Next day Frank and me are ready to go to Shravanabelagola. It's Friday morning half past seven, when our small bus is catching us from the Dhanvantri Road. There we're taking off to the highest monolith monument from the world. The statue of Shravanabelagola is fifty metres high and formed from a single rock in the hill we have to climb upon.

Inside the tour-bus only Germans and one Indian couple. One couple is from Leipzig, one couple from Berlin and one guy is from Stuttgart. His name is Stefan and is travelling round the world for fifteen month. He's going to stay in India three month and on x-mas he wants to go back home. There he is going to tell his friends about the journey from South America to Australia, from Australia to Indonesia, from there to Maha Bharat.

Stefan is a nice fellow with good humour and seems always ready for adventure on the one hand or on the other ready for an extensive and incentive teatime spending with thali and interesting chats.

Angie and Thomas original from East Berlin. They came here, because Angie was born in India - (might not be the only reason for the journey!) and her father was an ambassador for East Germany in times when Germany presented two faces the world. She grew up in Delhi till she became six or seven years old. Thomas is her fellow, but not her intimated boyfriend it seems. They joint together for the trip, although they are totally different on some important extend, but about this couple I'm going to tell later on. Only that they travelled the Indian North Route also, like Delhi, Jaipur - including Jaiselamer at the edge of the desert Thar, next to the Pakistan border, where we didn't go - and Agra. Then they went back to Delhi to take a plane into the South.

The intimate couple from Leipzig finishing their holidays, because they came from Sri Lanka. There they went for practice for four weeks in something I forgot, only that these four weeks important enough to find later in their CV, when they applying for a Christian job.

Unfortunatly I don't know, where the Indian couple is from. I talk to them, but they don't say much, so I join into some chattings in German, listening music from walkman, reading some chapters of City of Joy or enjoy the fantastic landscape around Mysore.

We are going for three or rather four hours and at noon, we're arriving in Shravanabelagola. I am complaining not to see the monument - not from the far and not from nearby. But first we are going for a small restaurant to have thali and shahi.

Enforced by brunch, we're taking off and become aware, that the statue is only to admire, if we're getting higher and higher. And to do that, you can see the ascent of the hill we have to climb is about fifty degree. The distance we have to occur is maybe twothousand Foot or more by about thousand steps. Ganesha thanx, that the way up is constructed mostly with relings. During the uprising I'm surprised about the different ages of pilgrims taking the way back down or up to monolith's top. The eldest, I try to estimate, is about eighty years old. Men as women, old as young, enjoy the climb to the holy statue and afterward, (the) downclimbing the children enjoy the most. They runnning and diving the steps, but don't scare about - the way up is strictly seperated from the way down.

I'm a guy, time and Ganesha is on his side, so I do not till totally exhausting. When I think I have to break, then I'll break without any questions of competition. My claim is my game and at least my aim. After a while and with a little help from my friend, e.g. Stefan supported me on a free way where no steps on the ascent to manage - I get it rather. Finish. Where's the statue? I cannot find. O, I have to take only some single steps further on, maybe fourty or less or more or, or. Then I find myself in some called foyer, where they're playing those mystical overtone flutes^*, artists in Tibet and Australia also use to play. It sounds like the wind is playing his song from eternal times he lived. But the music is plaid by nude jains.

They live day and night close to the statue I am going to face right now, but only his genital first. Like the jains, their god, praised in that huge statue, is also naked, except some ranks of plants made of stone round his arms. The monument is about onehundredandfifty foot high. His penis is maybe six foot long and fifteen foot around and is hanging down his strong loins, his groints looking so heavy, that there is no Indian way to transport them easily on the head. Imaging, the monument is going to be alive and longing after sixhundred years of abstinenence of somebody to innercourse with and his gigantic penis is becoming alive and strong...o wrong, what an idea; the monument would going to loose his balance to fall into the arms of pilgrims directly.

The giant is looking peacefully, his eyes seeing the end of Nírvana and that seems to be near, when you compare about the time he stood and the time he is going to stay. Not because of the screwing matter or somethingelse (to become alive) on contrary, the giant is helpless against some special attacs, going down on him every twelve years in a turmoil festival.

That's the cyclus celebrated with a festival, where pilgrims climbing steps above the giants head and poure him with milk or milky products. Some rich jains hire a gyroplane to poure the statue with a lots of milk. So it is no wonder, that the monuments face expression is becoming a little bit sower during the centuries. Every twelve years this torture repeats, means for the giant of Shravanabelagola something for us like a torture by acid attacs every year maybe. Because he is "living" already ten times longer than a single human race generation.

