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