by Craig Grant
8. As for cheaper hotels, if they can’t afford the Blue Star, point them in the direction of the Mt. Makalu, the Paras or the Green, on Juddha Road, or the Snow View on Lazimpat, or the Yellow Pagoda on Kanti Path. For the rich, there’s the Soaltree-Oberoi, of course, and the Yak & Yeti.
9. Don’t forget to be civil when you say goodbye.
10. And make sure the bus is cleaned out for the next guy.
Mick
What happened in Pokhara, Dave? Right. Everyone jumped on a tired-looking pony and went for a ride to see some lake. I nixed that idea. The ground can look far away from the top of a pony, especially when it’s on a steep mountain trail and there’s nothing except eternity off to the left. Patrick though told me I missed the boat, the girls all went for a skinny dip. I thought he was bullshitting me. But he said he managed to hide behind a bush and take pictures. He winked at me. Be happy to show them to you when they’re developed, Mr. McPherson, if you tell me what happened that night at the Hotel Santa Sophia. Poor fucking Dr. Livingstone. He had to know everything that went on. Well if everybody else had gone to the trouble of not telling him, I wasn’t going to spill the beans on the last day of the trip.
When Pete got on the bus on that last day, he said, well, pilgrims, this is it, at long last. All the girls were sneezing up your basic holocaust. Charole came back and gave me a couple Tylenol. Which I thought was strange. She was sneezing worse than anyone. She said everybody thinks you’re crazy, Mick, but even crazy people suffer, don’t they? I said you bet. We suffer more than anybody when it comes right down to it. She said she was sorry she hadn’t given me some before but her wrist was hurting, she thought they’d set it wrong, she thought it might be smart to hoard them. She asked me how my ribs were feeling, my gum. Better, I said. They were. Hardly felt them. I asked her how her wrist was feeling. Good, she said. She figured she could get the cast off soon, there was just the occasional twinge. She said you have to autograph it, you’re the only one who hasn’t. I said fine. She rolled up her sleeve. There was ink all over her cast. Patrick had written, It is better to travel alone than with a bad companion, but travel is best with a beauteous companion. Charole must’ve groaned when she saw that. Dave says it was a take-off of an old Senegalese proverb. Dana wrote, On a long journey even a straw weighs heavy, which Dave says is a Spanish proverb. Kelly wrote in that neat artistic style she had, calligraphy, It is better to wear out sheets than shoes, which Dave says is a Genoese proverb backwards. Lao Tzu said: Keeping to the main road is easy but people love to be sidetracked. Looked like Tim deLuca’s handwriting. Teach wrote, May your days be blessed with sunshine more often than not. Suzie wrote: There once was a tourist named Charole / Who really looked more like a Carol / What’s wrong with names like / Dana and Pete, Kelly and Mick? Tim and Mary and Meryl? Kind of surprised to see that. I thought Suzie would want everyone to forget about those limericks she wrote. Maybe she wrote it before Hallowe’en.
There wasn’t anything there by Jenkins or Rockstar or Pete. Maybe she was going to get Pete to write down something before we got to Kathmandu. No. Dave says she didn’t bother. She was still mad at him about what happened to Jenkins.
This business of writing things on casts is tough. I’ve always tried to avoid it. I couldn’t think of any proverbs and the only song lyric that came into my head was that line of Dylan’s about Lincoln County Road and Armageddon in “Senor.” So I wrote down, To another stranger in a strange land—it was nice knowing you. Charole looked at me and said, “Do you mind if me and Kelly keep in touch with you? I’ve always wanted to go out to the west coast but I’ve just never got around to it and I’d like to get to see more of Canada than
Saskatchewan and the Calgary Stampede.”
I said, “Well, sure, but I’m not sure if Kelly....”
I let the thought trail away.
Charole smiled. “Don’t worry about Kelly,” she said. “She understands crazy people. She used to work with them. She’s just caught up in her own little world right now. She’s got this obsession with walking a Firewalk. So she’s crazy too.”
There was this little silence and by rights Charole should’ve went back to where she was sitting. But she didn’t.
Finally she said, “Kelly thinks you’ve got a split personality. Do you?”