On top I am going to sit down, put out a beedie off my pocket, stack it between my teeth and grinning in the direction of giant's peacefull face expression. I am lightening my beedie with different trials of smatch matches. Then the beedie becomes smoky and while I'm taking the first breath with joy, a guardian of Shravanabelagola is running quickly into my direction. From fare it seems clear, what he is going to do and I delite the glimming beedie at a wooden bar. Am I crazy? Have I ever smoked in church? Why I'd ignored so careless, where I am and what's around? Suddenly it rumbles and breaks. Everybody is looking around to see what happens. Nothing to notice! After some seconds it starts again with a hellsake, god knows, who knows, Hendrix knows noise. It sounds like rocks on the run or if you like, Farangi, it sounds like real rolling stones. But there are no stones rolling and even no rocks running. Everybody's looking around, surround, but nothing to see! Only the naked jains sitting in meditation position with wide opened eyes, expecting some special, when it rumbles and rumbles again and again.

Now everybody becomes witness about what follows. Somebodies don't believe, what they see and start crying. Others running quickly in exit's direction. The ones, couldn't believe what they see, transfixed with a kind of being a rock, mostly men. The ones, couldn't believe what they witness about also, falling into some kind of erotism first, mostly women and gays. What happens?

The cause of the noise is, who could it be else at least, the monument of Shravanabelagola. He's getting his first erection of his life and his gigantic penis is rising slowly. Unbelievable!

Unbelievable? I'm opening my eyes again and this foolish day dream is finished, the guardian gives me a lecture on holy non-smoking rituals, after the dreamy panorama of the landscape around the monument is getting me into somewherelse, everybody has to see, when the journey is going to some specials around Mysore. Then the downclimbing starts, after saying goodbye to the power penis of Shravanabelagola.

Again on the ground of truth, I am going for my shoes; remember: fantastic places only without shoes and smoking! - Normally the best appearance for holy places seems to be the nude appearance of jains and non-jains. I take a bottle of Bisleri in one draught, crash it down afterwards, before the bus is ready for the next adventure.

Halebid. Next station of attraction. And it comes to pass, that I did not suppose to become a part of commercial sightseeing or whatever. So I start to strike. I lay me down, like a genuin sadhu does, on a step of the temples area's edge and while I have a break, I'm watching the sweating groups of tourists, how they run for temple sights in and out without to see the temple as a whole thing, like I do. It amuses me, although some interesting Kamasutra attractions en detail passing me by, cause I'm sure one day, one lifetime I'll do enjoy the most of them with more than only some limited moments of seightseeing.

Angie is coming by and sits down next to me. Then she asks me in her beautiful little voice:

"Why do you lay here? Don't you like to have a look inside the temple?"

"No thank you, but I already have a templetilt." I'm replying.

She is laughing and she is looking marvellous in her white transparent dress. I'm falling in love a little bit.

Belur. The busdriver does not only commanding about the time of tracking, he copes also about time spending for sights. In Belur he is more generious in time, because of the villagers, they try to sell their different goods around the next temple.

So I am going to pass by this temple and the village also. I find myself at a beautiful lake. Nobody, except me, seems to be there, so I drop off my cloth and jump right into the water. After a while I notice a white shadow crossing the small forest to the waterfront. Because I am a short distance onlooker without my spectacles, I become to know, that it must be a female in a white dress coming closer to the embankment. She drops off her dress and underwear and walks carefully into the water. The woman is swimming into my direction. Godmade naked she approaches me. Then she says:

"O, I see, you have a templetilt, haven't you? Hope, that you don't have a tilt of me, for that: thrill me up!"

And I do so. We make love in the warm water and afterwards at the waterfront too. Then we pick up our cloth to be right in time for our magic bus, but not without to screw her in a special kamasutra standing position, while she's already dressed, except of her small pants. Then we have got our crises tenderly. We're looking each other satisfied, slipping into our pants. Of course she is quickly dressed up, as she was also quickly in dressing off. Then we notice - and I am still nude - that there are three young guys in the age of ten, eleven and twelve maybe, in the underwood and we become to know, that we fucked not only for our pleasures, but also for a small young audience. First we are a little bit stunned, but then we are proud of what we did, because they became witnesses, how to use a condom. Hope that these three guys become to know why.

The bus is already waiting and as we are getting into, the passangers look like, that they know, what we did. Maybe the effect of our crises is still written in our faces.

"The quickest and intensivly affair I had with a woman." I think, before the engine is running.

Go ahead in my dreams they are much more often daydreams than nightmares here in India. The impressions I catch around here give so much brain- and soulfood. They establishing so many remembrances in my psyche, my mind, my world, that there is nothing to dream by night. Nighttime is resttime and resttime is not only nighttime. The sun does not set in India, it seems more like, that the sun is rushing by falling. Before the daylight is finished in few second drops and our vehicle becomes a nightbus without frontlambs, I write my homeadress of Germany into my notebook, scratch the written paper off, false it to a small piece of sheet and just before the bus enters in front of our hotel, I give the paper to her. She's glad and happy about the paper gives her furtheron information, beside my adress also this notation:

"Hope 2 C U in Kovalam 4 the next thrilled tilt at the beach! Bye!"

