Psycho Mother Auz.

Arthur crash-landed in Auz and was instantly confronted with his ongoing horror-movie of a life. He arrived in the middle of the Gay Mardis Gras and, instead of the sea of brown faces of India, there was a swarm of poofs, from all over, of all shapes and sizes, yet strangely still looking alike, as if they had come off a conveyor-belt, a factory in the 'burbs pumping them out. It was like arriving on Mars and discovering he was one of the alien lifeforms, a twist on culture-shock.

Then he had to rush down to Melbourne, to the sea-side 'gerrie-town' of Rosebud where his mother had been hospitalized with a "urinary tract infection". She'd been found half-dead in her bed by her neighbors who'd noticed the mail piling up on her porch and climbed through the window. He was dismayed to find an old hag in her hospital bed, she'd reverted to a horror movie stereotype, "the bad mother", the sweet smiling old lady buried beneath a wreck of dementia. As a kid she'd taken him to see "Psycho" at the drive-in movies, only now, in his Gothic world, he wasn’t dressed as his mother wielding a butcher's knife, it was his mother about to kill him with her pathetic screeching. No wonder he’d run away to India all his life, it wasn’t just for the adventure, it was to escape the horror of his upbringing in twentieth century Auz.

Harsh language, but he was a pretty fucked-up guy. He’d been told he should "get over it, grow up, get on with life", very hard when psycho-crippled from birth. He’d made a career of hating everything, and everyone hating me, but how awful it is to realize even hs mother hated him, like hitting rock bottom. But that was just his paranoid cynicism, she’d put up with Hell for years because she loved him, now she was a demented shell and he had to have patience. 

She stared vacantly into space, perhaps ruminating on her sad childhood in the 'Great Depression', but he reckoned maybe she was raking over all her mistakes, wondering if she hadn’t led a selfish life, actually caring for no one but herself. Awakening out of daze, the only thing she had to say to him was, "Go fetch my other two diamond rings from the house, someone might steal them."

He had to prepare her abode for her imminent discharge from the hospital, she had recovered from the fever and seemed OK. He marched up to her fibro house on the clifftop above the ocean and let himself in. He discovered a veritable Alladin's Cave of sweets, for toffees, chocolates and biscuits tumbled from every cupboard, were piled up on every surface and stashed in every nook and cranny, she'd been living on such junk for years with the occasional lunch down at the Rosebud Pub. For fluids all she drank was sludgy Nescafe 'double choc cappacinos', and booze, plenty of beer, whiskey and brandy bottles lying about. She had always been a bit of a lush, half the cause of all the domestic violence he’d experienced from infancy onwards, his father Frank being the other drunken half. No wonder she got a UTI, she took "death by chocolate" to its absurd conclusion.

In her failing old age she threw her rubbish straight to the floor, goopy sludge stuck to the boards all over, no dishes washed in months and the couch was filthy with leftover munchies. She'd given up on sleeping with sheets and didn't do her laundry, when her clothes got soiled she threw them in a heap and bought more down at the Op Shop. He had to pick up her shitty panties and throw them in the garbage, what an old grub he thought, uncharitably! His brother John, who had an even more jaundiced eye where she was concerned, swore she was always was a dirty scrag. This character assassination Arthur couldn't buy, he remembered their childhood home and it was always spotless. John was just siding with Frank’s constant grouch of her being a slut.

She had moaned interminably to them about her cruel step-mother who made her scrub the house till her knuckles bled, yet Arthur remembered how he also had to do half the housework through-out his childhood, for his 40 cents pocket money, the Protestant Work Ethic reinforced by a whack from an electric cord if he missed anything. He had always blamed his father for the terrors of his upbringing, feeling that women of the mid twentieth century were powerless and victimized, but as he cleaned up her mess a veil was lifted from his eyes, he saw her more clearly and realized she had been part of the problem, it takes two to tangle.

When his parents had their smash-the-house-up fistfights over money, it wasn't just his father who wouldn't give enough cash for housekeeping costs, his mother spent much of what she earned on herself, new dresses and drinking at the pub, for there was never any food in the cupboards. When she finally got home most of their dinners were cooked from cans and plastic packets, the bread was always stale and he went hungry through the days. When Frank called her a slut he shuddered at the injustice of the bullying but then freaked out the day a school friend told him he'd seen her getting out of a strange man's car after some heavy kissing. 

Arthur sighed as he threw more trash in the bin, probably Frank was a lousy, boring lover and she just wanted a life. He wondered if maybe this was how everyone lived, putting up with banality, sneaking illicit kisses, bruising flesh in frustration, the plonk bottles piling up into a pyramid out the front of the flat. Their neighbors had abused him nastily as the child of booze-hounds and he’d flashed that all was not well in heterosexual wonderland, particularly his parents.

Now the poor old tart was 82 and it was obvious dementia had been setting in for a few years only nobody recognized it for she passed the mini-mental exams given, like "who and where are you." That night Arthur slept alone in her hot-box of a house, it howled in the wind and doors creaked open and closed of their own accord, his childhood fears rushed in and he became possessed of the thought the house was haunted by some old lady who'd died there previously, but it was only the ghost of his mother, haunting his psyche.

She was discharged prematurely, no psychiatric assessment done, the hospital glad to be rid of her no doubt; she's deaf, forever losing her hearing aid, and everyone has to shout stentorian directives into her left ear while she nods idiotically.

She was delivered to her front door in a taxi by a social-worker, and her freak of a son, dressed like a psychedelic punk, stood with open arms, ready to take her on. For the first day she was pleasant, even signed her bank account over to him so he could pay her bills and fill the house with nutritious food and drinks. But she refused to eat anything that was good for her, reaching for the sweets, declaring the fruit juice horrible, she only wanted the Nescafe sludge. He lost the plot and got a huge basket of chocolates and threw them on the floor in front of her, "This shit will kill you!"

With no insight she croaked, "Don't throw my chockies on the floor! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

He got on the phone and rang innumerable community service groups trying to get her some home help, complaining to her G.P., begging Veteran Affairs to come to the rescue, moaning to the rest of his family, blah, blah, blah, on and on till she hovered over him shrieking like a harpie, "You're always on the bloody phone, get off the phone, you'll have to pay for those calls!"

Then she vacantly stared at the TV, she only got one channel, the worst, Channel 10, and Arthur offered to get a TV repair man in so she could watch her favorite, Channel 2 with all the old movies, it would cost $100 at the most. "I'm not paying $100 for the TV, leave it, it's OK, I like Channel 10!" To Arthur that would be worse than the Chinese water torture dripped on his eyeballs, inane TV personalities hissing like white noise. She carried on like this for the next few days, he was at his wits end and ready to put a pillow on her crabby face.

He did what he usual did when stressed, escaped to the Rosebud cinema to see Denzil Washington in "Deja Vu", Arthur bawling his eyes out all the way through the movie, an exciting action thriller but nothing to cry over, it was all his childhood traumas and the horror of his mother's predicament flooding out of him.

As a "homo", and a freak to boot, he'd long been disowned by the family, his queerness shone like a neon sign over his head, his parents tried to beat it out of him, the neighborhood kids bashed him up continuously, even his teachers at school gave him the strap too often for his own good, no wonder he had a wood-chip forest on his shoulder. The 1950's were a harsh era to grow up in, especially for the working class, with no idea how to treat children properly. At 9 months old my father couldn't handle Arthur crying and hit him so hard he fell off the bed and cut his head open, requiring stitches, stuff you can go to jail for nowadays. His mother couldn't handle two babies either, she only wanted to drink down the pub and flirt with her fellow gronks, eventually forced to abandon them for four years after Frank bashed her near to death.

When Arthur asked her why she bothered having kids, she replied, "It was the thing to do in those days." Typical dumb Het behaviour, have kids, torture them, then abandon them. There should be a law where Hets have to have a certificate proving their ability to raise children humanely, but it's only Homos who have prohibitions ruling over their ability to raise a "family” in Auz they’re not even allowed to marry.

Their mother walked out on them for the last time when he was sixteen, from then on he looked after himself but always visiting or ringing her weekly, for he still had a son's loyalty and regret for the travails of his mother. Yet in forty years his mother never once rang him or visited his abode, never asked, "Who are you? What is your life like? What are your interests? Do you need any help?" Maybe his queerness alienated her, his artistic sensibilities out of her ken, his freakiness too outlandish, she just didn't seem to care about him as a person.

He discovered she'd been sitting on a huge stash of cash, left over from his grandfather's estate, but in all his life she'd never offered him even a $100 nor had he ever asked her for anything. She preferred instead to drink and gamble, thousands chucked into poker-machines, her being a two-armed bandit, for she didn’t care too much about her grandchildren either, buying them cheap gifts, never taking them out anywhere. And they rarely get a mention from her, all she speaks about is Auzzie Rules football and her horrid black cat, the old witch! It infuriated Arthur, he was a psycho-mess, couldn't hold down a job, had the arse ripped out of his pants and the old bitch wanted to give the money to the rich dickhead who owned the Rosebud Pub and all the poker-machines. When she moaned about spending too much money told her to stick it up her arse. Fuck it was a cruel world!