I said kind of. She said weird. She said, were you abused as a child or anything. I said not really. She said she didn’t mean to pry, she just heard that split personalities had bad childhoods, that’s all. I said I had a great childhood. Which is a lie. She said does this other personality have a name? I said yeah, Dave. She said dqps he see everything you see? I said most times. She said even during sex? Everything, I said. She gave me a quirky smile. Weird, she said. You’re just pulling everyone’s leg, aren’t you? Could be, I said. She asked me how many Tylenol I wanted. I said as many as she could spare. She gave me a couple dozen. Little lag then, and she really should’ve gone back to her seat. But she didn’t. She stared out the window, down some Himalayan valley I didn’t want to look at, and then she said are you going to go up to Nagarkot with us? What’s Nagarkot? I said. She said some town that had a view of dawn over Everest. I said I doubt it. She said I should. In a sweet way.
Like I said before, Charole and I never had much of anything to talk about. She was out of my league. It’s important to know what league you’re playing in, the old man once told me. The big leagues, he said, can get rough.
But she seemed to be intrigued by this idea of Dave.
She finally went and sat back down. Not too far from where Kelly was sitting, next to Teach. Tim all by himself in the front seat, Patrick playing solitaire at the tables, Dana across from him, reading. Bright sunny day, but a long day. Slow moving, more construction, all these faces, Nepalese faces, picks and axes, smiles.
Charole’s daybook entry Dec. 18
The end is near. Pete says Kathmandu is a short forty clicks to the east of us, and you know what that means. It means it’s time to pass out the bricks and bouquets.
That’s okay, I don’t mind doing it. After all, I’m one of the sods who didn’t exactly pull her weight as far as the daybook’s concerned. A weight, by the way, which is a lot less than it used to be. Now if only I could get rid of that yellow malaria tablet pallor....
A big bouquet of poinsettias has to go to Pete for his driving skills, if not his oratorical skills. But how many people do you know can read and drive at the same time, and would be willing to drive down into the Khyber Pass with a radiator full of pepper? People back home aren’t going to believe that story when I tell it. So maybe I won’t. Like a lot of stories I maybe won’t tell. About the people who are maybe a few pickles short of a full jar, for example.
The bouquet of pickled petunias, by the way, has to go to Mick, for humour under extreme duress, which is not the kind of dress any guy should want to be under.
I tried to think of a flower to give you, Mick, but I’m not up on the latest in schizo flowers.
Patrick gets the Daffodil Bouquet for Most Dexterous Finger. Just think of the memories. What’s that you say, Patrick? Next year we’re all invited to gather on Bali to see a slide show of the Great Indian Trek and renew old acquaintances? Thanks, Patrick. Though Bali sounds nice, I think I’ll pass.
The Butterwort Bouquet for Most Memorable Quote goes to Suzie for the line uttered in Kavalla, after an onslaught from the heavens: “If you can’t get it at home, you ain’t going to bloody well get it here!”
Whether or not there turned out to be a lot of fact in that statement is maybe beside the point, and best not dwelled upon.
As for bricks, Tim and Mary get the dirty red cinder brick for going on the lam when the going got tough. Through the streets of Tehran, of all places, and as if that wasn’t enough, up into the war zone in northern Afghanistan, just to see some giant Buddhas. Isn’t that called fanaticism?
A bigger brick goes to Frank, for doing what maybe all of us should’ve done, jumping ship and s
taying as far away from the bus as possible. Patrick’s theory is that he met some sheila in a chadri on a sheep farm in the Elburz Mountains and he’s happily milking goats at this moment. I hope that’s true.
Rob, also AWOL gets Patrick’s sackload of one-ton bricks for his Ability to Stop any Mealtime Conversation Dead in its Tracks and Other Miscellaneous Deeds far too Numerous and Spurious to Mention.
Suzie says make that a truckload.
Kelly gets three stucCo blocks covered with psychedelic swirls for Not Listening to the Voice of Reason (which sounds an awful lot like mine). In London I suggested we take in a few plays and head back home. In Athens I suggested we head for Lesbos for a couple weeks and then head back home. In (jrgup I suggested we head back to Istanbul and jump on the next plane home. Do you think she listened?