MAjestIC magic MYSORE II

St. Thomas, Church, Mysore. Next day I am going for the hint, Angie gave me on yesterday. when I am arriving, I step out of the tuk-tuk, sun is burning again in the noontime and just before I enter church's backyard, I fall down on my knees.

"Is it the Lord, who takes me in duty of going down?" I ask myself. "Or is it just Newton's Law, that's why I stumbled?" I doubt. But just before I am going to set upon my feet again, two tough arms lifting me up like a puppet player does with his marionette. The arms belong to a strong officer is guarding the backyard, offers me a chair to sit. After a while in sitting position, I am cured from little pain in my knees and I'm ready for holy experiences. I like to go and the officer offers me a sadhu stick to go ahead with. But I decline gently:

"No thank you, Sir! But I'm sure, that a stick is still not necessary!"

Before I enter the church, I slip off my shoes. The gotic church was built during the sixteenth century by the Brits. During the decades of years the citizens of Mysore, who changed their believing to Christianity did not neglected their own culture. No, because it seems to me more, they made Christianity compatible for their own religion habits. Here I find Mother Mary and Son Jesus Christ much more glorified with happiness than in my country. Mother Mary carved marvellous as a statue from marvelwood about three foot high. She is standing on an altar beside the main podium, surrounded by flowers and garlands. Christians come in, take incense sticks to fire, get down their knees, praying and leave their little gifts like flowers or rice, before they go off. The holy silence gives me back the strength I need for the busy traffic outside. Inside church is cool and full of softlight, filtered by multicoloured large windows. The church is open for everybody. Not only for human beings. Birds also enjoying this sacred place, but not with the honour of humanity. They make a lots of sounds and they fly and sit where they like. And if they like to shit upon sacrifices, they do. Whether birds know prayers?

After some time of thinking about life and whether animals also pray or meditate, I leave. I am on the way to a tourist office to go for two bus tickets. Frank and me decided on yesterday to go by bus to Cochin and I said, that I'll do the reservation, because all the time before, Frank managed our reservation business. So here I am at a counter and waiting. During the time I stand within the queue, I'm thinking about to give India a new name. Here are some proposals:

"WaitIndia, PatIndia (short form of PatienceIndia), LongIngia (instead of LongIndia), IndiaNear (from the point of view, the more time you have, the closer country comes), ExtIndia (the longer you wait, the people around are on extend), Where-I've-b'India,..."

Suddenly a male in young age, maybe in mine, is slipping into the queue - just before my eyebrows.

"Excuse me, Sir! But you're not the only one!" I complain and turn around, whether I can share solidarity from behind. But nothing like this! They don't (even) notice and it seems that they're even not interested in. The fellow is turning around and says:

"Hallo, Sir! Where you're from?"

"I'm from WaitIndia, but it does not cause that you're stripping into the queue inside, instead of standing at the end of it, does it?"

"No problem!" he replies, "I'm standing here to make your own business."

"Pardon?" I ask.

"Yes, Sir! I'm going to manage! What your longing for?"

"I'm longing for two tickets to go to Cochin by bus next days." I answer.

"No problem! I conquere the queue and you can sit there to rest, okay?"

After some minutes he is back with two tickets, which I long for. I give him the ordinary price of the tickets and a tip for his service. He says:

"Thank you, Sir!" very gratefully and leave for the next tourist same service. I have got the tickets without long waiting and I have got the new name for India: SerIndia, a combination of service and the only country where you can find this special in the world...

Our bus ought to come next evening on Saturday at twenty minutes past ten - or correct to say for buses in duty like this is that it ought to come twenty something past ten. That does not mean that much, only maybe to be ready for a miracle. Although I don't know, what kind of option Indian mythe had had during the last onehundredandseventeenthousand years of history, but I'm rather sure, miracle happenings in time are seldom enough. The bus must be our miracle, when it is right in time and luxury, like it is written on our papers. We place ourselves on the luggage on the huge bussquare and follow the happenings. A lots of people, families for example like them of Hasari Pal (the hero from Dominique LaPierre's "City of Joy"), beggars trying to get their salaries carefully not to hit the policeofficer, the policeofficer with his mustache, his Fes and his Lathi kicks and hits beggars without to fear human rights argument haunting even beggaring children, the children, clever enough to cheat the officer by running away and at least, that old man try to pitch his luggage onto the roof of a bus without any sucess. After a while some guys join in and put his luggage, where he wants to keep it. Suddenly, after some hours waiting the miracle is coming. First we don't notice, because we'd thought often our bus is coming, when we listened to a noise coming close from a working engine. The bus seems not luxuarious at all, even it's the line labeled on our tickets. after a while during our journey, we already spent rather three weeks in India, I use to turn down my claims, in matters of expecting. My maxime is:

"Come along, come a long, long way! The last who laughs is the most amused, while the first is amusing is the best to laugh!"

