is known to do. I kicked myself out of my cocoon and hurried outside to capture the procession. It was 9:30am. Afterwards we went back to the Nepalize kitchen  for breakfast and purchased some instant noodles and hard candy for later on down the road we'd be cooking for ourselves. As we prepared to depart from the temple we watched as a man carried a goat up the stairs to the ceremonial area where strict entry rules were inforced (no shoes, no leather, must wear a special hat to enter). We later learned that human sacrifices had been a performed at that temple up to the 18th century.
We spent a good portion of the day riding through a giant quarry with the Spiti river weaving alongside of it. It was a challenging road- dusty and unpaved with vicious shaped rocks on either side. Jon caught the left side of his bike on one which devoured his kickstand and bent the shifter in a cloud of dirt. While we were pulled over the Americans in the jeep rolled up and gave us a pack of cookies for our slight misfortune. They were soft n' melted and reminded me of lunchtime at Jeff Darlings house. Not long after we got out of the quarry Jon got a flat tire, just 8km outside of Reckong Peo. I rode onward to find a one eyed mechanic at small, side o' the road shop. I brought him back to Jon's bike and he had it fixed in minutes. When we got to Reckong Peo we stopped for vegetables and booze, hoping to find a spot in the woods where we could camp out and save some money on accommodation. That's when the thunder spoke and advised us to pay for shelter. By the time we found a reasonable guest house we were pretty wet and I had lost one bag of vegetables off the back of my bike. So much for boiled potatoes. We put on some tunes, made sandwiches and smoked charas as we plotted our route and destinations for the next 4 days.

Read Day 26

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Chandigarh to Sarahan: Day 24

Essentially today was our first full day on the road and we wanted to make the most of it, so we were up at 4:30AM, bright eyed, bushy bearded  and ready to jam on a lengthy 300km ride to Sarahan. It went from good to great as we slowly abandoned the wide highway and began cruising on the narrow but promising path to the great wide open. No more big cities. No more touts. No schedules or bookings or tickets. All unwanted horse-shit from here on in would be run over by two wheels of freedom and left in the dust. And so we rode. Up, way up, into the mountains - over, under and through a photo album of peaks n' valleys until we arrived at the edge of Sarahan and looked down at a unique temple that towered as the focal point of the village. It was divided into two parts. One built in the 12 century and and one in the 1920's. As we rode in we were greeted by waves and high fives from the children playing on the street. We were waved onward to the temple where we parked and entered to find beds inside a large dorm for only 50 Rupees. It was nearly 6:00pm and we were beat from over twelve hours in motion, but the village and it's amazing view were calling us out for a walk. We ate a big bowl of soup and the best momos yet at a small kitchen run by an old Nepalize couple. Then we smoked and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains. I had a talkative buzz from the charas so I struck up a conversation with a knowledgeable fellow from Mumbai. He explained the game of Cricket to me in full detail as we watched a game on T.V. in a cantina. A very well spoken lad, he was. I believe his name was Agee.
Right before I hit the bed a group of Americans showed up at the dorm. They were traveling by Jeep on a similar path than us. That's about all I learned about them. I was tired and talked out, but not ready to sleep so I stayed up to write this. 

A Disfunctional Diary of India - New Delhi to Chandigarh: Day 24

I haven't been this stoked and butterflied about something since I went skydiving. But skydiving was a matter of minutes n' seconds. This is 20 days of serious riding on high performance machinery. Lots of opportunity to fuck up huge. Our plan was to get the bikes early and be out of town before Monday morning traffic could swallow us, but because we got next to nothing accomplished yesterday we didn't get to Tony's bike shop until 2:00 in the afternoon, and then we had to hire a tuk-tuk to lead us out of the hectic city, which should have taken about ten minutes but took us over an hour because I stalled my bike on a turn and we lost the sneaky bugger. I've never been a religious man but before I even started the bike up I said a quick prayer to my Mom, the Sun, Buddha, Chris Farley, Ginesh and God. Although I only believe in a few of those names I felt I had to cover all the bases. I was relieved once we finally got on the highway and I felt pretty comfortable on the Enfield but still not 100% with shifting in stop n' go situations. I stalled the bike about 5 times today. We stopped in Chandigarh when it got dark and tried not to lose our minds looking for a cheap place to stay. We had driven 268km and were tired and very hungry. The cheapest place was the Vikrant Hotel for 650 Rupees ( about $14.00, which would be the most expensive lodging we would pay for during the whole trip). This motivated us to treat ourselves to a classy meal at a somewhat classy restaurant. We walked in to Sindhi Sweets and sat down to realize how haggard we were in appearance compared to the families eating near us. I still dream about the food there sometimes.
Once back at our hotel we smoked charas out by our bikes until the police rolled up to say hello and goodnight. And that's what we did.

