India and Nepal 

    ​It's 1 a.m. on a cold late-December night and I'm speeding down the highway riding on the back of motorcycle racing my escape. Dodging cows in the road I rocket towards a running bus. People are huddled by the garbage fires that rage around me and have turned the air and sky to a permanent swamp, both in color and breathability. The streets are paved with trash and feces; the people doing everything in the same spot: poop, sleep, bath, wash clothes, make food, and poop again. I'd missed my chance to grab some drinkable water a few hours earlier and now I was out of luck for who knows how long. This is not a dystopian future. This is the present, in India. I've had my fill and want to leave, but it's not working out. I'm literally chasing a bus down. Even though I had a reserved ticket, it refused to stop at the station to pick me up because it was running so late. Hours late. So the ticket broker had driven me from one station to the next on his bike until finally we ended up in the middle of nowhere forcing a bus to stop. I was hoodwinked into paying triple the ticket price because I demanded a bus with a toilet. A whole month in India with no Diarrhea, and the day I try to leave I get a strong “maybe”. I couldn't take chances. The bus ride averages 12 hours long, and they don't stop regularly. I was told by someone on a previous bus that a guy earlier got diarrhea and shit himself twice during the ride because the driver wouldn't stop. I won't let that be me! Once you get the Delhi-belly you have very little time until you're pooping, whether you like it or not. Maybe that's why everyone just shits in the street? During an earlier train ride I decided to conduct an informal count of how many people I could see publicly shitting within the first hour of the ride. 50! 50 people shitting in the streets! That's too high... So I splurged on a bus ticket to not be miserable. Triple the money for a toilet, a bunk, and to be picked up. The pickup didn't happen until I made it happen, the small bunk had some other guy in it so we needed to lie down smashed together, and there was no toilet. There was a hole to pee into, but that was not the issue. I was lied to. Of course I was lied to; Typical India. The place is infamous for scams.

    I had come to India because my close friend George was dying for Adventure. He had contacted me earlier in the year telling me we needed to get together again so he could unwind, recharge, and sort himself out. We had both graduated from the same wilderness leadership survival school and he had gone on to work as an EMT/ rehab coordinator in rural Arizona as well as a back-country guide, so our idea of relaxing is likely different from most. George was now working mostly a desk job, and when he contacted me he seemed like he was at the end of his rope. He described just the thought of going to work making him nauseous. A jaunt through Arizona wasn't going to cut it this time. He suggested we head off to India based on a comment I'd made awhile back. Of course I thought it was a great idea, but I was broke. I encouraged him to keep it together for a few months until I could scrounge up the money.

    I set off looking for money, which in turn became looking for a job. I searched for jobs in my fields: Medicine, Expeditions, Science, Coaching, etc., but the jobs available were few and far between. Also I didn't want to take a job that mattered too much where I would be relied upon a great deal since I would just quit to get back to my adventuring. Nothing turned up. I moved on to the more hopeful and ridiculous jobs. I auditioned for a few TV shows such as “Big Brother”, which I still haven't seen, much like when I auditioned for “Survivor”. I didn't land the gigs, but the auditions went well. The casting people did seem genuinely interested, like the guy who worked for the Japanese network who was trying to get me a TV show. I even sent that guy a new show pitch, but it apparently didn't land. While pursuing this course I met a real super soldier who also was taking side gigs in Hollywood films. He said he thought I would do fantastically and said I should come out for the new movie he was doing, when he had an opening, and he would get me started. We went out to dinner and exchanged emails for a few months, but he got busy with a movie with Frank Grillo or something. No dice for me there. I moved on to even more ludicrous jobs like “castle-sitter”. I would have been watching rich people's castles while they were out, but I wasn't chosen. During my search I even got roped into doing a podcast, which turned out to be a ton of fun, but has yet to turn a profit. So, out of all those fantastic and interesting maybes, what did I wind up doing?

    I sold dumpsters over the telephone.