Dana gets a brick of baklava for making sure we hit every pastry shop between here and Venice. Thank God for that pesky little germ (what’s it called here? The Nepali Watusi? The Kathmandu Foxtrot?) which saw to it that such pigging out was compensated for.
Of course the What, Me Worry? cactus bouquet goes to me. You can fill in your own reasons about why that is, Lord knows there’s probably plenty.
And now only one question remains: who will win the daybook?
The answer is out there, blowing in the strong east wind like a black silk camisole.
Mick
Yeah, it was a long day. Quite a few loo-stops. I only had to hit one of them.
Thanks to the Lomotil. Great Lomotil.
Long day but a pretty day. Patrick took lots of pictures. Charole wrote something in the daybook but I never did get a chance to read it. I don’t think a lot of people did. Dave says the main thing in it about me was that I should get a bouquet of pickled petunias for maintaining my sense of humour under dire circumstances. He says I can read the rest when I get to that Great Ballpark in the Sky where Jenkins claims the pitches are all strikes and there are no foul lines.
Near sunset Pete pulled to a stop, last loo-stop, he said. It was on the brink of the valley above Kathmandu and Neil Young was singing “Four Strong Winds.” I don’t know about anyone else but it made me think of Jenkins.
No one needed to hit the loo but Patrick snapped off another roll of film. Kathmandu looked real pretty below us, lights just starting to come on. There were ice crystals in the air and they sparkled.
Felt like something was lifting off my shoulders as we drove through Kathmandu’s streets. We made it. Charole came back, Lucille in hand, asked me to sing one last song and so I sang “Four Strong Winds” Dylan-style, I can’t do Neil, and everyone joined in and sang it, even Suzie, even Tim and Teach. Suzie with that nice high voice.
When we got to the Hotel Blue Star, Pete told us to feel free to take anything we wanted to off the bus, it would probably only get broken into and ransacked over the winter anyway and he grabbed his gear and opened up the undercarriage, grabbed his suitcase and his last two Heineken and he looked at Dana and said well, people, it’s been a blast, maybe we’ll see each other down the road but call first okay, and Dana said to him, are you leaving? Pete said first plane. Dana said could we talk first? Pete said sure, plane wasn’t for another five hours. So Dana grabbed her stuff and the last I saw of both of them they were walking beneath the flashing blue neon of the Hotel Blue Star towards a taxi sitting at idle. This through the window from the tent cage where I’m hauling out Rockstar’s sleeping bag, Jenkins’s sleeping bag. Found Rockstar’s SX-70 on the tent cage floor, four pictures on the counter. Dave says Dana got on that plane with Pete. They’re going to live happily for sixteen months, he says, and then Dana’s going to meet a waiter from Melbourne and it’s going to be Dear Pete, so sorry. Pete, says Dave, won’t be too heartbroken. I can feel that mushroom starting to kick in. Nothing quite like the air in Kathmandu, all those temples and pagodas, the Nepalese on bikes. That penthouse suite at the Hotel Blue Star. Pete said the first night was on Taurus Tours. As though we hadn’t already paid for it. After that he said we’d be smart if we found some cheaper accommodation. The penthouse suite was one big room, ten single beds, picture windows all around. Kathmandu a sea of light all around us.
“What a view,” said Patrick. He turned off the lights and went to a window, stared out. “It’s simply breathtaking.”
It was. Patrick said he didn’t see any reason to leave.
I said to Patrick, “Well, if you’re staying put, Dr. Livingstone, would you mind some company until I can scrape together enough cash for a plane ticket out of here.”
He looked at me, real amused. “Not at all, Mr. McPherson,” he said. “I’d be absolutely delighted.”