Still, he also felt compassion for her, she’d probably had all the love and caring kicked out of her, as a child and as a married woman, and there just wasn’t much “caring” left, just a dazed numbness. He wouldn’t wish her life on anyone, certainly not himself, he’d ended up having a fabulous life, of adventure, knowledge and ecstasy, for he’d bolstered his heart and garnered his guts to go for it. Life as a physically healthy, 20^th Century Aussie male had allowed him that chance and he grabbed it with both fists. And maybe he could dredge something out of this pit of human bondage.

With resentment and sorrow boiling up inside of him he left the movie-house and went back to her 'hot-house', considering if he shouldn’t euthanaise her and run away with her bank account, furthering his life of adventure. Rosebud is a seaside holiday town down on the Mornington Peninsula, very pretty with the sun off the water of the wide bay. As children they had spent many Christmas holidays there in the Fifties, very white trash/milk-toast/true-blue/dinky-di Auzzie. These days it was almost the last bastion of Auzziedom, the World War 2 set pushed to the edge to live out the last of their "white Auz policy" days. 

As a child he was enamored of the creaky wooden barn of a movie theater facing the sea, they were showing Arthur Conan Doyle's "Lost World" but because he was too young he wasn't allowed in. The movie posters out front drove him to a frenzy of "Underworld desire" and for years it was the long sort after Holy Grail of forbidden cinema, a big let-down when he finally saw it, with rubber dinosaurs and plaster volcano, now Rosebud itself comes across as "the Lost World".

The town somehow reminded him of the Midwich Cuckoos, everyone seemed damned, a retirement town where the blue-rinse set ruled, with a mob of disability pensioners in support, cripples in wheelchairs, battered house-wives, Downs Syndrome children shepherded along by pale aunties. The Rosebud Pub, his ma's favorite haunt, was a huge red-brick monstrosity, the central room of which was a dedicated temple to gambling, a dreaded Poker-machine palace. He’d often gone searching for his mother there over the years and found it hard to distinguish her among the mob of blue-rinse old ladies throwing their money down the toilet, they all looked the same, little blue-haired Smurfs doing robotic, repetitive arm jerks in front of glittering Daleks. What madness! He’d have loved to rush in with a whip, like J.C. in the Temple, and chase them all out of the joint screaming, "Go look after your grandchildren!" He had to walk past the dump before climbing up to his mother's house and he shuddered at the criminal waste of money and lives.

When he asked the old harridan what nutritious eatables she desired from down the shops, all she wanted was an ice-cream. As he handed it to her she snatched it up and gobbled it greedily, like a five-year old child, infantile regression another symptom of dementia. He got back on the phone and tried to get help from the legion of community services available for a war veteran like her, but they all passed the buck, nobody could do anything, if she refused help it was her right, there was no proof that she was demented and unable to care for herself, we can all only wait till the next crisis developed.

She started yelling for him to get off the phone again, and how dare he come in and try to take over her life. She never did recognize him as a responsible son, now he’s the enemy, she had turned against him. She got right in his face and shrieked, "Get out, leave my house, fuck off, I don't need you!"

"Fuck you!" he screamed back, all his built-up resentments beamed from his blue-hot "Village of the Dammed" eyes. With a terrible, demonic gleam in her own evil blue eyes she hissed, "I'll call the police if you don't leave!" She meant it and it was at that moment he stopped loving his mother, for a few hours.

He locked himself into the spare-room and listened all night to her restlessly clatter back and forth, going thru all the drawers and cupboards repetitively. He thought of her awful defacto husband who she'd lived with for thirty years, her hating his guts for the last 20 of them. As monstrous a slob as he was, he'd actually kept her entropic downslide under control. In her paranoid deliriums she swore he still snuck into her house to steal her money. Till dawn he kept having visions of the guy’s ugly, greasy mug at his window, like from a zombie movie, fantasizing he'd come to murder her.

For 7 minutes there in the deep of the night Arthur planned on stealing her $100,000 stash, living the adventurous dream of a travelor for 7 years, on the run, giving up all he knew and loved in Auz, close to free for the end of his desperate life. It wasn't worth it, all his beloved friends abandoned; he just wasn’t the type to steal from anyone, especially his mother. It wasn’t in his moral universe, she could choke on her money. In the clear light of dawn he knew what he must do, arrange help for her from a distance, make sure she had enough in the house to last her a few weeks before help came, then walk away.

In the morning he went out to answer the phone and noticed the house full of smoke. He found a pot of sludge burning on the stove, and her back in bed curled up like a fetus. He rang her G.P. and informed him of the dangers, he threw her bank passbook on the floor with cash spilling out of it, picked up his bags and left her house forever, he hoped. He felt like he’d come through a ring of fire and had been cleansed. His thoughts whirled with feelings of loss but his gut instinct felt satisfied, he was high, almost nirvanic, he was getting her out of his system. Freudian explanations of a deviant's behavior are "too pat" according to ‘Scorsese on Scorsese’, but Arthur knew there were 7 levels to the pathology of his "freakiness." Yes, he was an out and out narcissistic wanker, but a screwball family sure didn't help any.

For all the fear and loathing he had come out of the desert strong, independent, resolute, though quirky, rebellious and anarchic, a solipcist loner, but hey, not everybody’s perfect.

When he got back to Sydney there was a call waiting for him on his answering machine, from the Rosebud Police, the old bitch did indeed call the cops on him, said he’d robbed her bank account. He rang them back but no one knew what he was talking about and as they haven't rung again he guessed they figured out she was as mad as a bag full of yowling cats, they're always being called to her house to solve some imbroglio she's got herself into. They must have seen the mess she'd been living in and called in a Volunteer Aged Care Service, something the legion of govt. bodies he’d contacted didn't think of doing.

Now his mother's case had been taken on by some kind, altruistic souls, they were the first to agree with him that she's got dementia and they're going to help him get her properly assessed and put into 'assisted care'. A load had been lifted from his back, he’d been quite distraught in Sydney, worrying the old witch might burn herself to death, with her black cat, a possibility too medieval even for his Gothic sensibilities.

And yes, there was still a child deep down inside him who loved his mother and tried to forgive all, she'd only been with him for ten years of his youth and in that time she did try her best, taking him to the doctors when he was sick, worrying herself to death when he ran away from home, catering to his obsessions like taking him often to the movies and buying him heaps of books for his birthday and Christmas. There were many nights when they watched saccharine '50s television together, him leaning against her nylon legs, comforted that for a short while he belonged somewhere and someone cared for him. The 1950s and '60s were a nightmare era for 'gays', they were put in mental hospitals and jails for 'sexual aberration' and grew up thinking they were the worst of villains, dirty, deviant, pathetic, monstrous.

Imagine what this would do a child's psyche. No wonder there's so many bitter, twisted old queens about, Arthur included, it was very hard to get over, very hard to be an optimistic, stable contributor to society. But he didn’t blame his mother for this, she also suffered from 'herd mentality', the very definition of what it is to be a "gronk", and as a lemming she will probably run over the cliff with all the others, and die demented. But she won't take him with her.

He had his own life to carry on with, dysfunctional, a pauper, daring and ebullient, he had hit heights his mother couldn't even dream of, he was like the 'Replicant' from "Bladerunner", the wondrous things he’d experienced. If it was the tortured upbringing that catapulted him into this world and made him what he was, a graduate with a PhD in Survival from the School of Hard Knocks, then he can even say he was eternally thankful to his mother for having him, may she rest in peace.

A year later, on New Year's Eve, just when he was ready to celebrate, he got the phone call telling him his mother had been found wandering miles from home, not knowing who or where she was, and he was asked to find her a nursing home pronto.

This flabbergasted him as he didn't have a clue as to where to put her or what paperwork to fill out. His control-freak brother had been organizing to get power-of-attorney over her, without informing Arthur, and was close to finalizing the paperwork for her affairs. So he didn't have to worry about the bureaucratic side of things too much but he had four sets of people henpecking him over the affair: the social worker and nurses at the Rosebud Hospital where she had been delivered, the Community Care Workers who had been on her case for the last few years, his brother and his interfering wife who thought they knew best, and his old friends from his teenage years who all had advice and theories about the psychological machinations behind his mother losing her wits.

Thus he was distracted and could hardly squeeze out a "happy new year" as they watched the fireworks over the Yarra River, him thinking of Goa and India and the trance parties he was missing out on.

Back to his mother's predicament, he went down to Rosebud to see what succor he could give her. Many suburbanites flock to Rosebud for the Christmas holidays and park their butts in tatty canvas tents in tea-tree scrub beside Port Phillip Bay, elbow to elbow right up to the edge of the highway, sucking in car exhaust and beer, desperate to be in a south seas paradise no doubt but barely surviving the urban sprawl of a big city. He found his mother staring into space in her hospital bed, lost to the world, but she instantly recognized him, like a mother hen knowing her own chick in a busy barnyard though she seemed to know nothing else.

She'd forgiven or forgotten their fight of two years ago and, relieved to not have to go through another shreiking temper storm, he was asked by the nursing staff to go to her house and fetch her personal things for she was delivered to the hospital in a night-dress and now wore only a paper surgery gown.

