Archives for category: Author

As I bail out of the game, here is the gift of all (or nearly all) of the articles in a single page of links; beginning with stories of travels through India, then, my personal life adventures largely centered in Native America, if only because I believe this is my most under-appreciated work and deserves greater exposure. Following these accounts are things I personally find interesting, next are external links to books authored by myself and then my satire. Lastly, scroll down to find that work I most detest, the work which had inspired the satire (a sort of therapy) – to discover the real evils of geopolitics.

My Madcap Adventure (tales of a journey to India)

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 1 From Indian country to India

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 2 New Delhi, round one

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 3 On character

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 4 Into the Himalayan foothills

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 5 Sanarth & the Buddha

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 6 Varanasi part one

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 7 Varanasi part two

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 8 Varanasi part three

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 9 Katmandu

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 10 Trisuli River

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 11 Chitwan National Park

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 12 Katmandu reprise

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 13 Back to Hotel Imperial

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 14 The riots begin

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 15 To the Taj Palace Hotel

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 16 Out of Delhi!

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 17 Cairo-London-New York

My Madcap Adventure, Episode 18 Aftermath

My Madcap Adventure, Epilogue (Notes) corrections/disclaimers


Life in Indian Country:

Life in Blackfoot Country Learning to go hungry

Keeping a Pipe On forgotten knowledge

Pipe Maker A story with a moral

The Novice A story with a moral

The Stick Game Native quantum mechanics (the witches)

The Legend of the Blackfoot Titan Mik-api

Happy the Indian Guide Indian stereotypes

Raven and Thunder Blackfoot Law of Matriarchy

Strawberry Medicine Men and a Stellar Jay

Napi in the New Age A ‘red apple’ story (satire)

Essay on Native American Humor Why I’m not politically correct

Junípero Serra On house breaking dogs (Catholic style)

The DIA and Shamanism Failed exploitation of indigenous knowledge

Native Americans and Race Race is BS to authentic Indians

Michele Bachmann & Wild Indians Satire

Apple Indians & Anthropology Anthropology as a faith-based initiative

Modern Indian Society A short history of cultural transition

Losers A Native perspective of Plato & western science

The Legacy of Russell Means ‘think twice’

New Age Homicide for $MONEY$ ‘think thrice’


Just stuff:


Condensed for the Absolutely & Truly Dense

Thomas Paine

French Peacekeepers

Raphael’s Paradox

Brownie, a Weimaraner A folk story

Original Sin is a Hate Crime Abuse of women & nature

The Gospel According to Ronald On the historical Jesus

To Forgive is a Crime To excuse the inexcusable

Ron’s Conspiracy Theory Cosmology is the conspiracy

You’ve Got Apes! European cultural mentality

A Spy in the House of the Unloved Refuting Anias Nin

A Coward Called Machismo Observations on Machismo

How I rose from the dead (40 years after)

The More Important Blessing Quotes

Mr Chan A true story of real charity

Bruno the Bear Animal stereotypes

Recreating a Hot Spring in Your Bathtub A memory of Yellowstone


My Books (external links)

Penucquem Speaks 30 years life with Blackfeet Indians

Napi Mephisto on cross-cultural encounters

Queer Chicken Dinner refuting Jack Kerouac

Cosmos & Consciousness on reality


The Satires

March of the Tickle Dicks pictorial

The Logic Behind The American Vote thumbnail satire

Moot Court The Donald vs Ted Cruz

Whereas the Enemy of Your Friend is Your Favorite F**K

Urolagnetics On Scientology

Junípero Serra On house breaking dogs (Catholic style)

MERGE On Chomsky’s theory

People Who Behave As Stupid As They Look Uh-huh

Who Punked the Cardinal? On Vatican Fashion

Opus Dei creavit monitor lacertae Charlie Hebdo & satire

Alfreda Bikowski & the Definition of Stupid Only at the CIA

Obama’s Speech at Queensland Parody

Liberals On multiculturalism

Obama’s Speech to Skull & Bones A parody of his UN address

Teleprompter Forget it, you don’t want to go there

Thuck Norris Rated ‘S’ for SICK (parental advisory)

Democracy Now! State secrets & the war in Liberacestan

Michele Bachmann & Wild Indians Kerouac in drag

Dick Cheney’s Rottweiler Dog butt-sniffing rituals

Maison de l’Histoire de France Fellatio, Sarkozy & French history

The Great Phuc Uuus Massacre Propaganda trained CIA lizards

Bozo’s Handcock U Speech George Bush & Tony Blair in love

My Life as a Joke Personal Ad (women only please)

The Pachuco Stare Decisis SCOTUS = SCROTUM

The Moron Bernard-Henry Lévy He truly is a moron

How Jesus Gets Kicked Out Of Heaven Naughty George Carlin

NOT My Last Tango in Paris The NSA & cyanide suppositories

Demons Anonymous Addiction to destructive fantasies

Saint Chester Prince of the Church & patron saint of boys

A Conversation With Jon Stewart Barack Obama is a White man!