So we're getting in as the last of all the passangers going into the same bus, but so quickly, that the indigenous very amused, because we're late and in fact every Indian, even the eldest is ten times faster in climbing a bus than the fittest Farangi in whole Bharat. And that for sure you have to know, rather all the seats are occupied. And even when they're all occupied, there is a way for my companion Frank. He is fit for extreme things like that, because he joint the army longer than necessary. He is trained for everything is claiming his destination. And the officer from outside arranges, empowered by his authority, a small seat to sit and offers this with a grin to my companion. Frank is diving and jumping across different luggages along the gangway put his body in an inhumalated position to sit, his heavy snapsack on his loins, the arms somewhere hidden between a lots of human links and things of equipment. I'm standing next to the door and lick about myself, whether I suppose to laugh or to argue. I try to recognize Frank somewhere within the crowd, but I cannot see him, despite I only notice some parts of him like his snapsack, the spectacles above, guess, they belonging to his face and some pieces of his hair. No face, no body, nothingelse, what Frank normally is. However, I'm waiting, although I'm sure, that I don't go by bus the whole tour from Mysore to Thiruvanathapuram - not under this conditions! Meanwhile the officer is cheating another passanger; orders someone off his seat, because officer maintains that his ticket is not valid enough. The passanger is betraying very upsetted. The officer responses the protest with pure violence. I'm protesting right now and officer turns around immediatly, falls into arguments like:

"No problem, Sir! I'm going for your seat!" Meanwhile Frank does considering his momentary position and becomes to know, that he's not quiet enable to sit in a paid yogaposition for more than eighteen hours, even he is fit for everything, but nor for meditation is used by fakirs or whoever. So he is carefully rising up and together we are going to leave the bus of luxuary. We are boiled and buzzy. Our intention is right clear at the moment, but officer's not flushed by agreement. Exhausted from "No Problems!" he climbs off the bus apealing:

"Sirs! Sirs, please wait! No problem, your tickets are reserved. Get on inn!"

We ignore. The officer pulls Frank's sleeve:

"Sirs..." he's rather to say, just before Frank's got to stop him:

"SIRS! SIRS! SIRS! WHAT! WHAT! WHAT!" Frank strays him directly into his eyes. We take our way from the busplatform and because we don't look back, we are not enable to see, how officer's lips try to run a sound, but his paralyzed tongue doesn't create a sound like "Sirs, Sirs, Sirs...". Then we drop into another hotel and next day we are going for a Second-Class-Sleeper.

BYE, bye bangalore!

First we take a train, simple Chair-Class, to Bangalore. From there we gonna see, whether we can go ahead to Thiruvanathapuram alias Trivandrum. Arrival Bangalore at seven p.m. Certain breaks of electric power turns the busy station into totally darkness. In that case I am happy about, that my heavy equipment includes a torch. And post sectret to my diary: It amuses me, when computerized places like Bangalore for example is, have their breaks. And much more to my diary, that powerwork is often decentralized in India on contrary Germany. When there is a powerwork break, then a whole region is sitting in the dark.

We have fortune. At the same evening we catch a train to Thiruvanathapuram. Did we fall into Krsna's safety that we travelled distances by rail under conditions, where we feed our own, so we have to consider right now that it's possible to stand - by meaning of the verb - the route of maybe twenty hours, less or more. Fact is that we have to leave our seats, when somebody is climbing in, who had reserved. That's the carma of our spontanous action or shall I say of our reaction? Fact is also, that we can only lay our bodies down during ten p.m. untill six a.m. and that only, still the place is not demanded by a reservist. At the moment we are happy to spread the seats ino one couch. Now we're managing to put our feet not so close to each our noses.