He trudged the backstreets of Rosebud only to find her house locked up like Fort Knox, no way in no matter how much he and his nephew scratched around the premises. Finally he simply broke a window and his nephew crawled in to allow him ingress. They ransacked her house looking for her private papers, War Veteran's Gold Card, Bank Book, toiletries, underwear, dressing gown, dresses, slippers, etc etc and carted it all back to her in the hospital. At last she was comfortable trudging to the toilet in fresh undies, slippers and voluminous bathrobe, and Arthur was again pressured to find her a bed in a nursing home ASAP. Many homes he rang wanted $250,000 as deposit, impossible for this working class pensioner.

He rang the Community Care Workers constantly to hassle them to assist in the search and in a few days they were able to find a place that required only $35000 deposit, a nice, friendly nursing home where she would be happy as she chilled out in No god's Waiting Room ready for the big flight to the Pearly Gates of Oblivion. Thus he left Rosebud, praying to that same phantom god that he never have to return to that seaside purgatory again.

His nephew admitted to his take-over-merchant brother, John, who was stewing in his backwoods bush-hut in Tasmania, that they’d broken into their mother’s house, and he flew into a rage.

"How dare you no-hopers trespass in her sacrosanct domain! What precious goods did you steal from her? I've a good mind to call the cops on you!"

No explanations of helping to make the demented old waif comfortable would placate him, he was itching to have some ridicule to hold over his wayward, irresponsible elder brother and it shocked Arthur to realize he'd held onto sibling resentments from early childhood, pissed off Arthur might have achieved greater renown than he and that his own kids enjoyed their uncle’s company as if they were best mates whereas they dreaded getting another straight-laced lecture from their father whenever they met.

Arthur rang him to ask why they couldn't both have power-of-attorney, "What's the problem?" and he flipped, spitting chips about Arthur being a vagabond before crashing the phone down on him. Arthurhad so many existential torments at this time and John was adding to them, no brotherly love there for all that he’d protected him throughout their childhood and, sadly, Arthur determined to never speak to him again. Even at their mother's eventual funereal he will have to be restrained from rushing up to him and smacking him in the chops.

He was relieved to return to Sydney, forswearing his romance of moving back to Melbourne, he was indeed done with that city forever, Sydney had long been his hometown and haunt, at least there was sunshine and cool rain there to lift one's spirits when zooming about on a pushbike, not the sleet or furnace of the south. Now he was back to limbo and sour-pussed over certain denizens of the underworld who he ran into at Kings Cross but anything was better than all the caterwauling over the family drama that was forever unfolding in Melbourne.

Dreaming India.

I was compelled to return to the Garwhal Himalayas for one last cruise amidst the snowcaps, the mountains in my mind's eye mystical and eternal, like giant frozen guardian angels watching out for my kismet, always there to give consolation, no matter what tribulations rankle my soul. So huge, so hard-rock real and yet I cruise thru them swiftly, unable to possess them, hang on to them, meld with them, I have to keep going as I'd freeze my arse off outside the car in a few hours if I tried to stay within their magnificence for long, every landscape dissolving like a snow-blizzard mirage of sanctuary, a fleeting dream. Only my heart remembers and holds the delight close, I try to carry the Himalayas with me, and all the great moments of life, in one hot white ball of light.

Aaahhh, the hotsprings at Gangonani, laid-back in the huge tank late at night under a luminous Milky Way, the mountains thrusting me closer so that the stars reinforce the light in my eyes. The "bad baba" had disappeared, another gentler soul had taken his place, my sojourn was blessed in any case for I had the greatest time this my 10thyear in India. I can also say that I finally met a sweet, high Baba, the real thing, it was on the trail into Neel Kanth Temple, he was a huge muscular fellow, dressed sadhu-simple, he'd given up his lucrative business of oil tankers, leaving it to his family to run, disinterested in money and all it could buy, he has dedicated the rest of his life to meditating and serving the community of the sacred temple, doing the hard labour of shifting rocks and building walls, recieving only dahl and chapatis as his reward, he was very 'cool', didn't jump at the sight of me, the white firang with money, he was only interested in his sadhana, the old style type of sadhu, it's refreshing to know they're still about.

Hurtling about the windy roads we picked up two Argentinian girls to give them a lift back down to Shangri-la, and they filled me in on life in South America. They didn't like our techno music so I put on Jimmie Hendrix and what an epiphany it was to hear "The Wind Cries Mary" in his soul-wrenching voice echoing about the diamond white snow-caps of the Himalayan mountains, us cruising as if we were riding on that very wind. Mmmmm, bliss!

Only 7 days and I fly back to Sydney, that Euclidian futuristic ratrace in place of medieval cyberpunk, and my whole Indian sojourn will seem a dream, tho lucid and with flight control, as I mostly did what I set out to do and on top of it got the dream-weird, spontaneous adventure/mystery to funk it out with an extra-exciting edge. And using my will, brains and guts I can fly back here, or any other hotspot site on this planet, if I really want to. I needn't get ruffled by the transience, it's all a dream hoping not to be a nightmare, Sydney included. It's back to horror-movie scenario number 777, night-shift nurse in a spooked out hospital, for as long as I can bear it in 2007.

Oh yeah, and the struggling lunatic-fringe artist, what a delusion! I got an e-mail whilst flying thru the fantastical mindscape of India circa 21st century telling me a few of the milquetoast bureaucrats running Sydney City Council had decided my painting "New Years Eve 1980 Kings Cross", which won the 'People's Choice Award' at the "Images of the Cross Art Competition", was too risque and controversial to be hung on a public wall in the lobby of the Kings Cross Library. I was my usual shocked and infuriated demonic self, luckily too far away here in India to throw useless temper-tantrums in front of dumb office-workers, for I can be such a noisome brat. It stuns me in this day and age, after several millenium of Art History and battles for the democratic freedom of expression, and countless brouhahas over nudes and sex concepts, in free-wheeling Sydney I get a painting banned, from a space called the "One-stop Shop" where over the years the most hopeless arsewipes have proudly hung. Nogod, I can't be that bad!

Maybe you're thinking this guy has got a victim's complex, he's always getting kicked in the teeth, at every instance, bitching about everyone and never happy with anything, always looking for the Gothic undertow. What can I say, it's easy to ruffle the feathers of the chooks a few rungs up on the roosting ladder? Or, obviously, it's a very hard slog to make something of oneself in a cut-throat capitalist world? (I know, I know, the Communists were 7 times worse.) There's no sex in my artwork, just a satire on contemporary sexual practices. My painting is expressionist/surreal, a larger than life nude stripper on a table in front of the Pink Pussycat Strip Club, a crowd of men clammering at her feet and in the background 3 hookers leaning against the wall of a Sex Shop, with the extra absurdism of advertising thrown in, the "Heaven on a Stick" ice-cream campaign of the '80s. Yeah, yeah, and me stoned in the foreground, sprawled against a garbage-bin, all a vision of pagan ecstasy too delightful for the robopathic bureaucrat's taste.

I really dont think there is anything overtly offensive about the painting, it's felt from my side to be from the heart, a trully personal work, a kind of self-portrait dreamscape of an exciting time in Sydney's history that I was a part of. I've seen virtual pornography hung in the Art Gallery of NSW and, while controversial, the artist was "famous" and not to be crossed in the eyes of the world and thus got curator/state sanctioned. For the wannabe artist it's almost impossible to be independant in this world, one paints for money, career, fame, politics, to paint from the heart is as illusory as attainingNirvana, and I'm a day-dreaming wanker.

Now I've got to go back and fight it out in the Sydney penal town/gladiator pit, and probably carry the painting home in humiliation, I'm tired of the battle against no-talent, know-nothing, no courage drones, I'll go to my ignominious garret without a peep, many a careerist would've made a cause celebre out of the banning of an artwork, I just don't care about climbing the shit-heap that much, depends if I feel like having some psycho-drama fun, situationist pranks for soul-numbed drones can get me howling with laughter.

I guess I should be happy that my hard-won work is so efffective it gets the robopaths waving their prohibitive wands; in this suck-arse system it's great to be an iconoclast, a subversive, an outsider, it beats all those arsewipe splotches they pass off as "abstract expressionism", but probably I'm just kidding myself, I really do have delusions of grandeur by thinking I'm an edgy artist, but hey, what's life without dreaming big?

I come to India for adventure and escape, relaxation and knowledge, love of the people and pagan culture, healthy lifestyle and ecstatic experience, maybe reincarnation is true and I was an Indian in my last life for I seem to fit in, recognise and be recognised, at the very least I'm a part of the background scene here, the firang freak who has spent big hunks of his life wandering the Indian backroads, I sure love India and Indians, and it's such a welcome break from struggling with the Aussie heirachy, nursing the dying in the nursing homes and facing the bitchy trendoids who oversee Aussie lifestyle.

And what images stand out from my latest sojourn? In a traffic jam in hellish Dehradune, a face screamed from the crowd, a squat-ugly peasant dressed up as Hanuman the Monkey-god, but with no style, just lots of bright-orange make-up and frayed rags for a costume, and he had such a look of lost desperation in his eyes, he was an absolute nobody begging his living dressed as a monkey, maybe it was his caste, maybe he'd had an epiphany and thought he was the monkey-god, to me he looked dead beat and this was his only option, his struggle for survival daunting and haunting me who am a spoiled westerner with plenty of potential still at the late age of 57, having already had a fabulous life: I'm taught by those estranged eyes, those millions of hopeless, hopeful eyes, to rejoice in my lot as I fly by like Lord Rama in his celestial silver chariot.