Scooby Doo is Lyndon LaDouche ‘Rut a retard’

Saki & Barf: killer women of the State Department Just rude

Salinas vs Texas U.S. Supreme Court self inflicted lawyer joke

Life’s Little Surprises A devil teaches law

Happy the Indian Guide On stereotypes

Napi in the New Age A ‘red apple’ Indian story

Mother’s Day and Male Dopes Moms & cannabis

Breakfast at a Pizzaria The German ‘I hate my life’ philosophy

Our Gang rascals too big for their breeches

World Cup Scribbles Rabies & dog muzzles

English Football International competition

Sardonism Adults Playing Cowboys and Indians

The Gospel According to Ronald On the historical Jesus

The Islamic State for Dummies The K.I.S.S. principle

NATO’s Three Chihuahuas Small dog syndrome

Essay On Native American Humor ‘Napi Eats His Butt’ (Best satire)

Perverts of Western Philosophy Locke to de Sade (and more)

A Cheesey Detective Story (the short lived series)

Episode 1

Episode 2

Guest Satire:

Raghead Political satire by Bill Purkayastha

Admiral John Kirby Comedy straight out of the Pentagon

About Clowns DJ Rankin


The NAZI Meme

Deep State I

Deep State II

Deep State III

Deep State IV

Deep State V

Deep State VI

Hillary Clinton in Four Short Paragraphs

Intelligence Agencies & Wikipedia

The CIA And Nonviolent Resistance

God’s Chosen is a Dumb Idea 

The Secret Team is The Family

Profits of War

Fear of Minor Debris

The Alpha Chronology

Reorganizing Murder Incorporated 

Square Pegs in Round Holes:

“We Tortured Some Folks”

Fear of Minor Debris

Intelligence Agencies & Wikipedia

Laura Poitras’ Myopia

Death of a MOSSAD Agent


On Ukraine:


Stratfor Chief

Winning Ugly

Reuters & A Fixed Verdict

Kiev’s Nazis

Black Boxes, Dark Arts & Geopolitics

If Russia Were To Back Down on MH 17 ?

Elliot Higgins on MH 17

Poison Fruit Encore 1

Obama’s Ukraine

The New Great Game

USAID & Chevron

Victoria Nuland’s Wedding

Germany’s Martyrs of the Maidan

John Kerry’s neo-nazi snipers

The CIA and a Liar’s Fastrack

Dominionism’s Fingers in Kiev

The Washington Post & Double Think

The Disinformation Nation

The Ascension of The Morons

Poison Fruit Encore 2

People Who Behave As Stupid As They Look

Admiral John Kirby

Mutti, Piggies and the Minsk Peace Accord

The Intercept Takes A Dive 

The Intercept Takes A Dive Episode 2


Related stuff:

What Do Putin’s Adviser’s Know? You can listen right here

Sergei Lavrov’s UN Speech Russia’s Foreign Minister on 27 Sept 2014

Putin’s Speech of 24 October 2014 Sane by comparison with NATO

Tactical Nuclear Weapons for Dummies Pentagon fantasies


Arab Spring:


Egypt Round Two

Syria Part One

Syria Part Two

Syria Part Three 

Syria Part Four

The Islamic State for Dummies

NATO, God & Military Mafia

Western Democracies, Salafist Militia & Syria 

Litmus Test

Lies by Omission

Friday the 13th in Paris

The Real Intelligence on Our Leaders

Whereas the Enemy of Your Friend is Your Favorite F**K

Letter to Doctors Without Borders 

NATO’s Most Censored Story


Other stuff:

Parting Shot On media

Throwing Stones From Glass Houses Social-political commentary

Vice and MI6

Seymour Hersh & Mythology

Machine Pistol

Fletcher Prouty and the Secret Team (Today)

Defense One Zero Hedge Drinks The Kool Aid

Médecins Sans Frontiéres

USAID in Central Africa

Reuters & A Fixed Verdict

Truth Jockeys

Why NSA Wants Your Metadata

Farewell to the Black White-Man

Boris Nemtsov

Chevron & USAID

Alfreda Bikowski & the Definition of Stupid

Paranoia of Dianne Feinstein

In the Shoes of an Insurgent

Square Pegs in Round Holes

Metadata & Panorama

Reorganizing Murder Incorporated

Votes and Vanishing Acts

Poison Fruit

The Left’s Anti-Federalist Urban Legend


The Navy Yard Reporting Smells Wrong

MOSSAD and Jews for Jesus

“We Tortured Some Folks”