    It was a fine enough job, I suppose. It certainly fit my criteria, but I am in no way suited for office work. Tethered to a desk all day, talking on the phone, and using the computer while trapped in doors. I'm more inclined to just punch people in the throat. If I had stayed too much longer I may have ended up like George. The job was kind enough to me though, and the whole place just degenerated into story time with Nash. I would get pulled into other group's meetings just to tell a story or anecdote. The bosses seemed enamored with me, and though my coworkers weren't too keen on my preferential treatment at first, I won them over. I was up-front on my long term plans, and the head honcho told me I could have the job back after my 7 months of planned expeditions, if I made it back that way. Before I left the job I made sure to square away my property management gig so that I could have a base to operate out of – I rented the place to a practicing wiccan lady; we got along well. Everything was set and I began recon for India... and then the U.S. Government seized my passport.

    I had sent my passport in for renewal because it was about to expire. Rather than send me back a new passport, and return my old one, which is what's expected, I received a letter informing me my passport and renewal money were being kept due to the passport being “unreasonably damaged” or something to that effect. They were refusing to issue a new passport on the grounds my old one was suspicious. They told me my old passport would no longer be used to identify me, and I needed to apply as if I had never had one and was a person of suspicion. The government wanted all manner of documents to prove that I exist and am a functional-law-abiding-citizen. Nothing I produced was quite good enough. I tried a birth certificate, but it was invalid because it was missing some signature or something. I tried my Alaskan driver's license, but was informed it couldn't be used because there was no address on it. They suggested a combination of credit card and bills with my name on them. I've never had a credit card and I have no bills. Turns out it's pretty hard to make it look like you're not some non-U.S. Bases smuggler when everything points to you being one. Then I had an epiphany! The regular-person office job I had been working had actually issued checks, with a name and address on them! Using the checks and all the other items I was able to build a sufficient enough dossier on myself. I was told I needed to have an interview with a passport agent, and the government sent me a letter to give to them.

    A passport agent seems to be one step above postal clerk. I explained the situation to the official. “...They took your passport and now you need to talk to me for a new one? ...” Yes. “I have never heard of this.” Don't tell me that! At least act like it's no big deal! I handed over the letter to the agent. It contained instructions for what they needed to do in reference to me. After much bumbling on both our parts I was deemed OK. The final required item was to write the government a letter explaining how my passport wound up in the shape it was in. I couldn't tell them the WHOLE story i.e. China red-listing me and frying my passport because they thought I was making bombs, mistakenly still being checked into the Philippines as a Filipino citizen, escaping an illegal stay in Thailand, etc. I wrote them a generic letter about hiking/backpacking a lot and taking rough jobs like Alaskan fisherman. It must have done the trick because I finally got a passport. It has a special note in the back that it's a replacement for a damaged passport, but they assure me it won't have any ill effects. I'm sure it will. Once I finally got a passport I had to do some hoop-jumping again to get the Indian visa, but it went uneventfully. I talked to George and we got everything squared away.

    Almost the day I got my visa and ticket Delhi, where George would be leaving India, was declared a state of medical emergency. Smog that was 30 times greater than tolerable doses had rolled in and shut the place down. It was so thick people were crashing their vehicles into each other because they couldn't see. I told George. He didn't seem surprised; he knows the types of situations that follow me around. His girlfriend wasn't enamored with the idea of him traipsing through India with me. She said she was afraid he wouldn't come back. I'm not sure if she thought he would be having so much fun that he wouldn't return, or if a typical Nash decision would keep him from returning. Probably more the latter than the former. George and I agreed on a rendezvous point in Kolkata, which George chose. It was supposed to be a guesthouse, but it wasn't showing up on any maps. His plan was to get in a taxi and just point at the address like a caveman and hope for the best. That would never work for me, so I told him I would double back to the airport and meet him when he came in. I was to arrive three days before him, with an 18 hour layover in Abu Dhabi.