“Great,” I said and I flopped myself down on a bed near a window and watched light play across the ceiling for the three minutes it took me to fall asleep.
from Kelly’s diary
Dec. 19
There was a mist, almost celestial, in the air when we stopped for the last pici-stop, our Promised Land awaiting, after all our trials. Patrick took his pictures & then, on the drive down into the sparkling city, Pete asked Pat. to write down everyone’s name, put them in his hat. I wouldn’t have put it past Pat. to put only his name in the hat, but he didn’t, Pete picked C.’s out. C was less than overwhelmed. But she did write the last entry in the daybook so it was appropriate, & she did say no to S’s offer of 100 rupees for the d.b. Pete gave us the run of the bus & then took off with D. without even saying goodbye. Highly uncivilized, said Pat., but understandable. My souvenir is Pete’s binder of notes. Then we got settled into the penthouse suite of the Hotel Blue Star & Pat. ordered up 6 limcas & took out a mickey of rum & offered a libation to the gods for allowing us to survive the journey. Basically forced to join in on the spirit of the thing. It turned into yet another late night. That was last night. This morning C & T. & Mary & I moved into the Snow View, a hotel within our budget & standards. M opted for staying with Pat. in the penthouse suite. He’s completely broke. C offered to try to sell Lucille for him & it almost broke his heart to hand it over. Later. We just got back from the Tibetan refugee camp on the edge of town. C sold Lucille, along with Rob’s SX-70, for 800 rupees. A lot of money, for them, but they thought the SX-70 was magical. Not quite enough money for M. to buy a ticket to Bangkok. But I don’t think you can buy SX-70 film in Nepal. C’s opinion: there’s a guilt trip almost everywhere, if you look hard enough. A teenage Tibetan girl who bought my shampoo & thong sandals asked us if we were going to see Dakshin Kali tomorrow, told us all about it: live Hindu ritual sacrifice, right in front of our eyes. Can’t miss that, said C.
Mick
When I woke up next morning everyone was moving out so I picked up Lucille and sang “The Last Thing On My Mind.” Charole came over, said she was going out to the Tibetan refugee camp, did I have anything I wanted to sell. She was looking at Lucille. You’re kidding, I said. She said she heard a rumour that I had money waiting for me in Bangkok. Who’d I say that to? Dave must’ve let the cat out of the bag. Dave says I’m going to have a visitor tonight and if the TV screens aren’t lying it’s going to be hasta la vista, he’ll be on the midnight train when it pulls out. Dave, that is. I don’t believe it but he says it’s not necessary I believe it. The room is changing. The wall in front of me is suddenly one huge TV screen and I can see my old man in shadows eating linguine spaghetti drinking wine and close my eyes but it turns out I had them closed and when I open them there’s just the room, breathing, in and out, this worn down pencil in my hand the last pencil I have it’s late candle’s burning low. My wick too. Charole sold Lucille. That really depressed me. But she brought back money. She sold Rockstar’s Polaroid and gave me the money for that too. Almost enough money she said for a plane ticket and Patrick said well that’s reason to celebrate dinner’s on me and the three of us headed down to Freak St. in the back of a taxi, some Chinese place, nothing better than gook food the old man used to say not that he was a racist or a bigot that’s just the way he talked, spa
de, gook, frog, the people who knew him understood, it bugged the old lady though, maybe she didn’t know him, maybe she thought there was no excuse. I’ll never forget her face after he died, aged ten years in three weeks never really recovered, but I don’t think she’ll miss me, I think she’s too far gone, I just wish I could see Hasheeba again. If I had a last wish I’d see Hasheeba again. We had a good thing, brother and sister thing going. I could call for a stomach pump but it’s in my system I can feel death crawling up my legs like mice. I cried a lot after the old man died and after Peggy dil-Schmidt told me she didn’t love me any more, she loved someone else. I haven’t cried a lot since then but I shed a tear for Lucille that night over eggrolls and roasted duck in black bean sauce, our pre-Christmas repast Patrick called it lots of white wine. Just a tear or two but Charole saw them and she asked me if I was mad at her and I said no I was just a sentimental soul at heart and she said yeah, you are, aren’t you, and it’s true, it’s been my downfall in life I always get too involved I never sit back in the bleachers always had to be in there like a dirty sock when it was round ten and the heart was getting a good solid punchout. There’s a girl I met down in Seattle at a Van Morrison concert. Went out a couple times, neither one of us made a move. It was just too far from Vancouver. I didn’t want to become an American. She had a good job. I still think about her sometimes. She had auburn red hair and a heart-shaped face and crooked teeth and she was beautiful and thirty-three. She looked a lot like Peggy dil-Schmidt, a little like Hasheeba. I should be settled down in Seattle right now, a rug rat or two underfoot.