Hillary Clinton in Four Short Paragraphs

Stupid is as Stupid Does


Military Sock Puppets, NSA Trolls & CIA Shills

CIA & The Media

WikiLeaks & Spy Agencies

Noteworthy Information Operations


More stuff:

Throwing Stones From Glass Houses

Why the FBI Will Never Investigate the Biggest Criminals

CIA and Public Relations


Greek Tragedy

Winning Ugly

Truth Jockeys

Greek Hubris

How To Make Powerful Enemies In Four Short Paragraphs

People Too Stupid to Understand They’re Stupid

Holocaust & Narrative Perversion

See’s Sampler

Stupid is as Stupid Does

NATO’s Three Chihuahuas

Evil Cynics, Stooges & Dupes

Empire & Blow-back

Erik Prince & Pedophile Priests

The NSA’s Egregious Liar

Robert Seldon Lady, CIA Slime-Bag

Cheap Tricks for Jesus

The Economics of Moonshine Whiskey

Celebrating the Anti-Christ

Enlightenment: The Automated Death Machine

Napi Mephisto

Snowden & Snooping

Uncle Sam, Dominionist Puppet

Of Nukes, Courage and Cowards

Outline of a Snowden Legal Defense

Color of Law, Star Chamber, FISA & PRISM

The Greatest Criminal Endeavor

Our Vital National Interests

How to Make Powerful Enemies in Three Short Paragraphs

How to Make Powerful Enemies In a Few Paragraphs

If  The Left Are Sheep, The Right Are Fish

The (No) ‘Establishment’ Clause

North Carolina’s 2nd Secession From the Union





Post Modern Teutonic Vision

The USA vs The Teutons


A little more about books:


Profits of War


David Ignatius’ Body of Lies

John Le Carre’s A Delicate Truth

Robert Littell’s The Company

No Snowflake in an Avalanche

Dirty Wars

Should I be a Spy Novelist?

To The Far Right Christian Hater

A Report to an Academy


My blog had begun attracting readers in mid 2014, when I’d been giving it real attention for several months. This upcoming week of 21 March 2016, coinciding with withdrawing from giving sustained attention, it will pass the 100,000 hits mark (it stands at 99,685 as I write this.)

Hardly some mega-phenomena but not bad either. Now, it’s just another internet archive –



All original material copyright Ⓒ 2015 by Ronald Thomas West: For profit & mass paper media redistribution prohibited


23 August 2016 update: Finally, this week it’s off to the farm! Had been stuck in what seems like endless bureaucratic limbo while establishing residence in the country I presume to a retirement hobby of micro-scale organic farmer. Hopefully I’ll be planting in April, but meanwhile I’d been a bit impatient with certain entities and punishing then with some of the meanest stuff I know how to inflict (certain CIA aligned people should ‘get a life’ and quit throwing up impediments to my pursuit of happiness.)

In a month or so I’m initiating a process of unplugging from the grid, something I’ve working to pull together for over a year. There will be an intermediate stage where I’ll be searching out the future farm I’ll be giving attention to; in an off-beaten area whose general environs has already been selected. This transitional stage will not allow for much attention to ‘things’ other than preparing for a whole new (and entirely different) life. You won’t see much of me here.

After the transitional stage, I’ll be a small farmer in nowhere and desire nothing more than that. Other than immediate family and intimate friends of many years, those perchance inclined to visit, those ‘friends’ I will be giving my attention to will be my maize stalks, chili peppers, pinto beans, butternut squash, potatoes and tomatoes.

There is no plan to have internet, no TV, no cell phone, no radio, none of it. Concerning my email, it’ll be checked once a month, downloaded from a wifi cafe. Any reply will be composed offline and sent the following month. After awhile, I might not even do that. will last as an archive so long as my credit card continues to automatically renew it or through 2019. Or my credit card is cancelled. Or the banking system collapses. Or I’m dead. Or the madmen who run NATO push us into a civilization ending war with Russia. Or whatever. I was never a really happy camper at this website, it’s crossed my mind I could go to hell for some of my satire. What’s more is, this line of work is not what I’d have chosen to do and I’m not altogether happy with the development of my personality; having to do with immersing in the social-septic infection called geopolitical intrigue. But that’s the hand the gods dealt me and I’ve tried to make the best of it.

It’s been a wild ride. The craven behaviors of their political bosses notwithstanding, my sincere thanks are extended to those low and mid level police of Germany and Spain who have been most helpful over these several years, with informal cooperation developing information on assassination linked to organized crime in NATO and other institutions (and special thanks to the brave woman agents in Spain who saved my life on two occasions.)