    I was excited to be in Abu Dhabi because the Arabian Louvre museum had just opened the week prior. My excitement was stifled when I kept receiving emails that my flights kept changing times. Now, after accounting for traveling times, my layover would be 18 hours on the side of the day when the Louvre would be closed. I hoped to see it on the way back. I received another email, this time telling me I would have a 31 hour layover in New York, in January!I don't want to be there then! No one does. I tried to talk to the airlines to get it changed back.

    In the meantime I set off. There were so many security clearances. This coming fresh off a study the NSA had released showing the TSA had an 80% failure rate. I'm sure the increase in lines wasn't going to change that. The flights themselves were uneventful except that I spilled my tea on myself, marking my shirt the rest of the journey. I needed to pick my bag up in Abu Dhabi because my layover was so long... though not long enough to properly enjoy anything. I tried to enjoy the night, but everything was closed. The airport wouldn't let me back in greater than 6 hours before departure so I talked to the airline to try and get a free hotel since I was technically in transit. Almost but no dice. Then I tried to get my ticket adjusted so I could see the Louvre. They said I would have to buy a brand new ticket! My best bet was to try via email for the return. I decided I would just curl up in a chair in a cafe and try to get some sleep. That's when I made a new friend who was trying to do the same thing. He had just been cast on the show “Outlanders”. We wiled our time away together swapping stories and engaging in general airport silliness. After our extended layovers we parted ways and I hopped another flight, spilled more things on myself, and arrived in Kolkata around 9:30pm.

    Kolkata is an immediate assault to the senses. The air is very palpably toxic, and the sounds of constant horn honks and yelling batter the ears. I had a general idea of where I was planning to go and in order to save money, coupled with my general distrust of their kind, I elected to take a bus over a taxi. Fine, Except the bus I needed had stopped running. I fumbled around until I found one going close to my goal, hopped on and went. I was dropped off... somewhere... in the middle of the night and spent the next couple hours hiking to where I was trying to go. Somehow I made it, but I discovered that everyplace I tried to stay was booked. I finally found a place, and it was as dodgy as you would imagine.

    The place did have a bed... consisting of a slab of wood with stained blankets draped over it. It had a western-ish toilet but featured the classic cup of water and hand system to wipe with, and when the toilet was flushed it just emptied it's contents onto the floor. The “shower” the place was so proud of was just a nozzle in the wall, but every time I tried to use it, nothing would come out. The room came complimentary stocked with garbage, both from food and construction debris, as well as an assortment of ants, spiders, roaches, and flying things. For security there was a door that actually locked with a key! Of course the door was just a couple of boards nailed together with trim pulled from the wall, and the lock could be picked with a #2 pencil, but at least it was something. Last but not least was the rickety death-trap fan clinging precariously to the ceiling you could use to kill yourself with if the area became over whelming. In the morning I shook the bugs out of my pants and hit the town. It wouldn't be long before I was thinking of using the escape fan.

   I was immediately swarmed by hustlers, shysters, and touts, and the barrage never let up. Added to the harassment, you only needed to take three steps in any direction and you witnessed epic slums. The shacks were just pieces of cloth held up by sticks, and the brick buildings all looked bombed-out. Poop and garbage were everywhere, half of it on fire, and you needed to step over the corpses of animals to avoid the beggars that littered the area. Exploring the city on that first day I began playing a new game: Dead or Asleep. It's when you try to guess if the person or animal collapsed in the road is dead, or just asleep. As far as talking to people? Don't. Trust no one in India. Of course you shouldn't listen to touts, shop owners, and taxi drivers, but even randoms on the street and people wearing official uniforms can't be trusted. Everyone is trying to scam you. The country has an unfortunately deserved reputation for scams. I began to wonder if India itself was even a country or if that too was a huge elaborate hoax. My original plan was to meet up with George before I went sight seeing so he didn't miss anything, and I didn't need to do anything twice. Then, I realized at minimum I would be in this hell hole for four days. I needed to see everything and escape the second George got to town! I spent the first day just acclimating to the environment, and searching for a better place to stay.