Read Day 25

A Disfunctional Diary of India - New Delhi: Day 23

Another Sunday.
I remember back in the days I lived in Byron town when Jon and I would go for a drive and smoke a cigar every other Sunday to talk about life and what we were doing with it. Now, so many years later here in India we've begun to refer to Sundays as 'bad days' because everything we need (money & good help) is out of commission. The morning was a hot headache. The positives didn't come until the afternoon when we sealed the deal on our bikes and I passed the biggest test I've had since graduating film school. Then we bought 2 brand new helmets and 5 grams of quality charas to keep our brains safe and enriched while out on the road. That night we tried the charas in quiet celebration out on the balcony of the Namaskar Hotel and then I went to write about it and found myself entangled in a conversation with a veterinarian from Valencia who sounded and acted like Penelope Cruz. She wanted me to come to Pushkar with  her to help out at an animal hospital, but I was all too happy to decline and tell her my own plans. Fuck I was proud. I just hope I don't drive my ass off a cliff. 

Read Day 24

A Disfunctional Diary of India - On the Train (Part 2): Day 22

I didn't sleep very long but I slept well. We thought we were closing in on the end of our 26 hour train ride but we haven't been in this country long enough to realize that trains, like everything else, travel on their own time at it's own speed. This morning my special Indian muse lady bought Jon n' I tea and samosas and finally started talking, but only in Hindi. I figured out what I liked so much about her; She had a bigger heart and an older soul than all of us put together. Towards the last length of the ride she invited me to play a game with her and her husband. It was a simple old  game using 5 rocks that had been collected during one of the stops in the middle of nowhere. A schoolyard game of  hand-eye coordination that she was quite good at and I was surprisingly brutal and embarrassed about. By the time the train rolled into the station I was in proud admiration of them both. I don't know any better way to say it. She shook my hand to say goodbye and then laid her hands on my messy head and said a blessing. And that was it. Back to the reality of another big city - New Delhi.
Jon n' I broke free of the malarkey, determined to find our way to Paharganj district by any means necessary. At the advice of the Russian/German couple we went to the Namaskar Hotel, rented a room, dropped our bags off and took the metro to Tony's Bike Shop to rent 2 Royal Enfield motorcycles for our journey north. We grabbed some Gatorade on the way which helped us get through the paperwork faster. Then we arranged to meet the next day for a crash course with Tony's mechanics. That night I spent an hour on the internet, reading and watching videos of how to ride a proper motorbike.

Read Day 23

A Disfunctional Diary of India - On the Train: Day 21

We stepped on board an already crowded train and had to boot two meat heads who were sleeping in our seats. As soon as I sat down I met the eyes of a beautiful Indian woman wearing a traditional shawl with colors that matched her perfect complexion and eyes. Her beauty was not rooted in her appearance, but more-so in her movement. The woman had kinetic energy. We exchanged smiles, sitting across from each other and after that I found it hard to look away. I had to know more about her and I knew that I would slowly learn without ever asking a question. Every move she made opened another page of her story and for the first time in many years I felt confidently intuitive enough to believe what I was seeing correctly. She was in her early thirties and had never bore a child. She had the tough hands and dark skin of a hard worker, yet a delicateness remained on her face as if she'd been spoiled by a certain wealth, something beyond money. It was obvious that she had been and probably still was adored by many men. She had the strength of experience in her facial expressions, but when she looked into my eyes for a second time I saw the innocent curiosity. She had never been with a white guy before. I hadn't really noticed her husband lounged out and unaware beside her until she started to study my features and then compare them to his. She glanced at my arms n' legs and then felt his. She looked at my unkempt hair and then ran her fingers through his. I was fascinated by her fascination. Some time went by and I fell asleep in my middle bunk, feeling a rare connection to a woman I had no business or desire for. When I woke up from the nap she was watching me. She had changed into a dance of autumn colored sairees and sashes. We still hadn't spoken a word to each other. I read for a while and then began writing about her. She and her husband started talking about me in Hindi language. I knew. They took a picture of me and I wondered if they knew I was writing about them. Damn it was a long ass train ride. I guess when you spend this much time with total strangers of glaringly different cultures, this kind of interesting shit can happen.