Ok, so this announcement has been a long time coming. In a week or so I reach the bonafide retirement age of 65 years. I’ve earned it. I really see little more can be done from this end. If people are content to allow the sociopath morons who have risen to rule take us all to Armageddon, led like sheep to slaughter, that’s precisely what’ll happen. And simply to be consistent, I’ll sign off in true assholio style (nom de guerre ‘penucquem’) and state people deserve the fruits of their cowardice –

C’est la vie (or c’est la mort, as the case may be…)

fuck yeah, it’s about time

The Novice

There was a novice Hand Game player who showed great promise. He also was a soul of good intentions. With his beginning understanding of this game, he sought one of his family’s medicine men, to ask for a ‘power’ of ‘protection’ when he played.

He knew enough to approach this teacher in the correct way and said what it was he wished to acquire. The medicine man told him to return in a few days. When he did so, the medicine man handed him a necklace with a tiny bit of a buckskin bag attached and told him ‘wear this when you play.’

As it happened, this young man also had a young friend in dire trouble, his luck had been persistently failing him. Motivated from good intentions, he handed his necklace to this friend and told him how he’d received it. This true friend of the young man was exceedingly grateful for the ‘protection.’

But the friend’s luck didn’t get better, it got by far worse. But knowing he could trust the source of the ‘protection’ he’d received, he told himself he only needed to believe more strongly in the protection and so it went like that, his luck kept going downhill, rapidly, and he kept telling himself he only needed to believe more strongly until all was a perfect disaster.

When the novice Hand Game player checked in with his dear friend, to see how things might be going, he was shocked. Returning to the medicine man, he explained what he had done and the result.

The medicine man took awhile and finally spoke to the novice.

“My boy” he said “The Hand Game is a game of sorcery. When you asked for protection as a player, I provided something specific to that. It is a bit of severe bad luck in your necklace I gave you immunity to, to ward off the seers from the opposing side. It is meant to damage their sight when attempting to see through you. It was never meant to protect you otherwise, it is only meant to protect bones you’re hiding, from the divination. It was intended to destroy another person’s luck.”


Life in Indian Country

Ron Drawing

^ the author

The book’s conclusion “Sì! Dos grandes!!” in the local dialect translates: Yes! Both big!! The Spanish ‘huevos’ (eggs) is slang for ‘balls.’

The first reflection I have to make is, *nearly* all of the characters along on this trip who I have bashed, deserve some degree of rehabilitation. I’ll begin with ‘The Sisters’ and the fact of, whatever their flaws, they have been a consistent force for good in this world, particularly in regards to the original intent of the word ‘charity.’ These girls have, over the course of their lives, unselfishly, generously, devotedly, given of their time and energy to the underprivileged, disadvantaged and poverty stricken communities of this world, particularly in regards to the communities of both Indians; the Indians of India and the Indians of Native America, ongoing for decades. And this has been the hard work of hands on devotion, not some abstract ‘feels good’ self-congratulatory endeavor. When it comes to practical matters, feeding people, providing educational opportunities for youth, or caring for orphans, ‘The Sisters’ have been there, hands on the circumstance. I count them as among my most treasured friends, even if they never talk to me again, following this dubious literary effort; the ‘metadata’ of which I stand by. Life is paradox.

The ‘Tibetan’ was a fine, ethical and outstanding human being when I’d met him and he is a fine, ethical and outstanding human being to this day, and knows my door is ever wide open to provide him hospitality- to the end of my life. Our friendship has been very native; when years were to intervene between visits, it was as if we’d last seen each other yesterday … with warm regards.

In the initial chapters, when introducing Jasper, I made a factual mistake which Neil Oram, the English playwright and poet, was kind enough to correct in an email exchange; I’d misremembered Jasper’s mother’s acquaintance with a powerful woman. As an American, the context threw me off, and so I had incorrectly placed an Englishwoman, Jasper’s mother, in close association with a powerful, national female executive, on intimate terms with Maggie Thatcher. It was actually Indira Gandhi, a friendship no doubt stemming from Gandhi’s days at Oxford.

My impression was Socket is a good man with whom I had little communication in common or, perhaps better said, Socket’s English was such a strange mix of bizarre & colloquial expressions intertwined with counter-culture slang, whoever it had been educated him in English language should be summarily shot… unless, that is, it was the Bandit Sister had educated him; in which case her next life will be the punishment of a ramrod-straight, Victorian schoolmarm.

Old Babette was product of her time and circumstance (as we all are.) When it comes to the ‘true/false’ quiz, I lied about her (or perhaps inadvertently, maybe not) when I took the liberty of acquainting her with Imelda Marcos- on account of the facts of the corporation her personal fortune had been associated with. Need I say more? On the other hand, Old Babette being acquainted with ‘The Sisters’ more likely than not indicates she had been generous in regard to the sisters bonafide charitable work. In that case, in the larger picture of things, who am I to judge her character?

What was great about Sensible Sue was, she never made herself a pain in the ass to anyone.