     The owner of the shanty-inn I was staying in knew I was going to leave. He started bargaining to get me to stay. I played it cool and told him I was looking around. After some back and forth he said he would upgrade me to the best room they had, no charge, if I didn't leave. What he didn't know was that everywhere else was still booked and I didn't have a choice! I accepted the offer. The room was larger, but just as crappy and it had a mostly working toilet. In the middle of the night the cleaning guy started beating on the door. I told him I didn't need anything. He kept insisting, and eventually wrestled his way into the room. I just sat and did research while he “cleaned”. When he was done he begged for money. I didn't even want him in there! I told him I'd pay him later when I saw him next, and avoided him the rest of the time I was there.
My first proper sight seeing was to head to the museum. Avoiding all the things previously mentioned as much as possible, I set off. The touts wanting me to “just look” at their store were shit-talking each others stalls to get me to try theirs, when one of them disappeared and came back with suspicious tea for me, that I did not ask for. I've been drugged several times before, and this was definitely not the place for another one. I politely took it, walked around until he couldn't see me, and dumped it out. It was only 7:30 in the morning and I'd probably already had an attempted poisoning!

    I was excited for the museum not just because it was supposed to be India's largest, but because it would also serve as a reprieve from people. The museum was technically India's largest, the building itself is big, but most of it was completely empty which was disappointing. The break from people didn't work out. While it was 500 rupees for a foreigner to get in, it was only 20 for a local. The place was packed, which wouldn’t have been an issue, but everyone kept stopping to ask if they could take a selfie with me. It's difficult to hide when you're “bright white and twice the height”. I liked the attention, but I was confused. Did they think I was famous? Was this some kind of super long-con that would come back to haunt me? I never did find out, but the whole time I was in India anytime I went to a place people had cameras it continued to happen. They also kept going on and on about how muscular I was, which is funny because I'm pretty normal looking I would say. Oddly, they also kept mistaking the word “personality” for “physique”, which confused me for awhile until I realized it wasn't my veiny bulging “personality” they were talking about. I was so exhausted from exercising nothing but my patience I slept the rest of the day away, waking only to the cleaning guy banging on my door intermittently through the night. He was ignored.

    The next day was eventful. During my morning walk I saw a guy herding a huge pack of goats across an 8-lane road with traffic, and I found toilet paper! I could finally stop wiping with my hand and a cup of water. I got to talking to some locals who told me I looked like an 80's Indian action star who was kind of the Indian Russel Crowe, Sanjay Dutt. They showed me some pictures and I saw the resemblance. I wound up spending the day hanging out with one of those locals, whose father was supposedly eaten by a Bengal tiger when he was young. The local took me all around town and told me some very non-tourist friendly things. I went to a park which used to be bordered by jungle, but supposedly women kept getting murder-raped so the government torched the trees to prevent this. I was also taken to the Kali temple and lead through an elaborate Hindu Kali-worship, which I never would have been able to navigate on my own. The animal sacrifices that take place at the temple then become meat for the poor, so I suppose that's a good way of killing two birds with one stone.

    After the temple the local and I went train hopping and hiking out to the outskirts through a shanty town built directly on the train tracks. A couple times during the day everyone has to move everything or they will be hit by a train! Finally we ended up in his village. A small place of mostly tin roofed shacks, but with proper roads and a couple hut-shops. We talked to his friends who were fascinated by me. Of course they took selfies with me. They showed me their ganja-smoking Shiva hut, complete with idol, where 10 or so people would gather and smoke heavily while listening for the voice of Shiva during prayer. Finally we went to go meet the local's mother and sister, but they weren't home, so the local just bought some chocolates for the village kids and we journeyed back to Kolkatta proper. During the non-paid train ride back the car was crammed full of people, and I was pressed into the wall stepping on a crumpled pile of luggage in the corner. After some time I felt some push back, and when I looked down I discovered that the luggage was really a couple of crumpled up old ladies! Oops? To round out the day we popped by the oldest crematorium and then went out for a couple beers. I bought the local a beer and a bracelet as thanks for taking me around, even though I didn't ask him to.