Maha Bharat. The country of travellers, the country of children, the country of families, the country of (smiling) parents. Patient children, standing the journey also reliable as their adolescent idols. Fathers, who seem confident about their charity duties without to display that big gender role about masculin identification. They also dry their babies from excremities and tears. And for that procedure, they don't need this familar separatism of educated styles, when the Pampers going to be changed, because in the railing Second Class Society no body is enable to drift away without to leave the personal odem. During the long trip through India I still saw many children under age of five or four, but not one of them is shivered in a buggy or some kind of this. The elder children are going to be educated and examed. The Railing Lesson is English at the moment. Their teachers are their relatives and other way round. How important emotions are, is going to be shown by the trip. Emotions standing right there in face expressions of moving people, mostly in kind of a smile. Sarcasts are welcome to read a veil of grinning in some peoples' faces. Psychoanalysts may exame a tortured smile faced with all the impacts and spures of living conditions in somebody's sight, but one case is obviously presented: the people (here) showing - pretended that they don't give their honest emotions - their teeth. A former companion from Germany put the buttom on top in recent times as he said:

"Smile! Because smiling is the best kind to show someones teeth." Who's not smiling here must be an unusual outside phenomenon. Who's smiling in my homecountry must be to well - and that is not alowed in Germoney! Lamental matters have to express from German faces, either the face is laughing or smiling. Because the real reason for joy, fortune and happiness has to find in German mentality only in Heaven or in Lottery, otherwise adds, commercials and appeals gonna loose their legitimation. That comparison with a German smile doesn't consist all people in India are praised by joy, fortune and happiness, but more from the clue, that life only can be real or even not so real, when there is something to laugh at or about.

trip to trivandrum

The distance between Bangalore and Ernakulam is about onethousandonehundredandtwentyfive miles. A young Indian is my opposite face at the time and this is going to be about some countless moments of hours. He introduces himself to me as a canvass of his company produces and delivers walltiles. He is a professional in travelling. This distance is his easy exercise, he's joining in eight times a month, towards and backwards. Once a month his special exercise is Bangalore - Delhi by Second Class Trains (this distance is about fourtimes larger than Bangalore Ernakulam). During our chat I ask, whether his company is not liquid enough to pay the costs for better travel, by plane for example, face the fact, that he maintains that the company notes black numbers. He is smiling politly. I set down my Western spectacles and become to know, what kind of economic conditions empowering the business here. No comfortable InterCity Trains, CityNightLines, which yelling through the country by hundredandthirty miles per hour and full service on an Indian dense net of railways. No domestic flights, which can be charged by Ruppee cash, but therefore in monochrome American Dollars, so that Ravi Customer Conventional is not available for such flights.

In the whole country, whether in the North or the South: always the tetraedic constructed hills of stones, not more than three or four foot high. I suppose to be led into the answer, how they get there. But the telegraph trees looking like that they grow, grew and will be grown there forever. They screw out of the paddyfields, the lakes, the jungles and whereverelse, like one-steem trees, the branches are wires, the fruits are the nests of the kingfisher birds, hanging like little artworks on wire.

I set down on the first step at the open door and let the beautiful landscape hissing by in steady motion. On this day I wear sandals, with topics - Ganesha thanx - rise some centimeters ahead my toes. I don't sense, that the next platform is going to stut my sandals' topics. The reason is, that my feet showing a little bit too much away the direction off the train's dimension. It is fantastic, when a wooden bridge construction leaves the impression, that the ground is pulling away by an invisible hand. It is like a flight over water and land: below the bathing people or the drying laundry on the rocks. And suddenly! After that high bridge construction, which is nothing more than rails and wooden bars - nevertheless concrete bars mostly also not enable to stop a running train - comes the platform surprisingly, that pols my sandal topics plain!. But well, it's a fortune that I where sandals by this temperatures; my toenails would never be cut no more:

"A not so painless peticure on speed." I would consider later.

As we arrive after a rather twenty hour trail on rail, Thiruvanathapuram seems not so different from other big cities of Southern India. And because the former colonists, the Brits, are people lazy in pronouncing long tongue bursting expressions, they avoid Thiruvanathapuram into Trivandrum, although I don't know, who Trivan with a drum is. Deal busy and busy deals also in Thiruvanathapuram. Around the smell of petrol, incense sticks and spicies again. A smell of overpopulation in the air. Another Indian small town, planned for few hundredthousands, occupied by millions.

no kerouac in kerala

We're leaving Kerala's capitol and shuffling by a tuk tuk about ten miles ahead from downtown to the beach - to Kovalam Beach. A village close to the beach right in the palm-tree jungle - a recent unknown place of fishery is mutating more and more into a favorite tourist place. But it is still a village at the coast of the Arabic Sea. We hiss by some huts close to proper bungalows, halfconstructed hotels close to big commercials, volleyball fields close to quarries, walls painted with hammer and sickle close to bursted soil. We are in an Indian state belongs to socialistic fields of politics. Maybe one reason is the work in quarries, which seems to be find many more than somewherelse.