Bummer John got precisely the ass-kicking he deserves; for paining everyone he was with, with his pained view of life & pained expressions.

The Montana dyke, actually a very fine person, would never admit to me she was along on this trip when I’d speak to her about it; always insisting she “was on a different trip.” Now that may have been a deliberate allusion to the differing nature of our perceptions or, my psychosis of memory is playing with me because she had been so adamant on this point, I cannot anymore be certain whether she was actually along or not. If she wished to be a psychotic ‘manifestation’ of my memory, so be it.

If anyone is missing, it must be my psyche has blacked them out.

Some years ago, when I’d published ‘Penucquem Speaks’ and was getting a few reviews, the second review kind of pissed me off… as it compared me to another writer; that is, Hunter S. Thompson. But then, this caused me to read Thompson’s ‘Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas’ and I had a good laugh. But quite honestly, it is Mark Twain’s style had impressed and influenced me, years previous to this. I doubt there is a greater biographical work of humor in American literature than Twain’s ‘Life on the Mississippi.’ Of course I am not either writer and what I do is entirely the fault of myself.

Kids! Don’t try this at home!!


My Madcap Adventure Table of Contents

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

It was mid afternoon on 4 November I was free in Cairo. I was able to amend my original return ticket from India and would be able to catch a plane from Cairo to New York with a plane change at London, on the 6th. I caught a taxi to Giza and checked into a ! Swiss Chalet ! or cheesy imitation thereof, a sort of motel configuration, not too expensive. I laid down and was dead-out until I heard the muezzin calling people to prayer at daybreak, or about 12 hours. It was that kind of sleep where you offload immeasurable amounts of stress. But surrealism apparently doesn’t simply vanish but follows some trips like a con-trail. Or maybe I was just tripping, but here is what I experienced: This ‘chalet’ had a dining room and I was by now thoroughly sick of curried vegetables, the mainstay on my diet for the past six weeks. I wanted red meat. English boiled beef, fine no argument with that. Feta cheese was a treat. But here is what made the journey cartoon just keep going on; the ‘chalet’ dining room had an American ‘Old West’ theme … with waiters dressed in paper-felt cowboy hats with plastic sheriff star pinned to vest and toy revolvers holstered on their hips! This was the very outfit American parents bought for their 10 year old boys and here we were in Giza, Egypt!! I understood I wasn’t hallucinating but still .. face in my palm.


May I take your order?

This was the evening of 5 November. Earlier in the day, I’d been visiting the home of the taxi driver who’d fetched me from the airport and brought me to Giza, his home village. We’d had lunch with his family and he was wanting to know when I’d like to see the pyramids .. Haji Hassan El-Koly was stunned to hear a westerner state, and his daughter nearly fell on the floor laughing at his amazement .. when I’d gestured to the window and said “I see them, they’re there.” It was almost inconceivable to him I was more interested in discovering who the Egyptians of the present were, than going to some presentation or touring any archaeology site. We spent part of the afternoon discussing contemporary Egypt and regional geopolitics, as well he became curious and was asking questions about myself. El-Koly stated he would never forget me on account of my name: “Where the Sun goes down.” He probably never did forget me; I had paid him an honest fare for my trip to & around Giza and return to the Cairo airport .. but then tipped him one inferior quality counterfeit USA $100 bill, courtesy of a Guardian Angel.


Arrival in London (L) from Egypt (R)

At Heathrow in London, I had to clear customs to walk across a street into another concourse, to catch my plane to New York. Two British counter-narcotics officers were waiting for me as I entered the second concourse, they wanted a look inside my carry on day-pack. I had a collection of perfume oils I was returning with, to give to a woman friend. Eight brown glass vials about 3 inches tall and one inch wide, probably seen in some x-ray scanner my pack had been through. Asking me questions about the movie ‘The French Connection” as they pulled out the flat box containing the vials, I merely replied ‘Not everyone’s life fits a movie script.” They sorted soon enough it was oil of musk & other scents and one of them asked “What are you West, some kind of a rat?” And then let me go. I ate a ‘drop into dead sleep over the Atlantic’ pill I HAD smuggled, just for that purpose, and woke up at JFK in New York.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

Of the numerous photos of the 1984 ‘riots’ I could have chosen, of Sikhs being beaten to death, burned alive, arson of their businesses or simply bodies of children, women and men alike murdered by the mob, I decided instead to show a taste of the opulence I’d escaped to .. and is likely an accurate picture of the Gandhi family’s life; even as Rajiv was setting fire to his mother’s funeral pyre while powerless Sikh families were being burned alive in their homes:


