Important sanyassins.

Pune, same day. We wander around the Osho Ashram and I wonder about all these folks dressed in long purple colored robes. Apperently they belong to some sort of brotherhood dedicated to something or other. They look funny in their long purple robes though they try hard to look important. One after the other they enter the Ashram late afternoon to discus matter muy importante, or so they tell us. We have a look at the Osho statue inside the Ashram - a stone Osho himself sitting on a rock and life size, black colored - many sanyassins tell us how they have recently "seen" Osho. They too revel in self-importance and we slowly get the idea we don`t belong here. Wait a minute, was that not the reason I left Pune five years ago? Despite these sex crazed female sanyassins from all over the place!!! Osho here and Osho there, even while we had sex they were still talking about this Shit

Osho, a shrewt businessman.

Pune , 10-02-1995. Back in Pune. I was here five years ago when Osho was still alive and giving his nightly discourses at his Ashram. However, Osho has left this world and his body soon after I left. Not that I had any special love for Osho or any bad feelings for that matter. I did come to his discourses but the contents did not mean much to me. I remember how they taped the discourse each night and sold the tapes at the Ashram the next day and popular they were....While I was there Osho decided to enter his next period of silence - he would never talk again in his life since he died soon after - . Not that that stopped him from giving his nightly discourses. He would sit there on stage and look at all his sanyassins and they would look at him in awe. They taped these discourses too and sold the tapes the next day, tapes with the ocassional cough and that sort of stuff. Really funny, shrewt businessman that Osho!!!

A piss outside the police office.

Solapur, 09-02-1995. When John tried to pay for our room this morning the receptionist told him "already paid, sir". So we shalood off to the railway station and sitting in a chai shop nearby waited for him to realise his mistake and come after us. We didn`t have to wait for long, a very nervous and hyper active receptionist on a rusty old indian bicycle soon showed up, parked his crappy bike in front of the station and hurried inside not realising that we were watching his every move from across the street. We let him search the railway station for us while finishing our chai before we took our packs and went inside ourselves. We found him on the platform and though we had his money already in our hands, he went bazooka angry threatening to go to the police and demonstratively marched off to the railway police office with us in hot pursuit hoping for more free entertainment. Instead of going inside the police office he had a pee outside - no wildplassen fees in India where people often even have a crap in public - We eventually gave him his money but not after we hassled him a bit more. We were fully aware - as was he - that had he really gone to the police, they would have listened to his story, asked us the western tourist, politely to pay the man his money and then - as soon as we would be out of earshot - hassled him for some baksheesh.

wrinkled and sagging old tits.

Bijaspur, 08-02-1995. We are still not done exploring Bijaspur and surroundings. Though Bijaspur is apart from the Golgumbaz mosque a pretty dull city as chaotic as any other indian city. Being mostly a muslim city I have noticed one thing I noticed before in other indian cities with a muslim majority. In cities where the hindus predominate it is not all that unusual to see old women with their saris dropped to their waist, two wrinkled and sagging old tits daggling on their chest. By the amount of dirt on these women and the worn-out quality of their saris I would guess these women to be homeless or at the very least poor as a churh mouse. The reason they walk around half naked...maybe the intence heat of the Indian plains. In muslim dominated cities I have to as yet see this, I presume the muslims are a bit to touchy about this subject, too preservative on matters of the naked body in public.

The Golgumbaz Mosque.

Bijaspur, 07-01-1995. Bijaspur is mostly a muslim city with the gigantic Golgumbaz mosque as its main attraction for tourists. It has one of the largest domes in the world plus the Wispering Gallery. To get to the Wispering Gallery one has got to go up a small winding staircase that ends at the galley at the top of the dome. The echos of the gallery have to be heard to be believed. Unfortunately whole busloads of local tourists and their children scream at the top of their voices hence the nickname "The Bedlam Gallery". A cultural music festival set among temple ruins and taking place at night, offers free and interesting entertainment. We hired a treewheeler rickshaw to get there and found a quiet place on top of a wall with great views of what was happening on stage. The joint we smoked up there got us in a relaxed mood and made the whole experience even more intence.

For railway personel on duty only.

Bijaspur. 05-02-1995. Leaving Badami by rail we - that is me and Rasta-Hair-John - saw a sign on a bench on the platform; "for railway personel on duty only". On the bench an indian - was he a railway employee? - was fast asleep. Hahahahaha. That short of shit makes for beautiful photo shots!!! Half an hour after the train left with us aboard, John went to the toilet and came back 15 min. later with a crazy grin on his face pushing a half empty sigarette pack in my hand and wispering in my ear to smoke in the toilet. After having kicked the indian off the toilet where he was having a nap - believe it or not, this is the "real India", remember!!! - I smoked the nice little joint that was inside the sigarette pack. Needless to say, I returned a bit later - leaving the toilet to the patiently waiting indian outside to continue his nap - bearing the same stupid grin and enjoying the rest of the train trip in a VERY relaxed and shanty mood.

grass smoking sessions.

Badami, 04-02-1995. The mosquito clans were out en masse last night in my room so I ddin`t get much in the way of sleep. Still I woke up feeling pretty well and to the persistent knocking on my door. My neighbor in the hotel, the bloke I smoked a joint with last night, John from Whales, rasta hair to his hips and working as a garderner back home, living with a woman 5 years his senior who has two young kids from a former boyfriend. He also told me he has been coming to India for several years now. We took a local bus to Aihole, yet more hindu temples and statues of hindu gods. A flemish couple joined us but seemed incapable to tolerate the locals`constant selling technics. We left them to the indian businessmen, maybe they will eventually be able to sell them a huge and useless carpet or else the plastic junk the indians themselves seem so keen on. Returning to Badami for dinner and more grass smoking sessions in my room.