Read Day 22

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Darjeeling to Siliguri: Day 20

The morning moved fast. I had quite a lot of errands to run before meeting Jon at the post office, where we would then catch a jeep ride to N.J.P. train station for our 26 hour run on the tracks of the North East Express train to Delhi. From the post office I sent two hefty boxes of thoughtful gifts. One to my family in Canada and one to my adopted family in Thailand. (* In case those boxes never make it to where they should, I want it to be known here that I spent a lot of time n' money during those last remaining days in Darjeeling, with hopeful imaginings of returning home for my first Christmas in 2 years and handing out those rare, unobtainable gifts like the second coming of Clause).

As usual, our departure was down to the last minute and we bull rushed our way through the zig-zag streets of the Darj, seeking out a jeep heading for N.J.P while making quick-stop purchases of bread, vegetables and chips to eat on the long haul to Delhi.
Our desperation for a ride must have been easily written on our faces, as a loaded jeep pulled over and almost ran us down. He had two seats left, in the back, with a Russian and German husband and wife we had met a few times on the streets before. In three short hours the jeep descended from the foggy mountain city of scarves, long-johns and soothing tea to the fickle heat of Siliguri; shorts, sandals, sweat rags, and three litres of water a day for yours truly. The arrivals n' departures board at N.J.P station read that our train was 2 hours late, but we soon found out that the "2" actually meant that the train wouldn't pull into the station until 2:00AM, which meant it was 9 hours late. We had a pant load of time to kill in a rowdy, fly-ridden train station inhabited by many homeless children. Their cuteness shined through their dirt-caked exterior and my sympathy for them shined through my gruff appearance as well (but Jon n' I  very seldom gave them money because we knew it was very seldom for them. They would be forced to give it up to their parents or some grease ball who controlled the begging in that area. In India, there is a market for everything). Over the course of our journey Jon had been carrying a package of pencil cases filled with small school supplies- pens, pencils, markers etc. They were given to him by a dear friend of his with the aim of giving them to orphanages. Instead of money we'd been handing them out to homeless kids as an alternative. Either that or food. When I was approached at NJP station there was only one pencil case left and, at that moment, there was only one little girl with her hand out so I gave her the last gift and watched her eyes brighten in surprise. She sat down beside me and began to rummage through it. The colors inside shot out like a light in contrast to her tarnished clothes and within seconds I was swarmed by a pack of runny-nosed kids out of nowhere. Jon was not far behind me, in the background getting his backpack repaired by a cobbler. He threw the suggestion at me to get them to share the contents of the pencil case, but the little on I had given it to thought that was a terrible idea. She bared her teeth like a stray dog and she shrieked like a banshee at anyone who reached for her new prize. Before I knew it, a mini riot had broken out amongst the homeless kids and I was forced to get up n ' go before they turned on me. As we walked further into the the station Jon handed out crackers to the ones that followed me and the situation was neutralized. Then we got ourselves a resting room to hang out in until 2 in the morning. We invited  the Russion/German couple to kick back with us until their train arrived. They turned out to be most helpful in providing us with places to stay and things to check out on our short stint in Delhi. Around 1:00AM I took a walk to see the arrival board and saw that our train's time had been changed to 4:25AM. It was the beginning of a very long day.

Read Day 21