^ Interior of Taj Palace Hotel at New Delhi

I’d put on my day pack and shouldered my small sport duffel, the totality of my luggage, grabbed one of Old Babette’s suitcases (she had two) and escorted her out of the Hotel Imperial’s gate, past the Sikh security contingent, all armed with swords or batons, one of whose face was severely beaten. We turned right outside of the gate and walked maybe a hundred meters or so to an area where there was a taxi business. The taxi people pointed us down an alley where there were a few taxis with drivers willing to risk exiting the area and hired one to drive us to the Taj Palace Hotel … for one hundred US dollars. Working was an affront to the memory of Indira Gandhi and could get a taxi driver killed, with no safety promise made to the passengers. We made the trip with a wide-eyed, nearly panic stricken driver speeding through the empty streets of Delhi – it looked like a ghost city with scattered debris and the occasional smouldering ruin. Suddenly we breezed through an army checkpoint into the upscale area of the city where life looked like a calm calendar holiday. We arrived at the marble & brass edifice that we’d call home for the following three nights, without incident. Then, Old Babette made her first screw-up. She quite spontaneously decided to create an alibi for the character she was traveling with (that would be me) and went into an unrequested, convoluted, unconvincing explanation I was her “grandson” at check-in. Of course all this did was raise suspicions; as I bore no resemblance whatsoever to her. A medium-short, dark, muscular male with no scent of money whatsoever in his attire, in the company of a clearly wealthy, slender, taller, translucent-White woman who’d burn in the sun in less than 10 minutes without her protective hat and sunscreen. For purposes of cover, I would never bring myself to pose as her male prostitute; as well, we had separate rooms .. otherwise that might have almost been the story that fit her unnecessary, unwanted, counter-productive attempt at an alibi. In a way, we WERE using each other. But now I was marked by hotel security in a venue that was filling up with high profile guests arriving for a state funeral.

Now, things became more stupid in a blessed sort of way; We discovered there was to be an ‘inaugural’ Japan Airlines flight out of Delhi on 4 November, the day the airport would reopen for regular commercial traffic. This stroke of luck made available to us was on account of the Guardian Angel Sister who’d an Indian professional travel associate who came to see if we’d made it to our destination alive. This Muslim man, I do not recall his name, impresses me as one of the finest people I’d met on our trip. The catch was, I subsequently discovered, in order to secure tickets, we had to visit the Japan Airlines travel agency office, precisely located one city block from Hotel Imperial! Old Babette and myself had to get a taxi and retrace our route and return!! Argh!!! None of the travel businesses were overtly open but if we went to the back door of the business, we were told, we’d be allowed in to acquire plane tickets. This would be my fifth trip across the burning city in two days, if one counted destination and return separately. I told Old Babette she could either come up with a few thousand cash for myself to transact the business for us or take the ride and bring along her credit cards. She got into the taxi with me. Two wild rides & two hundred dollars in taxi fees later, we were back at the Taj Palace with a pair of first class tickets to Cairo.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

Eight Finger Eddie’s legacy needs the whistle blown on him. Back in Katmandu, this was the man we all (the Bandit Sister buddies) were told we had to meet. This patron saint of the anti-materialist Goa commune of South India, spent his summers in Nepal, probably to escape the heat. We had a precise address of where to find him, thanks to Jasper® and his unfailing ability to tie dubious connections together throughout South Asia. Eddie was not at home, having returned to Goa something like ten days previous to our arrival at his door, or so we were informed by the very well dressed lady who came to quell the commotion in front of the gate; at a posh townhouse in a very upscale neighborhood of Nepal’s capital city. Eight Finger Eddie sounded like a name of some pool shark who’d hustled the wrong people. Anti-materialism? Enough said.

When our Katmandu days had run out after this last (aborted) misadventure, we flew back to Delhi. This departing Katmandu is where two amazing but very suspect characters, Jasper® & Socket™ (and constant aroma of ‘herbal’ chillums), drop out of our story. Jasper® is now known as ‘The Late Lord Whatever’, born an English aristocrat destined to a next life as a dope dealer running a chai shop in Almora.

At the airport, on arrival in Delhi, an Indian Army major asked my nationality. “USA” I answered. He kept staring at me, but now with a skeptical look and I stated “American.” He accepted my second answer, even if it did not seem wholly satisfactory. Back at the Hotel Imperial, I had a by this time urgent medical matter to attend to. My innumerable sins determined to leave my body by the route of my ear in the form of a fungus (initiated with my ‘cleansing’ bath in the Ganges) had to be addressed. I called the American embassy to ask who they sent their people to, for ear problems. I took this measure because the hotel’s doctor on call had prescribed antibiotics to the Canadian minister for his malaria, at the beginning of our trip. They connected me with a Sikh trained in the USA and I made an appointment.