Kerala seems to be obviously the metaldeliverer number one on the subcontinent. First work is to burst out the stones - the only act is worked out by technology, the followering labour steps performed by human work of power and patience; men beating the headsized rocks into fistsized stones. For that, stone is crashing down on stone; methods from the stoneage. On a woodenstick is taped a dense piece of stone and it is crashing down upon the same place again and again, untill the beaten rock splits into some stonepieces. The stones are going to shift to another place of action. Men transport stones in baskets on their heads to places, where women expect them. For them an increasingly effected work starts. They sit even there in lotus seat position and beating with little hammers (similar constructed like the big brothers only much smaller) the stones in pieces as long as some stones, made of one, having enough space in a single fist. After this sysyphos-job the stones transported again and of course this is head work pure, only with a basket between. But to catch a view on those powerworks, somebody has to get up early in the morning. And it seems the only thing, that's not got up early enough today and tomorrow is the technological process.

"Hallo? Is there an NGO somewhere called GTZ - German Agency for Technical Cooperation or somethingelse like this?"

"No! Because they sleeping and dreaming on their pillows, which they call development."

"Hallo? Is there an author like Kerouac on trip in this region?"

"Yes, there is. But he is sleeping and dreaming on the beach in less minutes, he's going to think."

all along the lighthouse

or is it
cosy kovalam powell?

Oriental songs with a steady hard drumbeat spying from an overpowered amplifier right and left through gigantic speakers right and left here at Kovalam's portal. Folkradio. And it seems, the citizens have to order to beach by music and they come. Mainly on weekend. We leave our tuk tuk and take the downgrading way to the beach. Close to the waterfront: black sand. The ocean is calm today. The beach is busy - o.k. not that busy, cause it is not season in paradise, now. And this year - hope overyears - there is no masstourism overwhelming on their consumption this path of paradise. But there are tendencies to go the way Goa went e.g. anad away from that scenario of horror, we're shuffling along the Lighthouse Beach, the Westend Edge of the continent into Southern Topic's direction.

Frank does know the way! He knows the goal we go to. We passing different huts of bamboos by. Every single one diserves simple habitations for travellers and marvelous restaurants. But Frank is looking for one special. I am feeling like a member of a two-elephant-caravan, Frank as the leading bull - his trott is elephantlike. Gracious and without to hurry he is shuffling aimconfident along the coast. After some hundred meters we're arriving. Frank's been here last year and the year before - the leading bull seems to be recognised again by the staff; perhabs only because they recall the tips Frank gave or not.

We are standing in front of a white brushed desk, that is standing outside in the sandy soil. On the desk a sower cherry red telephone with a dial display - we're not only travelling through space it seems; also through time. The manager beyond the desk opening a huge book of guests. Again we enrol all our datas from our passport, inclusive the long number of our identity and the length of our genitals, write all the places down, where we've been in India and the first time, while our journey, we're generous to ourselves after the protocolar writing process: We take two rooms. And maybe it is carma, doom or destiny, God knows, who knows, Hendrix nose - but it is me, who's getting the room with Indian WC and Frank the room with European Shit Chair Class. The climate - bullshiting me to sweat climax - and the environment ideeal to send cockroached beatles as companions into my room, sometimes as bigsized like I always imagined the beatle from Kaffka's "Transformation".

Not so sympathic as the crawling cockroaching night armies are the bomb shwadron of coast vampires, which attacking their victims without to ask for security, for life guard. These moscitos don't care, whether spender's sleeping or awake. These dragon-fly sized moscitos have got some kind of a Hara Khiri temper, wherever they are, but here, they have a special attemp of suicide. It seems that they longing for their last drink, although this is no long drink and even the tip of a Bloddy Mary some moscitos risk ones own death. The best prophylaxis against malaria seems to be not to fear malaria (as subversiv as it sounds it meant to me), mainly when the fear is not forced, therefore on contrary the lust for life in the Hic et Nunce is becoming strengthed more than any doom might be.

Every little thing has an end, but the beach effects endless on me. Frank is going to know everything en detail here. And because of that he does not refuse to research his own achievement for limits. Consider this fact, then it is no wonder that he's starting his day on four o'clock a.m. Sometimes to walk along the beach to look for the limits, although these limits aren't going to be discovered. It impresses me, but in my case I do not moving more than necessary, because for myself I already arrived: I'm in paradise. If anybody is asking me:

"What's the time?" I would answer exactly:

"It is - one moment please! - right NOW!" And indeed, Frank is going to ask me quiet often for the exact time, although he must really know that I don't wear a digital watch around my ankle-joint. I guess he only likes to exame my time feeling right here at a place, where time only has three dimensions: TEATIME - SHAHITIME - SHOWTIME.