And in a typical goblin-grunge mountain town I saw the most gorgeous puppy dog almost fall under a truck's wheels, and I snuck up on her and snatched her up, she totally relaxed as she hung in my arms and didn't struggle a bit, as if thinking at last she'd found a loving home. Tho quite dirty she was fat and fluffy, of reddish/golden hue with yellow eyes that clearly expressed her feelings, very pretty and, my driver, when he returned, also fell in love with her and we instantly dog-napped her into the car. She'd been scavenging trash-slops all day and got car-sick on the way down the mountains and vomited filth all over, twice, but we patiently washed her and the horrid messy car as she looked up at me as if to say, "I'm sorry!" After a visit to the vet she is happily ensconced in Balu's family home, the most beautiful dog in the village and everybody fussing over her.

Many other wonderful things happened, more than what goes down in Sydney, tho I love that city also, but I won't bore you with further personal reminiscences. One last dream, the magical night I showed movies in a Nepali tent restaurant in Shangri-la, with a boyish, blond Doris Day turning feminine in the whip crack-away of "Calamity Jane" which blew the minds of the Indian audience, they never quite realised we westerners love musicals also. Remember, my life is a madcap musical with "secret loves" taking me away "to the black hills of the beautiful Indian country I adore."

Bamboozled in Bombay.

I'm on my last day in Bombay, city of 7 islands, I love the place so much I'm loathe to leave, a city of broken dreams, movie fantasies and fairy-tale palaces by the Arabian Sea. It affects me like a tsunami, picks me up, throws me about, dumps me dazed and bruised amid the debris, I don't know what hit me but I think it was fun. And I avoided the homosexual serial killer, the Beer-Can Killer, I'm too paranoid to liaise with strangers and I don't drink alcohol. My 7 requirements for happiness were met and, tho existential depression still lurks in my soul, I must be happy as I'm singing all the time as I walk down the street; if life didn't turn out to be the jolly musical I dreamed it would be as a kid, then I'm dam-well going to turn it into one myself. I dance under the Gothic-Saracen architecture of CST Railway Station,  ad-libbing my latest adventures to an old Broadway melody,  singing out loud, unashamedly, only the beggars sleeping on the streets to hear me: life IS a musical, a Bollywood musical!

I got to see a marvelous movie, "Blood Diamond", for a few moments I think Leonardo Dicapprio is the best actor on the planet at the moment, for a cinephile it was like getting a nutritious meal after eating candy-floss for weeks. We saw it at a classic Bombay cinema, The Metro, (now refurbished into a palatial cineplex), on it's first night opening with an upper-middle class crowd that threatened to riot such was the anticipation of viewing great film in this city of celluloid-junkies, they jostled at the doors and knocked over the card-board posters for upcoming attractions. We ate hot do-nuts and drank milk-shakes at intermission, my favorite junk food, and the drop-dead gorgeous friend that accompanied me rewarded me later in the night with a kiss, so my dreams came true.

I couldn't resist going to the Voodoo Club in Colaba on Saturday night, "gay night", though the hole in the wall was half-full of the usual crowd of hookers and their dumpy mugs, the rest were swishy gays and skinny boys hoping to crack a mug, and a couple of firanghi fags who danced with every boy in the room and didn't settle on anyone. I was with my hot friend who stuck close so no twerps could crack onto me and I had a cool time bopping to the hip-hop music and eye-balling the mob of Indian queens. When we sat in a secluded lounge for a break even an experienced old fuck like me was nonplussed when two grossly fat Sikhs, turbans and all, sat opposite us and immediately started pashing each other off, like Hollywood romantics, and grabbing handfuls of each others pendulous tits.

Then a whore marched in and berated one of the Sikhs for betraying her pussy and he was bundled off in a huff, their arms around each other, while the other Sikh sighed and flopped his carcass next to us as if we might satisfy he's unfulfilled lusts. We rushed back to the dance-floor and got shoved about by the brainless mugs pushing their way to the whores, I nearly started a fist-fight with one oaf who nearly crushed me under his vast concrete belly. The night wasn't at all deviant for me, I got escorted to my desolate, serial killer haunted street and left with a chaste peck on the cheek to walk the last 700 yards alone, all very interesting and quite creepy. Every shadowy doorway promised a murderous wraith waiting for a naive fool like me. The "Beer-can Killer" bashed men sleeping on the street, raped them, then left a beer can by their dead body.

 I was intrigued earlier by the gaggle of cops out the front of the Voodoo Club who looked outraged, like they were dying to raid the joint and close it down, the state of Maharashtra being extremely uptight, using sexual behavior as an easy scape-goat for all the ills of society, like rampant corruption and pollution. (The Police are now blaming the "serial killing" of men on "a gang of gays", like we're to blame for everything, but a "gay activist" theorizes it's some psychopathic rich guy who can get around in a car, lure paupers with money and afford to drink beer in a can.) In the morning, when my hotel manager asked me how I was enjoying Bombay, I replied that it was wonderful, except I was terrified of the serial killer. He blandly informed me that another body had been found on the footbridge this morning, not more than 300 yards from my hotel's front door.

Last night gave me the cultural hit I long for when I'm on the road, it was the opening of the Mumbai Festival, and Australia is the guest country and I felt like a special envoy, prince of Aussie Freaksville, wedged into the sea of upturned heads. First we got an Indian dance troupe, then a performance group called "Strange Fruit" from Auz did their stint, swanning about atop flexible, bending poles, seeming to float and fly high up like fairies, as if Snuggle-pot and Cuddle-pie were emerging like ballet dancers from their psychedelic gum-nuts. The show was all lit up by colored spots with surreal sound/music wafting from a bank of speakers, with the magnificent backdrop of the Gateway of India looming over all, it was spectacular and mesmerizing, the crowd were enthralled and I felt proud to be from not just a lucky country but a clever one as well. After it we went to a pub and had chicken and beer while we watched a Bollywood film award ceremony on TV, Richard Gere smiling while Shahid Kapoor hip-hopped, swivel-hipped, pranced up and down the walls with a top chorus of dancers gyrating behind him to satisfy my every electric twitch, dance as a social glue to keep the populace ebullient and moving, the Dance that lets me know I'm exuberantly alive.

And what were the sour notes in this symphony of bliss? The traffic in Bombay is unbearable, there are no footpaths and one is continuously run down by speeding cars, bikes and buses with nobody giving a flying fart for the sanctity of life, might is right. Compassion fatigue has set in, the hordes of beggars grab at you as if to tear lumps from your flesh, the hawkers selling plastic, industrial trash, the shoe-shine boys who won't take no for an answer, the drug pedlars who harass at every five paces, the hustlers who promise a lifetime of fidelity and orgasm, and absolutely everyone trying to separate the fool from his money = how do you know when an Indian's lying? His lips move. A sad piece of tourist folk-lore. Most transactions are rip-offs, all one is left with is empty promises floating into the pollution haze, the goods fall to bits in the hands, the service offered is not provided, the food is stodgy or stale, half the time. It shits me, I'm no tight-wad but I hate being conned. I just don't believe anything anyone tells me anymore, and I swat unwelcome approaches away with a rolled-up newspaper.

There are rats the size of cats running everywhere and yesterday, in front of the Regal Cinema I inadvertently stepped on one, squashing it, I was in a daze and suddenly felt something squishy wriggling under my foot = yuk! Then when I got to Mary Weather Drive, there was a huge crowd rubber-necking some disaster in front of the Taj Mahal Hotel. One of the elaborate horse and carriage tourist rides had been hit by the ubiquitous speeding car, the throne-like carriage upended and the horse flat out dead with a flood of blood streaming across the road, it was horrible, devastating for my animal spirit-guide sensitivities, the horse being one of my major guardians, I could only say a prayer of exorcism and peace as I rushed away.

Tonight is my last night in this fabled city of Sufi nights by the Arabian Sea, there is another performance by "Strange Fruit" in front of the Gateway to India, an edifice haunted by the untold souls of those who've drowned in the rambunctious waters nearby, the towers of which are lit up at night and cause me to think the ghosts reside within, flying out in the dead hours to drag others into the deep with them. I'm told to watch out for ghouls, they can be recognized by the fact that their feet point backwards, they are extremely ingratiating but can be chased away by flashing one's naked crotch at them (!?) I'm also wary of djinns and don't rub any weird-looking bottles, one can pick up a djinn by merely meeting the wrong person's gaze, it doesn't pay to be too kind to anyone, they follow you around forever. Let's hope I don't meet a djinn tonight, I've already had my 7 wishes, and I was tricked every time.

Goan Gothic.

The Goan party scene is not what it used to be, edgy, dangerous, freaky: the techno parties in the jungle had to be stopped because of the muggings, rapes and murders, the parties are now confined to walled compounds with security guards patrolling and nice families frolicing. Still, there was a moment in the middle of New Years celebrations where I moved and melted to the base-beat and felt like I was being fucked by the Universe, a vast narcissistic fuck, curved space/time bouncing up and down on me, but it was fleeting and didn't have the multiple funky bodiless orgasms of earlier times, the functional anarchy of an ecstatic dance-crowd, syncopated gyrating madness that is the closest I've ever come to a Bollywood dance orgy. Instead, down in front of the speakers, I got buffeted about by a drunken techno mosh-pit, trampled in a riotous tribal stomp made bland by alcohol with plenty of elbows in the ear.

