Calendar of Regrets

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12.19.76. Ashore in Katha. Small blue wooden and cement houses mostly hidden by bo-tree groves. As you come up from the dock, a large prison surrounded by tall windowless pinkish-orange walls and thatched turret. Same pagoda's spire rising above the foliage like a slender gold spear that Orwell saw when he arrived two days before Christmas in 1926 to take up his godforsaken post as Assistant Superintendent of the British Imperial Police here, hating the world for doing this to him. Horse-drawn wagons, bicycles, people on foot, but no cars, no motorbikes, no tuk-tuks, no engines whatsoever. Nothing to do but wander, pass the slow time in the cafés, grin at the locals who grin back at you in this part of the country, perhaps doing no more than mimicking instinctively what they see on your face. Cheap room in a shack at the edge of town. Stifling. Worlds stiller, more humid, than in the south. You splash a little water on yourself when you wake up and three seconds later you're sweating again. Strolling the streets, head foggy with heat, it seems I'm recalling someone else's recollections.

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12.20.76. When a friend of John Steinbeck's gave him a small stone from the Roman forum as a present, the author graciously accepted and thanked him. On his next visit to Italy, Steinbeck carried the stone with him and put it back where he thought it might go.

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12.20.76. Gold leaf peeling like a bad skin condition on a Buddha. Outside the pagoda, a wonderful sign, weirdly in English, above the door of an unpainted shed the size of two outhouses placed side by side: Trekking, Tours, & Construction Lubrication.

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12.21.76. Feeding of the monks — thereby putting the country's poor on the back of the country's poor. Yet another religion, as Werner would no doubt have pointed out, that teaches a population how not to think for itself. I miss that bastard and his cronies. Last night's dinner: lamb with yogurt, bowl of rice, bottle of horrid bitter local beer at a dark café smelling acrid and musty. Some part of it didn't agree with me. Under the weather this morning. Yesterday I was ready to stay here a week. Today I can't wait to move on. Will head down to the dock later to check on the next ferry out.

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Let's call it, say, the 23^th or 24^th. Seem to have lost a day or two in there somewhere. Head won't clear. Fucking stomach cramps and diarrhea again last night. Toilet a hole in the deck in a niche behind a shabby curtain. Shit bits splattered everywhere. You have to squat to go and You have to squat to go & while you're at it the kids onboard poke their noses in to see what a Westerner laid low looks like. Will disembark in one of the villages upstream strike off west by foot. Hitchhike all going well. Improvize Improvise like those daffy hippies, only in reverse. Should be on the Indian border within a week. 10 days at most. Another week or 10 days into Bhutan, another to Paro and the Tiger's Nest. How's this for living, Taru?

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A shaky shot of my fellow deck dwellers. Sorry. Days you sit with your legs dangling over the side of the hell hull, staring through the railing at the low sliding landscape. Nothing changes. Living off tea and bananas. Stomach won't settle. Kids on board haven't seen blond hair before. Between that and my bouts of the fucking backdoor trots I guess I'm serving as some pretty rich entertainment for the natives. They gather round and point at my floppy hat. I remove it. They titter scatter cautiously return. I perform act two. The bravest among them point at my beard wanting to touch it but in the end they just can't bring themselves to close those last few millimeters between the known and unknown. The captain this short guy with dark crinkled skin and three teeth to his name speaks almost unintelligible English. He either told me or didn't tell me we'll be pulling in to the next village tomorrow morning we'll see

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My last shot for you Taru. Film's gone and nowhere to pick up more. That's my road. Somewhere down there the mountains separating Burma/India. Wish I cld shake this fucking bug sweat it out or something. Still don't think I'd change a thing. Want to say this is what it feels like to pay attention. Will try to put a few miles behind me bfr nightfall.

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stupid fuck. tried sleeping in my sleeping bag in some brush beneath some trees by the side of the road so much for fucking oneness with nature. insects impossible. cldnt stop thinking about snakes & hungry rats. hot dizzy nauseous. way too go.

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wagon stuffed with burlap bags of brown rice stopped to pick me up midafternoon. dirt road color of powdered turmeric width of sidewalk. ruts good feet foot deep hit one your nearly jettisoned. driver about my age — wearing odd combination of blue buttondown shirt azure longyi yellow rubber flipflops. oblivious to evrythng save next stretch of road. his blank face says this is just what he does/who he is. stopped for a pee break 10 minutes ago. offered me a triangle of betelnut leaves. raised my hand indicating i'd pass & he looks at me like i'd raised my fist to hit him

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fever im pretty sure. nights in what passes for guesthouses around here — smoky thatched huts with hard dirt floors & fire pits. flees fleas relentless buggers. werner would no doubt call attention to the fact that this culture hasnt quite gotten around to inventing the chimney. sleep in one corner beside the driver & family that owns the place in the other everyone snoring like pigs. maybe try to retrace my steps only might take longer to reach mandalay than pushing on to paro. shit if I know.

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driver asks for a little more cash every day they lure you into a sense of comradeship then out comes the fucking old upturned palm

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fell getting out of goddamn wagon yesterday evening sprained wrist writing lefty sorry dot/dash kindergarten scrawl taru what a fuckup i am

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heres what its all about moving through the world knowingly

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legs all watery this morning what the fuck???