their
pilgrimage through the guesthouses and GPO’ s of Asia telling each other how
they should be existing and which joint has the best cheeseburgers in Bali.”
Eddie was in fine form, possessed by a rap which
transcended hangovers, a message for humanity which demanded expression; it
caused him to draw himself up erect in his chair and it drew stern fire from
his eyes.
A couple of the aforementioned vagabonds in tattered
tank-tops and baggy cotton trousers had meanwhile appeared at a table in the
opposite corner of the patio. Ever sensitive to emanations of guruishness, they
had homed in on Eddie and were straining to hear his words.
“There they are, sitting in thousands of guesthouses,
explaining to each other how to exist, currently being quite turned on to think
that existing is actually problematical in the first place.”
I could’ve sworn one of the travelers actually nodded at
this, eyes wide with avid willingness to be made wise. Rather lovely eyes, I
noted, set in a generally lovely face.
Lek appeared from the back to serve this vision and her
companion toasted whole wheat, no butter, and soft-boiled eggs. Plain bottled
water to drink. Lek came over to refill our coffee cups and to ask Eddie if he
thought he might actually feel up to making a run to Foodland for more
provisions, a little later. Eddie gave her the kind of look gurus give people
when they’ve been distracted by matters so mundane as to be unworthy of
comment. Lek gave him another look right back which said you’d better be up to
it.
Eddie practically inhaled the whole cup of coffee in one
go, but did not appear noticeably the happier for it. “You’ve got your
Siddhartha Joneses and your Siddhartha Smiths,” he continued. “You’ve got any
number of up-and-coming accountants and media buyers who’ve discovered
Shangri-la, and who are ready to argue that their Shangri-la is better than
your Shangri-la, or at least that the guesthouses there are cheaper.
“Guesthouses! I was down on Khao San Road the other day,
and I swear they’re building guesthouses on top of guesthouses. You can hardly
walk down the street any more; the postcard racks and breakfast-menu boards
have taken over the sidewalks, and the travelers have spilled out onto the
pavement. No kidding, there are tables and chairs all over the road, and thousands
of tattered ninnies are huddled together out there talking about where they
bought their embroidered shoulder bags and about how isn’t Kathmandu a bit
spoiled these days, you really have to go to Tibet.
“Your first impression is there’s some kind of pogrom on,
and in a minute uniformed men will set up machine guns at either end of the
street, and a loud-hailer will tell the crowd they’ve got just enough time to
order a last cottage cheese and green salad before they’re all dead meat Yeah,
if only it were so.”
“Hey, Eddie,” I said. “You’re running a guesthouse, here.
Aren’t piles of dead travelers in the streets going to be bad for business?”
“I don’t care.”
il Bah-bah t baw-baw” said Lek in
passing. “Crazy.”
Just then, affirming my ability to make things come true
simply by wishing hard, the traveler with the eyes came over and said hi. I
guess she mistook Eddie for the source of the thought waves, though, because
she sort of zeroed in on him, asking him if he were the proprietor. She asked
this in a voice like a furry oboe, a voice that kind of fizzed and fuzzed way
down inside you, somewhere. Her English was accented with an intriguing hint of
Scandinavia. She was tall and well-proportioned, and her loose sleeveless top
had only a couple of holes in it, and nothing underneath. She was the kind of
young lady that grew on you quite quickly.
Eddie owned up to running the joint and told her to sit
down. She called her friend over, and he joined us as well, a 6’4” blond,
bearded scarecrow. He was a real veteran of the trail, by all appearances,
reduced to these cadaverous
pilgrimage through the guesthouses and GPO’ s of Asia telling each other how
they should be existing and which joint has the best cheeseburgers in Bali.”
Eddie was in fine form, possessed by a rap which
transcended hangovers, a message for humanity which demanded expression; it
caused him to draw himself up erect in his chair and it drew stern fire from
his eyes.
A couple of the aforementioned vagabonds in tattered
tank-tops and baggy cotton trousers had meanwhile appeared at a table in the
opposite corner of the patio. Ever sensitive to emanations of guruishness, they
had homed in on Eddie and were straining to hear his words.
“There they are, sitting in thousands of guesthouses,
explaining to each other how to exist, currently being quite turned on to think
that existing is actually problematical in the first place.”
I could’ve sworn one of the travelers actually nodded at
this, eyes wide with avid willingness to be made wise. Rather lovely eyes, I
noted, set in a generally lovely face.
Lek appeared from the back to serve this vision and her
companion toasted whole wheat, no butter, and soft-boiled eggs. Plain bottled
water to drink. Lek came over to refill our coffee cups and to ask Eddie if he
thought he might actually feel up to making a run to Foodland for more
provisions, a little later. Eddie gave her the kind of look gurus give people
when they’ve been distracted by matters so mundane as to be unworthy of
comment. Lek gave him another look right back which said you’d better be up to
it.
Eddie practically inhaled the whole cup of coffee in one
go, but did not appear noticeably the happier for it. “You’ve got your
Siddhartha Joneses and your Siddhartha Smiths,” he continued. “You’ve got any
number of up-and-coming accountants and media buyers who’ve discovered
Shangri-la, and who are ready to argue that their Shangri-la is better than
your Shangri-la, or at least that the guesthouses there are cheaper.
“Guesthouses! I was down on Khao San Road the other day,
and I swear they’re building guesthouses on top of guesthouses. You can hardly
walk down the street any more; the postcard racks and breakfast-menu boards
have taken over the sidewalks, and the travelers have spilled out onto the
pavement. No kidding, there are tables and chairs all over the road, and thousands
of tattered ninnies are huddled together out there talking about where they
bought their embroidered shoulder bags and about how isn’t Kathmandu a bit
spoiled these days, you really have to go to Tibet.
“Your first impression is there’s some kind of pogrom on,
and in a minute uniformed men will set up machine guns at either end of the
street, and a loud-hailer will tell the crowd they’ve got just enough time to
order a last cottage cheese and green salad before they’re all dead meat Yeah,
if only it were so.”
“Hey, Eddie,” I said. “You’re running a guesthouse, here.
Aren’t piles of dead travelers in the streets going to be bad for business?”
“I don’t care.”
il Bah-bah t baw-baw” said Lek in
passing. “Crazy.”
Just then, affirming my ability to make things come true
simply by wishing hard, the traveler with the eyes came over and said hi. I
guess she mistook Eddie for the source of the thought waves, though, because
she sort of zeroed in on him, asking him if he were the proprietor. She asked
this in a voice like a furry oboe, a voice that kind of fizzed and fuzzed way
down inside you, somewhere. Her English was accented with an intriguing hint of
Scandinavia. She was tall and well-proportioned, and her loose sleeveless top
had only a couple of holes in it, and nothing underneath. She was the kind of
young lady that grew on you quite quickly.
Eddie owned up to running the joint and told her to sit
down. She called her friend over, and he joined us as well, a 6’4” blond,
bearded scarecrow. He was a real veteran of the trail, by all appearances,
reduced to these cadaverous
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