Imagine a somnambulist in sanayssi orange boxer shorts with a tubesized balloon rafting out off his trousers like a backtail. And with both hands he's carrying a sweet cherry red balloon in a royal distance of his chest and is shuffling majestically along the beach like in trance. We, the off-purpose audience and the onlooker, sitting at the beach, are not to know now that the somnabulist is a real US-American. Even we don't know, that the guy is performing an atman-ceremony, which infact only rotating surround his past, his future and his presence and at least around each of us on this fantastic planet; like the planet around the sun - so imagine, Farangi, the heliocentric view of everything. And besides it is an entertainment for us and especially for the children, what is going to follow. Because not only him is celebrating a ceremony, but the whole cosmos offers the habitants of Planet Earth a special performance, that only few know to honour with activities twice a day. And the American seems to know...

The Lighthouse Beach of Kovalam leads some spits into the sea in different distances, which are floated by the high waterlevel during monsoon, now. This spits consist of little rocks and cliffs with and without greens, which rising out of water in a height about three meters more or less. Just before the hemissphere is going to turn into darkness, like a dimering light is going to be switched off, the American is using the honour of a quarterhour to climb his rock. Then he's facing the setting sun in the West with his hallow red balloon like Brahma or some(body)else, god knows, who knows, Hendrix knows, put the firmament around. In circulating motions the American presents the closed circle between micro- and macrocosmos in floating elliptical movements. Just like Mother Earth is moved bit by bit. His figure trances in silhouttes from the behind. And behind means the rising purple darkness in the East. Suddenly he turns into dark direction - means facing the East now. For the audience he is only a kind of a shadow of his own personality right now, darker than the pulping darkness. His silhoutte seems no longer tranced at the moment! His movements just no more floating and circeling around! They become aggressive and staccattolike more and more! He's putting the balloontail off his shorts! Drags it like a weapon against darkness and East! His defensity becomes more obviously! The time is right to fight the private wargame against the feary unknown! And the unknown seems to be the dark for this Fool on the Hill.

According to any life a death or more! To any love different hatres! Might he left the sun with a previous smile, his face expression must be, like just a superman tries his first flight without to know, whether he is th Chosen One to fool Newton's Law or whether he could be faster in flying and falling than the famous Ikarus from the Greece saga. The American's attitude inspires another Farangi to yoga-movements right here at the beach. And it seems like both are a team, which performing the transmitting of coded datas. We are all impressed, even those, who know about the American's perfomance. And those are the indigenious, who told us later, that the "meditating" Farangi was a GI before, flew Desert Storm over Bagdad 1991, before he went into paradise forever.

While the waves, the palms and the creys singing their songs and life on beach is going its relaxed way of business, I draw myself off-scene, back to my room at my stony inwall-constructed desk with the view on the beach, to let my thoughts fly over the ocean onto different sites. Calcutta for example. My diary is just opened and I write another issue down, seems to be away of touch...

from sinnead o'kovalam, enya lighthousemark and other characters on beach

When "die bunten Fahnen wehen" (if the tricolours surround), is a famous proletarian song in Germany. But here on beach there are no "Young Pioneers" from German Labour Party on the way - god thanx not. Therefore these multicoloured flags flattering in the wind on the beach are vendors, showing their silk and cotton textiles for sale. Beside textiles from snapsacs to vests, they sell everything, what a tourist heart on beach is longing for, pretenderly cigarrettes, joint-papers, lighters, and those things.

While I collect my cloth which been strolled around on the balcony by the creys, I notice an Indian guy is sitting at the table two doors next to me and looks out of thoughts onto the calming sea. Then he notices me too and starts an appriciated smile. After a second we're sitting together at the table and introducing ourselves. Rakesh his name. To refresh himself from his study stress (medicin), he came from Kottayam for a weekend trip. I put a beedie into my mouth and light it. Rakesh is smiling politly and maintains, that smoking is not good for health. From the medicin point of view there is no doubt about that maintence, but from the sociological point of view such statement seems questionable to me. Him, a becoming physician, me, a becoming sociologist, the spiritual fronteers have been already drawn.

Rakesh mentions his roomcomrade, who is - from international point of view also his fellow student. He means Marc from Geneva, Switzerland and - you-don't-clash-it - he is already there; sitting on the balcony's edge, relaxes his body and soul into something and laughing about Rakesh's warning, because Rakesh seems to discover in rather every human movement and action a danger for life; seems to paranoy Marc, how he is falling down the balcony into the soft sand two-and-a-half meters down - and me, how I am slooping my last breath from a deadly beedie smoker's caugh.

We talking about everything possible and impossible. Recognising, that our aspects of humour and morality are on the same level. The erotic thing on beach for example plays a wearing ring, while some tourist wearing - except of a ring - rather nothing on beach, male tourist from the environment wearing the idea to catch an opportuniy to seduce an oxcidental female or, if there is no chance for such an opportunity, then to enjoy the option to have an unconcealed steady onlook on half nude women. There might be desperados, who masturbating meanwhile behind a palmtree, like there are desperadas and desperados, who charging their charme with less to wear, while the Indian females take a bath in full sari dresses...