Thankfully there was no horrendous murder of tourists this year tho there is one story unfolding in the press that is quite mysterious, and feeding my paranoia about Indian lynch mobs targeting Europeans. A British guy was found lynched by villagers in dusty Nowheresville, accused of following a peasant woman as she tried to go for her morning ablutions. It's come out that he rang his family in England on his first day in Goa telling them he'd met 2 strangers on Bagga Beach and they'd attached themselves to him and he now feared for his life. 3 days later he caught a train to Bombay but got off at Nowheresville when the train stopped inadvertently for a few minutes. It seems he'd been beaten to death then left hanging for 3 days before found and his family feel it's not the villagers who lynched him but the 2 strangers he was afraid of, yet they have not been traced.

His fellow passengers on the train said he didn't seem scared, no one looked to be stalking him and he smoked some smelly substance in their midst that they had to complain about to get him to stop. But those in Goa who dealt with him said he acted very nervous, always looking over his shoulder. It's weird, did the strangers in Goa get to him or did he get lynched by peasants? (Death-threats from 2 sides within a week in India is very weird!) Every day the press has a different angle. It amazes me that someone could get in trouble in their first week in India, his behavior showed him to be very troubled and he probably did oggle a woman in his pot-haze, not knowing how taboo this is, still it didn't deserve death. I've been here for years and got myself in lots of predicaments and it's not too hard to shake off unwanted attentions, you're either extremely apologetic as you back-away or you just scream, "fuck off!" then run to the police, unless you're lost in Nowheresville, then anything can happen if you outrage the local customs.

The one violent death in Goa itself that I was told of happened right on Vagatore Beach where I hang out. A Nepali boy was found dead in the bushes on the clifftop, but there seems to be no investigation as nothing more has been reported since, he was a nobody, an itinerant worker, they die by the thousands in India, and are brushed off like flies. I heard the gossip that he was in a romantic liason with a Swiss woman who had spent a fortune running a restaurant on the beach and maybe the goons who benefited from her patronage were jealous the boy would start to divert all that cash his way. Now he's just another ghost haunting the Goan foreshores and nobody cares except the Swiss woman, who realizes it's not a simple affair for a foreigner to run a business in India.

The newspapers here rarely tell the raw facts about foreigner casualties as maybe they're scared of turning off the tourist trade on which the whole state seems dependent. I can't get over the story of 2 years ago when a British girl was murdered by some goondas who'd picked her up at a Hilltop party. The media said she'd been slipped a drug and died from an overdose in the room to which she'd been taken. I've since been told a further extrapolation upon the sordid affair, the gorillas from the far hinterland, attracted by tales of hot sex with the firangis, had actually taken her to the rocks on Vagatore beach and raped her. She'd come to her senses in the middle of the attack and being a hefty girl had fought them hard till they had to beat her to death to stop the screaming.

It makes me sick thinking about it, apparently her kidnapping had happened right in front of me, she was heaved off her chai-stall mat by the huge brutes where I also sat at the party, and only an Israeli guy, "nogod love him", tried to stop them, asking the girl if she was OK to which she blurbled drug-fucked nonsense which he thought was an affirmative, and they were able to carry her off without anyone else questioning them.

In my oblivious trance and innocent naivite I never see the bad shit that goes on around me but my Indian friends see all and report it to my amazement later. Thugs are always stupid and cause trouble everywhere they go thus they were easily traced and caught but I'm told they were such huge, ugly bastards even the cops were scared of them, nobody as big and brave to take them on, so for a short time they wreaked havoc wherever they went. India's a vast place with the ability to produce monsters of horrific proportions, and I pray to the pantheon of 'no-gods' that I never meet one. For instance, take the story raging in the Indian press at the moment.

A serial killer has been caught in an outer suburb of New Delhi, the servant of an industrialist, who has murdered maybe 30 children and women, (it's still moot as to how much the master participated, it seems the servant did the butchering in his own bathroom with the master rarely home). The bodies were cut up and dumped in a drain at the back of the house, tho their torsos were missing and the butchery done with precision, thus there is the sci-fi scenario they may also have been harvested of organs for the illicit transplant trade in a dodgy hospital right next door, (this urban myth has been debunked, the servant says he cannibalised the corpses and flushed body bits down the toilet over the weeks.)

38 children have gone missing from a nearby village with the police doing nothing about it for the last few years as they were peasants and nobody gives a shit about the poor. Under narco-analysis the servant has confessed to intense sexual frustration, his reason for the murders, and only raping the bodies after death, a necrophiliac as well as a cannibal. All India is beating it's collective breast over the horror, seemingly "normal" citizens indulging in crimes so awful a Gothic novel wouldn't do it justice. Of course, every modern metropolis has this ghastly phenomena, in Auz I'm possessed with the nightmare that there's still serial killers at large on the lonely highways bumping off hitch-hikers as so many have disappeared over the years, and not just by Ivan Millat, the "Backpacker Killer."

I myself had the most relaxing time of late, in Goa laying on the beach every day after much swimming, eating scrumptious cheap seafood and dancing at the few parties, to bed early most nights, with no Indian friends to give me grief like they usually do, the cultural differences being so great. And now I'm in Bombay again, ready for more adventures in the urban jungle, tho there's a 1a.m. curfew and the cops chase us wherever we try to sit and relax. My favorite place for roaming at night is the illicit chai stalls at Churchgate Station but at 1a.m. the cops show up and blow whistles and everybody runs, particularly the chai-stall owners who rush about pushing their trolleys in such a panic it makes me imagine there's been an atomic-bomb warning.

My last Gothic tale is of yet another serial killer, this time on the loose in the Churchgate vicinity where we roam, tagged as the "Beer-Can Killer", he kills sleeping street waifs and cabbies in their cars by bashing their heads in with a rock or stabbing them repeatedly, and he always leaves behind a beer can as his m.o. (He has just claimed his 7th victim, a strong man of 35 found stabbed to death on a walk-over bridge not 200 yards from my hotel. The Times of India reports all the victims had had "unnatural sex" before death = tho TOI prides itself on it's progressiveness, when it comes to sexual matters, it's as medieval as Al Qaeda. But it does look like it's a homosexual killer, which is a subject the Press gets mighty excited about.) This is why the police are assiduous in chasing us all off the streets by 1a.m., they want a clear view of the movements of night-people and maybe they'll spot the madman creeping about. Returning to my hotel at 2a.m. thru the deserted haunted alley-ways I'm super-spooked.

Maybe I'm a morbid fuckwit or a jaded dilettante but it all adds frisson to my safaris into the jungles of India: it might be a leopard that gets me, (only today a wild leopard wandered into outer Bombay city and lodged himself on some buckets of cool water in a backyard bathroom), or a lynch-mob or a deranged killer, but I'm such a freak, usually the goondas run from me, (actually I'm near always chaperoned by friends and no one gets near me.) Chaos rains down about me, as if I'm a "Jonah", and I rarely notice a thing, like a child lost in the forest, I float about blissfully unawares, try to be kind to all the animals and mostly get sweetness beamed back at me, for the truth is the majority of Indians are gorgeous souls just trying to stay alive and succeed, tho if you cross them badly they'll blacken your face and march you about naked before they lynch you.

Al Qaeda (Not) in Goa.

Maybe I'm an obsessive romantic, but I can't help returning to the sites of my youth where I had the most exquisite of transcendental experiences, as if I could recapture the high and the promise. One of those places is Vagatore Beach in Goa where in 1972 I lived in the nude with the international freak-set and took too much LSD, went on cosmic vision quests and gelled into the anarcho-mystic nutcase that I am. 35 years later it's another world, cyberpunk instead of nature-hippie, with ritzy hotels piled up where once we built our elaborate grass-huts, every roof a satellite dish and every Indian in hip-hop gear with mobile and fast motor-bike, techno music and designer drugs ruling the life-style.

We were anti-materialist then, now we're all high-fashion worshippers of money and celebrity. Still, on the dance-floor, nobody gives a shit in the trance, one can be as silly as a loon and get lost in the rush. Every year there's some disaster that halts the flow of tourists, 9/11, the tsunami, the Iraqui War and terrorist threats, the most common lament being too many Israelis crowding everybody else out. This year it's the opposite, no Israelis! There was a threat from Al Qaeda to target the parties so they've mostly fled south trying to secrete themselves by the thousands in the lost city of Hampi, but if the terrorists want them, they'll surely follow their trail. The rest of us dance resolutely on, not even the fear of mass murderers dampening our intrepid spirits, the Goans as strong as ever and all of us spitting in the face of the cowardly jihadi fuckwits who can only sneak up on people, they especially hate parties I bet.

The Christmas party at the Hilltop was laid-back, the music very "trance", hardstyle rarely gets an outing here, mostly Indian DJs who still seem to be copying the neo-hippie soft style of 15 years ago. Only a smattering of Israeli jungle-bunnies showed up, and few other internat freaks, the wild tribe seems to have moved on, I suppose the parties here have become too controlled, costing 1000 rupees to enter and security guards crawling all over the place. You never know if the blob next to you is a plain-clothes cop so the smoking of charas is not such a public ritual anymore, no "Bam Shankar!" screamed to signify one's big babahood to the ravers stomping all about, everything done on the sly, paranoia rules, the hard-arse freaks have probably split to the backwaters, they're notorious cheapskates and Goans need money.