After a couple of days in Delhi, the Bandit Sister took Sensible Sue, the Montana dyke & Bummer John south, to some baba’s ashram. The Guardian Angel Sister and Old Babette stayed in Delhi. The Tibetan headed north to Dehradun and I was supposed to catch up with him there, in a few days, after I’d resolved the sins in my ear. I’d seen the Sikh doctor and he’d used something like a tiny ball on a wire attached to a power device that made it spin. Inserting this tiny ball into my ear, he powered on the device and beat the sins out of my head. Now I was to use anti-fungal drops in my sinful ear but he wanted me back in a few days, to make certain I was clean. I never returned to the doctor or Dehradun. This was on account of the next day, Indira Gandhi was shot.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

We left Jasper® & Socket™ waiting for Katmandu to catch up to them, or something upside down like that. Our itinerary now took us out of the city, across a mountain range, and into a steep Himalayan valley hosting the Trisuli river and our raft journey to Chitwan National Park.

On one of our riverside stops, Old Babette had an epiphany of immortal youth, had lost or run out of her lithium actually, and after being fished out of a riverside eddy and narrow brush with death that did not even register in her mind, with wet dress clinging to her thin body, began dancing; imagining herself a siren from the Coen Brothers’ ‘Ulysses.’

She was taken into protective custody by the Montana dyke whose ability to impart reality was better than any anti-psychotic medication. A few short words suffice to explain: This dyke ‘lady’ from Basin, Montana, was veteran of a war that is legend. The derelict Montana mining town of Basin was the preferred habitat of an artist community with a fairly large percentage of lesbians. The town’s bikers didn’t behave in respect to the lesbians and after awhile, when push came to shove, the lesbians pushed the bikers out of town. The Montana dyke was along as an insurance policy-enforcer in the original Montana libertarian style; be as crazy as you please, but don’t cross a line. Old Babette decided to behave.

We camped overnight at the confluence of the Trisuli & Kaligandeki rivers on a sandy spit across from the Devghat temple. We had no idea what the temple was across the river. The ‘Bandit Sister’ and myself swam over to investigate and upon entering the temple grounds, we saw crocodile effigies! “Oh shit!!” was the reaction on realizing we had come so far into the lowlands that we’d entered this creature’s territory and would now have to swim back. I swam on my back returning to the camp, maybe not so much because it is quiet but because I wouldn’t see a croc coming, if that was to happen. Perhaps the water wasn’t seasonally warm enough, for them to be up the river to where we were.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India


Varanasi III

Somehow I suspect the whole of the western counter-culture scene in India has roots in combination of beat poets (YUCK!) fused with LSD via one highly dubious character named Richard Alpert a.k.a. Ram Dass. I recall reading his ‘Be Here Now’ in 1976, as it was recommended to me by a friend I knew from my high school days in Montana. By this time this friend was an enlightened dope dealer, so Jasper® cannot be considered unique in that regard. In fact it was this same enlightened friend had introduced me to the sisters, in 1979, and that’s no small coincidence. Think about it. An enlightened dope dealer in Montana introduces me to the sisters who introduce me to an enlightened dope dealer in India. Goes around, comes around. So, what jumped out at me when reading ‘Be Here Now’ was Alpert, while visiting India, had a yogi eat enough LSD to make five people high for 2 days. The yogi went on meditating and after some hours finally looked at Alpert and flatly stated “So, what?” What Alpert had done was like serving up five Big Macs® to a guy who’d eaten ‘The Texas King’ steak in Amarillo, Texas, in less than one hour (a deliberate bad metaphor.) And that was an ‘Aha!’ moment for Alpert. I happened to have a glossy photo of Alpert came with a magazine together with the book, and I hung Alpert’s portrait on the inside of the door into the rural slum apartment I lived in at the time; and drove slender steel darts into it from an aluminum tube converted to a blow-gun. Reading the book had been a waste of time. Or better said, Alpert writing the book had been a waste of time. Monty Python’s ‘Brian’ had summed it up best: “You’ve all got to work it out for yourselves!”

Ok, so I promised Jasper® would impress me and he did; here is how it came off. Following the evening of floating the Diwali candles, we had the next day off, nothing was scheduled. Mid-morning on that day, Jasper® invited me to take a walk to an open market and I went along. We arrived somewhat early, the area was not yet incredibly jammed with people bustling about business and Jasper® dressed in native costume of a sadhu and carrying his large set of fire tongs, gave a sermon. I had no idea what he was saying, as the sermon was delivered in Hindi, but people were stopping and listening, more and more people as Jasper® went on and on. After a little while, he had a devoted audience of more than 100. There was full confidence in the lesson he was delivering, it was obviously authentic, you could judge that from the reaction of the crowd. I’d never seen anything like it; this tall, thin Anglo-Saxon with full beard and long hair dressed as a native holy man and making it work, manifesting his knowledge of the Hindu scriptures to a crowd he pulled out of thin air. I doubt it crossed the mind of a single person present this was an opium junkie. Clearly, Jasper® had put a lot of sweat equity into his learning … and I could only wonder if this suddenly manifest, authentic Nath Sadhu, Ram Giri, was even aware of the other Jasper®.