In paradise there are no exact appointments, where to meet and what to do. Here time really feels like the impression of one masterpiece by Dali, branded in my mind. Seconds, minutes and hours are not jumping and diving here around, they are dropping and floating, like grease, that runs down a tiny wall. After a chat with Marc and Rakesh I'm going to say:

"See you later!" and promptly Marc says: "Ali Ghator!"

Shahitime.

I'm sitting outside in a comfortable bambooreed-chair having shahi and wearing dark sunglasses. It is not a smear, a stain or a spot on my sunglas, only because it is so multicoloured that little point on the beach, what I am thinking first; because the spot is in motion. It is a vendor again. Trolling with her gears into my direction. It's not easy for the gypsis coming from Karnataka, Tamil Nadu (I'm rather prefer to say: Tamil Nada!), Maharatstra or god knows, who knows, Hendrix knows, wherelse, with their goods and try to sell and hide. Mainly they are children and often they have to escape from a running policemen. And if they are caught, then sometimes they have to offer their blanked heads to the officer and he is punishing them with soft beats to demonstrate his authority. But mostly the policeman is going to be foolished by the children, when they are running away. Policemen in whole Maha Bharat or in the sense of the Whole World might not be enable to catch a running child, are they? But at the moment there is no policeman. The vendor child is coming closer to me and now I know, that it is not a spot on my spectacle-glass. She offers me different vests, we bargaining and at least I am not interested, because she likes to cheat me. She is gone. And after a while - don't ask me for time please - she is back:

"Hallooo...???" she is charming in a soft voice. Then she starts: "Seventy!" and she means Ruppees for the vest.

"Seven." I reply. She's smiling irrogated. But it is better to get an apply like this, she is maybe thinking, than no answer:

"Sixtyfive!" her next offer is coming a little bit closer to my interest.

"Too much! Seven point five." I am answering, while she is starting to laugh.

"Sixty!" she tries again.

"Ten and not one single Ruppee more."

She is going, while the next vendor is coming after some dropped momentary lapse of seasons.

"Hallllooo?" same procedure, simular charme, but now a youth male.

"Twohundred Rupees, Sir! Good material." and offers me aa textile made of silk.

"Two." I answer.

"Two??!" he asks "You mean Dollar?!"

"No, I mean Paisas." I reply and off he is.

So the days go by and by. Untill Angie and Thomas arriving. During daytime we (Thomas, Frank and Rakesch excluded), wasting my whole collection of condoms. Then Angie and Thomas leaving to Delhi to go for their plane back home.

The next who is leaving is Rakesh. Then Marc. And at least I am going to buy from the vendors a vest for thirty Rupees and silk tixtile for sixty Rupees. Afterwards, eternal numbered waves of oceanwater later , beach party. Bonfire. Bother me, while I am sitting there and because I don't like consuming alcohol much, prefering shahi instead of alcohol. One fellow is as drunken that he is sitting on the beach not enable to controll the waves, which crumbling over him and his drink. He`s totally weak by drinks, but nevertheless he feels provocated by the coming flut. Full dressed he shuffles into the water and atfter a single wave he is away. Somewhere diving without intetnion and control. One Western Sadhu, he's playing not only the fool on the hill, sometimes he's been also the tool on the bill, neglect his performance (he pocks himself with burning spears out of the bonefire), dives into the ocean and pulls the drunksman out of it. After a while on beach, the drunksman returns to the ocean. Same procedure. Suddenly different spotlights under water. Two fellows probably on psychedellists, shuffling through the waves and diving lightning torches under water. They laughing about their great discovery, that illumination is not simply scoming from above. The Western Sadhu, about fifty, belongs to the spiritual interior, that charges on monochrome currency, although he is rather undressed, except from his single Sadhu string pants. And at least he is only one from many penny, who's ducking paradize. But time's not staying still, also not in paradize and at one morning about seven o' clock Frank and me are ready to leave for the busstation Kovalam. We get some vegsandwiches for proviant. A last sight from the restaurant , called Island View, we enjoid the most, because of the good whiskey like Royal Challenge or the habited drink like Arrak, the special coconutshnaps.

A half dog's stranded - the head and body down to the backtail already eaten by sharks, obviously. What's about dog's doom? Did he felt offboard? Or was he already dead when he was thrown off? Or did he struggled for life in the waves, got into the ship roter, head first? No, dog's seems eaten than shroved. But one seems to be clear that blubbers my mind, the fact how cruel ocean can be.

I remember, when I was swimming nude in ocean last night. the water was warm as water in a tub, except that in tubs there are rubber ducks maybe, but for sure no lively sharks. I remember, how often bay watchers were swimming out. Did they rescue swimmers only from streams?