It's kind of a relief to not have the Israelis so in your face, like having a holiday, for all the money lost I suspect even the Goans are enjoying the break, too much haggling over 10 Rupees and fisticuffs over cultural gaps/gaffs, no more motor-bikes going over cliffs and less flipped-out drug O.D.s delivered to the Emergency Wards, (tho I myself quite like their badness, they're so rude, so strong, a tribe unto themselves, it's amusing to observe them, like wild animals set free of constraints, their quirky social codes and methods of sexual display, their tweaky hippie dress sense, the Israeli stomp, they can be a laugh.

The scene has now been over-run by the Indians themselves, from all over, they've caught the party-bug of Goa after 40 years of firangi rule, Goa's their's and they grab it by the hair and drag it about. Alcohol pours down like monsoon rains, by 7 PM the drunks are roaming and the picturesque coconut groves can turn sinister quickly, and while Goa is a very safe tourist haven, the Goans being particularly caring and watchful of abuse, there is an awful lot of monsters at large ready to run amok.

Dancing peacefully at the Christmas Party I got what felt like a glass of beer thrown in my earhole. As I turned in surprise two guys beside me broke into a fight, tumbling to the ground, with the usual coward's gang of thugs putting the boot into one of them. Apparently one idiot had been grabbing a girl on the tits as he danced in front of her and her boyfriend objected and pushed him away.

The fight tumbled across the entire dance floor, more guys joining in like crazed lemmings, a huge section of the crowd moving with it as one guy seemed to be slogging it out with a mob. And the previously ubiquitous security cordon was nowhere to be found, the fight going on and on, and the victim seemingly leading the mob towards the front gate where security guards should be. The muscle-bound bouncers did indeed finally break up the lynch-mob and ascertaining from witnesses who the ring-leaders of the molestation were, they traced them to a nightclub nearby and beat the shit out of them.

It all makes for an exciting holiday, if one can duck the punches and avoid the stalkers. On New Year's eve the usual hordes of party-wannabes buzzed like gnats on their motorbikes around the labyrnth of Goan rice-paddy fields looking for the happening party but there is, and has always been, only one hot venue in Goa that has out-lasted and out-funked all the rest and that's the Hilltop Hotel, surviving even the curse of Toby Zoates to kick on, tho lamely.

It's 2007 party went off smoothly, like the klunky fireworks display on the beach, the techno music was cutting and actually nailed that "elusive funk" at times, like symphonies and choirs and every rock band and washing machine in the world throbbing together, and the huge crowd shimmied and shook and threw up their arms like apes massing mindlessly in awe under a full moon, as if it's hard-wired in humans to congregate, touch and commune in herds. Over the years I've been passed joints by Bollywood stars, top fashion designers and rich brat kids of billionaire industrialists for they know where the nitty-gritty in dance-music is thumping, it's not in the polite lounges of their 5-star hotels. Mostly it's Bombay mid-class hipsters hoping to surf the electro-wave, and a sea of peasants from the hinterland who want to get in on the Bollywood act, many thinking there's "free sex" available from the firangis.

After 30 hours of continuous dancing the churning washing-machine in the music took over and the drunken Indians crashed into me as they stumbled past, quite annoying, every one of the billion citizens wants to grab a handful of the demi-god like foreigners, they continuously knock against one, stroke, touch, rub, caress, even an old gronk like me constantly got his arse felt-up. I actually think many Indians exist in a group mind, like mob-rule, and there are few individuals who think or act on their own initiative. Sometimes I fear underneath all that friendly obsequiousness and heartfelt cordialiy is simmering a resentment at us foreigner's high-faluting ways and an envy of our western achievements.

2007 is the 150th anniversary of the 1857 Mutiny in which the natives rose up and slaughtered a few of their British Raj masters, and today the newspapers reprinted pamphlets wherein Hindu and Moslem priests encouraged their fellow Indians to go out and "murder any Europeans you come across." Can we still be seen as invaders?

Last night I was returning thru the transit town of Mapusa after a trip to the Goan capital of Panjim to see the movie "Babel" at the Inox Cineplex. We were at the petrol staton trying to get fuel for our scooter and I thought I'd take a quick piss. Strolling across the station's tarmac I was nearly run down by a small taxi-van. Forgetting about the 7 PM danger-zone I yelled in outrage and shook my fist, the driver went ballistic and leapt from his slimy carapace, drunk as a punk, face twisted like a demon from hell. I stupidly screamed he had no brains and was ugly as an evil imp to which he foamed at the mouth and threw his fists about. My friend Prakash rushed over and quietened me, pulling me back to the scooter and I thought the whole matter was over.

The queue of petrol-junkies looked at me glumly as I sauntered to the other side of the station and sat on some rocks to wait for the bike to be fed. Unbeknownst to me the monsters in the taxi had quickly parked and came back looking for me, the driver with 6 hairy thugs in tow, real brave guys and as drunk as rogue elephants. They manhandled Prakash and asked him where I'd gone, and him being the smart lad he is, he told them to go on the opposite side of the petrol dump to the bus-stand where I was waiting for him. They stupidy lumbered off, mitts outstretched to tear me to pieces, while I blithely whistled a happy tune a few metres away. Prakash ran to me and dragged me to the bike, the petrol-heads had warned him to flee quickly, forgetting the fuel, he pushed me onto the bike and sped off, shouting into the wind how I'd come very close to being demolished by a mob of murderous drunken ape-men, no longer the servile happy Goans welcoming the beloved white maharajas. Who needs Al Qaeda when there's Al Cohol to wreack havoc upon the innocent?

Bombay Wet Dreams.

I spent a couple of days in Bombay as it's one of my favorite world-cities, I've even slept on the streets there in my youth and only the shoe-shine boys and cripples looked after me. I returned to my most patronized Indian cinema, The Regal in Colaba, an art deco landmark from the roaring twenties, and there I saw a Hindi film, "Kabul Express", a laid-back understated look at Afghanistan, more photo-journalist than narrative, a picturesque ride with the Number One hunk of Bollywood, John Abraham, and it was cool, preferable to the tidal wave of 'blood and guts' images the "war on terror" has unleashed upon us.

I was stood up by a friend and was standing in front of the cinema somewhat at a loss when I bumped into a vague acquaintance, a jolly villain by the name of Micky, half-Goan, half Maharashtran, he looked like a giant hairy coconut dressed in neon hippie hip-hop gear with an avalanche of dreadlocks pouring out of his head and an aura that glowed "nasty boy" from a mile off. I knew him as a sleazy hustler who chased foreign girls about and bludged a good time out of them, and I'd always kept my distance. Now suddenly he's my best friend, latching onto me like a drowning mollusc, drooling with compliments and hearty hail-fellow-well-met bullshit. His delinquency intrigued and amused me, I'd been stood-up and needed company, Mumbai is best with a chaperone to run interference, so I decided to get a closer look at him, letting myself be shanghaied into a night of Bombay revelry a la Micky the Moose.

I've been to many nightspots in this 7-island city, techno-parties in 5-star hotels and members-only discos where one can stay till 3 AM, but they were all full of boring, moneyed people dancing politely and checking out each others designer clothes, much like in Sydney but without the hip music, inevitably Hindi pop slops. I was looking for something different, wilder, sexier, where the celebrants really got down dirty to boogie. Such as the nightclub scenes in Bollywood movies where the whole crew explode into heart-stopping dance maneuvers and have orgasms writhing to the beat. Dance is my number one sport and joy, I've studied and performed pop dancing in many hot clubs from a young age and if I'm gonna find wild and dirty dance anywhere, surely it's Mumbai.

But it didn't look like it was going to happen in real life, the few clubs we visited the couples danced desultorily. The wildest it got was walking the mean streets late at night and checking out the trannies, prostitutes and junkies around Jahengir Art Gallery and Churchgate Station, it's so dangerous only last night a guy was stabbed there 7 times. A bad-arse movie yeah but I also needed something a bit more secure.

As we wandered a back alley we heard live music wafting from a gaudy door into a dingy basement. We went in to get an earful and a beer, it was an airless concrete box with concrete tree-roots snaking along the ceiling, and were sat down with much ceremony by a platoon of waiters done up like militaristic Maharajas. The motley crew of musicians wailed on and on, strangling a Hindi pop tune via a sputtering microphone as I ordered drinks and gazed patronizingly upon them. We were the first customers of the night and much was expected of us.

Then the mob of waiters parted to reveal a line-up of girls, mostly in western fashions and with too much make-up, all gazing hopefully at me. I realized what we had stumbled into, one of those infamous Bombay bars where "bar-girls" are available for company if one spends unstintingly. A burly madame flounced out and sat next to the band, glaring at me as if challenging my manhood, a real man must spend up big, Mister White Sahib!