That evening, the Tibetan and myself rented a small rowboat and went to the ‘Burning Ghats.’ It is here bodies are burned, day and night, prior to the ashes pushed into the Ganges River. In the Hindu tradition, this is a desirable place to end this existence; bodies are transported from far away, those who can afford it, to be disposed of here.  It was well after dark, and when about 15 meters (50 feet) from a funeral, I stopped our boat and we watched. We could hear some conversation and suddenly the Tibetan was translating for me. There was a body, its’ feet sticking out of the piled branches, about to be set on fire and the undertaker was telling a family member of the corpse … “Everything has gone perfectly, don’t mess it up by arguing the price now!”

The next day, we stepped onto a plane to Kathmandu.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

Varanasi I

On my first full day in Varanasi proper, I dove into the crowd in that city, simply to know the experience. The humanity in motion, in this area of no vehicles, is an experience I won’t recommend to the typical westerner; for the simple reason they’d not manage the etiquette well. It requires an instinct. ‘Like ants’ dwarfing any Cecil B DeMille movie scene, transiting the crowd is like mastering an art. With what seemed two centimeters or one inch, maximum space between pedestrians, if that, in a vast sea of people, all in constant motion, there is no jostling, or even contact, AT ALL. You understand you cannot stop and interrupt the flow and nobody does. Like moving with diverse currents in a river, or rivers within rivers, there are eddies where people ingress, and exit. To intelligently traverse from starting point, to destination, you must know how to read the current and align yourself like a molecule of water within the flow, in the desired direction. Now, having said that, I will add I am not satisfied with the description. Even Saigon, as crowded as the streets of that city could be, and where I had enjoyed wandering on several extended occasions, paled by comparison, this was in my thoughts. The experience really does defy words, at least for me. As I observed all of this, in my first ever immersion in any such circulation of humanity, I somehow managed it. I was later to sort this incredible human density was on account of many tens of thousands of pilgrims in the city, to celebrate Dwali or ‘Festival of The Lights’ And there is no way I was ready for what came that evening.

I’d been out and about until it was past drawing dusk, and with the onset of dark, all hell broke loose. The tens of thousands pilgrims, every citizen in the city, and this had to include every beggar saving for the occasion, had bought firecrackers to celebrate. And these were not the tame explosives Americans played with on the Fourth of July, these were what we call ‘cherry bombs’ & ‘M-80s.’ These were powerful explosive devices and sometimes indiscriminately tossed. One went off about a meter in front of me, about chest height, as I was nearly back into the hotel. I didn’t flinch, by now I was in the psychological combat shell of my war zone days. The din was incredible and only growing. I went to my room and reflected on what it must have been like in Saigon for Tet offensive, 1968, a famously intense battle for that city, an event I missed by two years. This was probably a more intense noise, I thought. The intensity sustained, for hours.

The Asians had come up with an explosive substance to create fire crackers for purpose of frightening away bad spirits, the purpose driving that evening’s chaos. The Europeans, having co-opted the Asian invention, were most adept at utilizing the modified substance, renamed ‘gun powder’, to a metal barrel for purpose of hurling a destructive projectile and world history was changed in a few short generations; with firearms combined to the ‘age of discovery’ and resultant colonialism. I wondered if the irony had ever crossed the thoughts of those Indians who considered the British Raj the work of a demon:

Revolt of 1857

^ ‘Blowing from a Gun’ depicted by Vasily Vereshchagin in his painting ‘Suppression of the Indian Revolt by the English’ on the events of 1857. Queen Victoria’s agent bought this painting, in an attempt to suppress it. ‘Blowing from the Gun’ was a means of execution where the prisoner is tied to the muzzle of a cannon, which is then fired, popping the victim’s head about 15 meters (50 feet) into the air, apparently a sort of juvenile entertainment for the executioners

I recall reflecting on these sort of thoughts as I sequestered myself in the hotel for the duration of that evening. The day had, into evening, recalled both; the best and the worst of my experience in Vietnam, an American attempt at social engineering, with hindsight wisdom, I have come to call ‘neo-colonialism.’

This was the only time in India where my nerves were actually somewhat raw, this despite negotiating an exit from some very real violence, on a quite large scale, before the trip was out. Of course my interpretation of the city’s festival is at odds with its intent; but it was Socket™ had informed me the cotton pashmina scarf I’d bought in Varanasi was ‘auspicious’ on account of it was of a checkered design preferred by Indira Ghandi. I’d actually thought it was Palestinian motif. For some, it would seem everything in India is seen in a sense of omen.


My Madcap Adventure (all episodes)

Letter to the De Sousa clan of India

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