I stared at my beer while Micky appraised the trade and, as all Indian men do, decided the lone girl in the sari was the only talent there. I quickly paid for the over-priced drinks and escaped before we were further fleeced. I don't know what the story is, I imagine the door at the back led to private rooms somewhere, the club being nothing more than the foyer of a brothel, or maybe the girls just danced more lasciviously the more money you threw at them. In a city where prostitution is illegal, I've never seen so many working girls, there's one area, B.T. Road, where they seem to flock in their thousands.

Micky announced he was hungry and so we called in at an eatery where he proceeded to eat like a hippopotamus, they brought the stuff to him in buckets, he reminded me of King Kong tearing into a dinosaur the way he chomped on and on, and later on he drank like a fish, pouring down booze as if into a black-hole and I got jumpy over the bill, how did those dumb blond girls he roped in put up with this? He sold me a sob story that he had changed his ways, no more smoking hashish, no more hunting firanghi girls, only a small drink now and then, he was a new man. All because his last tourist lover had gotten pregnant to him and then pissed off, refusing to take him on as the father and this had broken his heart. Hmmmmmm, so sad... I was really impressed.

Next up was the Voodoo Club in Colaba, India's one and only gay (sometimes) club, but only on Saturday night, then it's a poof's free-for-all that out-does Sydney's Oxford street in swishing and squealing, but Friday night, the night I'm out and about, is pussy-punters night, resident hookers prowled by desperately hungry men. Yet I thought it would be perversely interesting to watch Indian men in a taboo milieu, cute boys in sports-gear hopping into break-dance, dumpy businessmen in safari-suits trying to do the Watusi, dowdy shop-wallahs stepping on hot-coals in their attempt to be hipsters, all trying to impress the girls with their jerky moves. Luckily the DJ played cool hip-hop music and I was kept happy for a few hours while I watched the mugs crack onto the whores. The best looking girl in the joint, an Indian Anita Ekberg, blond hair and all, was swept out the door by what looked like a British bloke who threw me a furtive look as if he were on some dangerous mission, he was so closely chaperoned by a grim-looking goonda Indian pimp I suppose it was indeed a risky venture.

Another gorgeous girl flounced thru, this one like Hedy Lamarr in a black strapless evening gown, she stood under a spot-light to show off her assets, flinging her lustrous hair about provocatively. Micky was glad-handling everybody including the DJ, telling him what discs to spin, then calling for more drinks while he danced wildly with everybody in the room. As he got drunker and drunker he got more manic, demonic even, and couldn't resist asking Hedy Lamarr what her price was. She blithely told him it was 3000 rupees to which he rudely laughed in her face. For the rest of the night he danced in her vicinity with a 50 rupee note held up and flicked gleefully, as if to tell her that's all she was worth.

She flung her long hair about in a fury and stormed across the dance-floor like a martinet at war, Micky's demonic smile chasing her, his possessed eyes sharp and bright as black obsidian. This was what Micky the Goan party-boy was like up close, a monster of rapacious appetites and cruel masculinity. In all the afray, I managed to get in some abandoned dancing, a few of the whores and hip hop boys joining in, there's nothing in this world like a group free for all in dancing, letting go but hanging right with the beat in the swaying of the hips, the tapping of the feet, the rotation of the head, till the brain swims. Indians are crazy to dance and I'm mad for dancing with them. We all swung about, some fast, some slow, undulating, throwing our arms about in erotic gestures, and our legs stepping to a Bollywood routine. Suddenly the music stopped and closing time was announced. Bummer! Just when we were getting going.

Clubs have to close in Mumbai by 1 a.m. and by this time most of the punters had fled, only a few geriatrics left hanging in there, and the girls, realizing the young guys had no money, zeroed in on the oldies, for "old is gold" in urban folklore. An ancient Sikh in a turban was whisked about for one last-gasp rap dance, and another old fellow who looked like he needed a walking stick clung to a young girl as if she were a life-raft, bear-hugging the breath out of her, but what the heck, money was money and even the gerries still need to get some human touch-up relief.

Micky bellowed for more drinks and danced with the whores, their pimps, their mugs, the hip-hop boys, everybody, stomping on the floor as if to turn the cold concrete into warm wine, and when the club closed he had to be dragged out screaming for more drinks. I was fed-up but he insisted we go to a late-night dive in Colaba, "The Hawaiin Shack" and I thought I'd see the bumpy ride out till the end. In the cab he grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. I pulled it back quickly. Though curious to discover what it was that draws in all those foreign girls who never seem to get enough of the goon, I wasn't interested, he'd done me in.

Anyway, he had nothing that was so special down there, and I pondered the cosmic question, what was the big attraction? His dreadlocks were filthy and he stank of B.O., he was high maintenance, in money and patience, so what the fuck was drawing girls to him like bees to honey? An oily tongue? (gives good head/had gift of the gab), an affability that never takes "No!" for an answer? A party-boy who really kicks off and is kind of fun? I suppose that gets them in, tho I imagine he simply scores with the stupid ones.

We got into the Hawaiin Shack where the drinks cost a bomb and the music was 'Fifties rock'n'roll, another concrete box that used to be for "bar-girls" now turned legit, it contained a scattering of nice, middle-class couples who looked silly as they attempted to jitter-bug. I myself was jitter-bugged by my Micky experience and was looking for an escape-route. He drunkenly professed love to me and promised we'd be an item in Goa, I smiled grimly and politely murmured, "I don't think so...", then split quietly into the night, alone, to get myself back safely to my hotel in a taxi.

I did meet him in Goa at the Christmas party in the Hilltop Hotel but he had cracked onto yet another blond, dread-locked neo-hippy girl and he looked through me like I was the glass door into Hell. I was so relieved. I'd had my night out in Bombay and it was a bombastic laugh, not to be repeated. I did get a fantastic dance experience in Goa to the hard-style techno they're the Masters of, possibly with real Bollywood stars dancing around me, and it was the greatest dance high it has ever been my nirvana to participate in.

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Deadbeat Wanderings.

I'm quite settled into the Indian way of things these days, only the rare flip-out when I can't bare to be stared at for one more second or there's a crowd of pushy men at a ticket window or some fuckwit parks his truck in the middle of the road and nearly kills us as we drive up its arse. The second leg of my tour of the high Himalayas again took days to get going, every day a new drama, the car got crashed when parking, every acquaintance in town got driven around on their own emergency errands, my driver's father was rushed to hospital with breathing difficulties, on and on for a week. I wanted to call the whole thing off but Balu was determined to go for his joy-ride, his father could wait till he came back to die, and so I gave into his headstrong nature and we sped off at midday, after one last visit to the hospital.

It was a glorious spin into the mountains of Himachal Pradesh, a whole other world with it's own architecture, dress style and favorite deity. We drove thru the old British Raj hill-station, Simla, without stopping, for it seemed an endless warren of concrete cubes piled up the sides of various mountains with little to entrance the world-weary traveler. Instead we rushed another 50 kms thru the dark to reach a hotsprings called Tatapani where we were welcomed into a quaint, grungy hotel, The Springview. It was a sweetly pastoral place, peaceful, hospitable, the mineral waters very soothing for the ailments that beset humanity, and I soaked my injured leg for a few days, for a while I felt strong again and the pain in the knee quietened.

It's a pity that in a year "They" will build a dam upon the Sutlej River and the Tatapani Hotsprings experience will be drowned, as will many villages and a cave dedicated to Shiva not far from the hotel. It is often my fate to frequent a place that is about to disappear, the old days of "hippie India", the salaciousness of Kings Cross, the penultimate freak-trance of Goa, Connaught Park in New Delhi before the Metro, and many off-the-road idyllic spots that get swept away by "progress". For all the trouble and expense of my Maharaja's car-trip, seeing the last of Tatapani was worth it. Balu met a fellow rafting-guide and he took us to his farmhouse way up the valley, above the waterline of the future dam. We met his old father and mother, and we all drank chai while we sat upon his veranda and viewed the sun setting over the village's fields. Gazing upon the misty landscape, it felt like paradise, for those born into it, it's inheritors, the bountiful garden, the peace of raising a family and following old traditions, the love of belonging to the soil, growing with it. Nice for me, a tourist, to get a glimpse of it, I couldn't live here of course, I'd go nuts, an iconoclastic freak in a cage, squawking for sophisticated entertainment and world-information 24/7, and eventually getting up to mischief.

Zooming around winding mountain roads with a golden sun melting away my worries, manifold hills and distant snowcaps gleaming with hazy mystique, I sure felt free and relaxed. We got back to Shangri-la at midnight to land in the usual drama that familiarity breeds. The pretty Japanese girl at the Lodge had thrown a party and invited every Jap hippie in the area, plus a few Indian ring-ins, to plink plink on guitars and bang bang on bongos. Then she proceeded to hang out in another room, leaving the door to her room open. Someone snuck in and stole $2000 in traveler's cheques. It's a big drag for my landlord who has to make a report to the Police and they only add extra arse-ache to any dilemma. The cosmic types like hippies, spiritualists, yogis and desperate oldies who rush to Shangri-la hoping for enlightenment in 7 easy lessons can easily get ripped due to their naivite and mindlessness. It's not unknown for "bad babas" to lure into the jungle silly women who fantasize about their perfect guru, following the bastards tho they glow with sleaze.

The women are then taken deep into the mountains and held captive in a cave for many months where they are sexual slaves and drudges for the wicked goblins posing as holy-men. They are fed Datura and hashish and kept in an hallucinatory daze until they escape or are turned loose, or horribly murdered, the babas having tired of abusing them mercilessly. I've seen a few crazy foreign women wandering the marketplace, out of their skulls jibber-jabbering, and when I ask my friends, "what happened to her?" they have replied nonchalantly, "oh, she got gang-raped by a mob of drunken sadhus." (Not that all "babas" are villains, most are just semi-crazed drop-outs, the few enlightened ones are probably hiding out deep in the jungles or mountain fastnesses, avoiding the bawling masses and accesible only to the near-enlightened.)

(And not all victims are women, guys too can fall for the bullshit allure of the false baba, every year a European male goes missing in Shangri-la or the mountains thereabouts and folklore has it that the "bad babas" got them. Only last year a 19year old Australian boy went missing, he was last seen wandering towards the river at 6 am in the morning, wearing only a pair of shorts and seeming to be in a daze. The river could easily have claimed him, the undercurrent is treacherous, but his body was never dredged up or found at the barrage 2 kms downstream.

He'd probably come on his youth's idealist quest of finding peace and self-knowledge, maybe got sucked in by some unctuous holy-rolling demon in dreadlocks, fed datura and hashish and had his mind-blown so far out he couldn't get back. He wouldn't be the first firangi to get bumped off for his possessions. His father came with a TV crew to search, investigate, expose, find closure, interviewing all and sundry, papering the town with posters of the poor goofy-looking lad but nothing was known of him, dead or alive.)

It's a wild premise for a bad-arse movie and I pray no sweet, cosmic Japanese girl has to go thru it ever again. The cops have chased out of town most of the "bad babas", too many robberies, rapes and murders in paradise, the tourists must be protected at all costs. I myself walk about with my eyes staring at the ground straight ahead, too paranoid and chilled to meet the eyes of the locals and maybe attract trouble. Just sitting by the bridge having chai can get me killed as the mad, uncertain atomic-particle rush of traffic causes constant collisions: two motorbikes smashed off each other right in front of me, one hurtling towards me out of control. I jumped out of the way and the bike hit a parked scooter, the riders all tumbling to the ground. Luckily no one was hurt, but I shudder to think of the vast injuries sustained all over India. I myself am a living testament to the terror of the traffic here, with my leg crippled horribly by an idiot driving on the wrong side of the road three years ago, but that's another story.

Wandering along the banks of the Ganges River I was waved to by a boy playing in the silver sand. As I got closer to him I saw that he had virtually no legs, just twisted sticks of spaghetti he'd buried in the sand beneath him. He had the most beatific, light-filled face and I couldn't resist sitting with him and inquiring about his life. He was now 17 and he'd had polio since two years old, he lived alone here in Shangri-la as his mother was far away in Uttar Pradesh and he was dependent on the kindness of strangers to stay alive.

When he told me he had to crawl on hands and knees to get back to his wheel chair, I said I was very sorry, "I wish I could give you legs." And he replied, "it doesn't matter, I'm used to it. My life is good, I love to play by the river and at 4pm I go to Pujah in the temple, this keeps me happy." His smile was so bright, his nature oozed such sweetness, I've never seen such a radiant face, he was so endearing I wanted to adopt him, or follow him as my guru. I gave him enough cash for a few days food and swore I'd meet him and help him in the future. To myself I swore that I'd never feel sorry for my lot again, attitude is everything!

The cliche of India being a "functioning anarchy" should be changed to a "dysfunctional trial" as the flood of moronic drivers crowding into every junction like cockroaches to a sticky motel has me hanging from my vehicle screaming, "you fuckwits!" But that's just the spoiled white Maharaja in me not getting his easy ride, fuck him! I'm actually deeply contented with my latest fabulous flight among the mystic Himalayan snowcaps, yet my gypsy nature is still restless and I now long for a few weeks adventure by the Arabian Sea, trancing out in Bombay and Goa. So I'm "Gone Gone Gone to Goa."

Of Bad Babas and Sweet Devas.

Money makes for the magic carpet ride, it can take you anywhere, comfortably. I got talked into hiring a car, at "mate's rates", which in India means extra expenses for the mate and an interminable wait for the car to be ready, a week of spinning about the back-alleys looking for a digital car-stereo system in an analog backwater, at least I got to prowl the jungle's edges at midnight and see some wild elephants crashing thru the brush and streaking across the highway to beat the traffic. Most of the hanging around was for paperwork that never eventuated, we drove off with no insurane and then the car broke down at the first town.

Stuck in Chamba, a medieval dump perched on top of a mountain, where Tolkien meets William Gibson as in cyberpunk goblin-grunge. Mercifully, with India's huge workforce, there is a mechanic every 700 yards, the broken fan was fixed and we were off on my much anticipated cruise thru the glorious Garwhal Himalayas. Car-driving up on the ever-disintegrating, narrow roads is a extreme-sport here for tumbling rocks and landslides can sweep us over the edge at any moment, trucks rush at us from nowhere, our nearest accident was when a horse came racing down a precipitous slope to skid under our wheels, us braking hard just in time. I used to do this trip on a motorbike, really out in the elements, the car is a cripple's dream, so cozily contained. Where once was the low-road that past thru old Tehri and deserted villages, now we go the high road for the Tehri Dam has engulfed the Gangetic valleys and drowned all, sunk under a vast man-made lake, never to be seen again, but I'd seen it before the mountains were moved, the ecology changed, now it's cyberpunk, hydro-electricity and water skiing instead of Shiva's shakti and temple trekking.

Tearing around the hair-pin bends, infinite vistas of mountains and valleys spread before us, snow-caps above and the Ganges river a 1000 ft drop below, hardstyle techno music thumping, I had an epiphany as the sun broke out and beamed hot white light into my brain. Yes! This is what I've gone to all the trouble to get here for! A day of high-altitude speeding got us to a hot spring, Gangonani, dedicated to Shiva, He once supposedly meditated there, and many Rishis have lived there over the centuries, beaming the place ecstatic, for the gorgeous warmth of hot water above the snow-line. By the side of the huge steaming tank I was met by a sadhu-baba with evil eyes and saccharine exhortations to join him at his dhooni, (campfire), to smoke and be regaled by his many wondrous tales. He was dressed in faded saffron rags, a pseudo-swami with a rat's face peeping from under an orange turban wound around his dreadlocks. I've met many sleazy babas in my life and saw this one coming a mile off and told him I wasn't interested. My driver informed me the sly fellow was infamous in Shangri-la as a "smack baba", he hung out by a grotesque statue of Kali outside town, it looked fit for human sacrifice, and he imbibed and pushed brown sugar in the village till he was told to fuck-off, and had now fled to the upper regions to hustle the unwary as a pretenscious holy-man.

We stayed at the hotsprings for 3 days, going on drives high above the snow-line towards the source of the Ganges till the snow banks allowed us no further. And everywhere we went we heard the soundtrack from that latest of Bollywood shlockbusters, "Dhoom 2", the signature song being "Dhoom achale!" ("Let's Go Party!"), the Indians love to party, alongside many international freaks like me, life as one long party with tedious work-spells to pay for it all. Back at the hotsprings the "bad baba" continued to importune me, whenever I looked up from my swimming in the hot-tank, I found his hungry, sly eyes upon me. In the bath I was surrounded by the locals, like sweet, innocent angels who have flown down from some celestial region, when I sang my song of joy they leaned in close to catch my every breath. Soaking alongside me were hardworking, honest, hospitable Garwhali farmers, their cherubic children and the immigrant workers from all over India who drill the rocks to make new roads or toil relentlessly to clear those roads of the interminable landslides for us maharajas to pass by without a care. I love sitting with them in the chai-shops and listening to their tales of danger and death, they work for a private company with no security and low wages, yet were ebullient about the wonder of being alive.

One of the facets of the Indian psyche that fasinates me is their sacralising of the entire universe, every spring, tree, turn in the road has it's resident spirit or godhead, sacred music always lilts in the air, and every 7 yards some aspect of the divine needs to be propitiated. I also see the entire universe as sacred but I don't need any god or spiritual symbolism to bolster my awe. Yet I like to recieve the blessing from their sacred hotspots, trying to weave myself into their fabulous fabric, to kind of make my passage easier. So I went up to the Shiva temple to get my blessing for my Indian sojourn, I tip-toed the perambulation around the central icon fearing I would run into the "bad baba" and, just when I thought I had escaped, I tripped over him laying flat out upon the warm granite behind the altar like a Gollem waiting to be resuscitated.

He sprang to life with alacrity, at last the firangi, (foreigner), was ripe for the picking. He insisted on doing the blessing ritual, mumbling mumbo-jumbo while he put tilak on my third-eye. When I informed him I wanted the red string bracelet that signifies I'd completed a pilgrimage he searched wildly amidst the altar bric-a-brac, tossing icons and sacred paraphenalia willy-nilly, tearing the place up in his avidity to please the rich white maharaja, finally amidst his tornado-like efforts some red-string was found and I was twice-blessed with it twirled about my wrist and he with 51 rupees. I wandered off befuddled that I had now been sacralised by a notorious "smack-baba", but I reasoned that it's the place that counts, not so much the fallible human who lurks there.