   Finally I was off to meet George at the airport so I could get out of Kolkatta! After a short but seemingly nightmarishly dangerous cab ride I was back at the airport. I had sent George specific instructions not to leave the airport; I would meet him inside. The airport staff, being part of India, weren't going to make it easy. Firstly, you must pay for a “visitor's pass” to be allowed inside. Begrudgingly I agreed. Very quickly I was escorted out by armed soldiers because I had a backpack. They would not allow me inside with it, but told me I could pay to store it. Fine, whatever, I just needed to meet George because we had no means of communication in the country. The baggage storage guy refused to store my bag because it did not have a lock. We argued for awhile but he wasn't having it. I explained that I needed to meet someone and they didn’t have a way to find me if I wasn't inside. He did not care. “Just go to all the doors. He'll find you.” So that was that; I was reduced to orbiting the outside of the airport on foot and hoping we crossed paths. Then George's plane was delayed. He eventually arrived, and we did cross paths. We took a few seconds to catchup then went off to the place George booked. It was so nice! The owner of the place even paid for our cab ride there, and cut our bill by 34%! I named him Almond. The only downside was that it was so far from town. I told George he could see Kolkatta for one day, then we were getting the hell out of there.

    We went to the market, got some food, walked around the Victoria Memorial, then took a taxi to “Quest Mall”. The Quest Mall is a shopping mall in “Downtown” Kolkatta, and throws into sharp relief the problems of the area. Quest Mall is a very nice building surrounded by ghetto. We had to side step dying beggars and pass two different sets of doormen/guards to get into the multi-story marble floored shopping center. If you don't have appropriate attire you can't get in, unless you're foreign. The first few floors are for standard name brand clothes while the fourth floor is a convoluted food court requiring you to get a food court debit card, load it with money, buy your food with the card ,and then turn the card in for your change. The top floor is an Irish pub/club that has it's own security and doorman you must pass. The pub is nice and strikes an old Norse vibe because everything is made of big pieces of tree trunk, including the menu. We caught the tail end of their 2 for 1 special so we drank to our reunion and coming journey. Following drinks we decided to see what “downtown” Kolkatta had to offer. It has about half a street in any direction and then it's back to ghetto, so nothing. While stumbling around we came across a lively dance filled Nepalese wedding. As we were watching, a kid picked my pocket to get my sunglasses, but I caught him and got them back. He was an amateur. Leaving the wedding we came across an odd gypsy carnival type thing under an overpass in the middle off a 7-way intersection. It had your usual child pickpockets and suspicious rides, but it also had stalls selling good quality regular home goods. It was an odd mix. George and I went back to our hotel, showered, I washed the clothes I'd been wearing for a week, and then off to bed. Finally time to leave Kolkatta!

    After a cramped ride on a public bus with no seat padding and some guy's dong in my face for 30 minutes we made it to the city center and the “Train Tickets for Foreigners” office. We had no idea what we were doing in the stale line-filled government office. Thankfully the lady who worked there baby-sat us and walked us through everything. Everything was booked up, so it looked like we would be stuck in Kolkatta for who knows how long! I told her we needed to leave by any means necessary, that night. She said there were a couple of cheap “Sleeper” trains available. A train where we can lie down AND get out of Kolkatta? Sold! The lady sold us the tickets, but looked at us like were were crazy. We left excited that we got to get out of Kolkatta, me even more so since I had been there 5 days. We jumped in a taxi to go grab our bags and the cabbie became deeply lost. It took us a long time and an interesting detour through some back alleys and military grounds to get back. We grabbed our bags and then went to go get supplies for our train ride. It was scheduled to be 31 hours long! We bought some rations in a very nice supermarket, which had lost power, hidden in what looked like an abandoned derelict building.

    The train station, Howrah, was abysmal. The smog was even thicker here than it had been elsewhere. The trains seemed to be coal powered, or maybe it was the passengers? There were certainly too many people. The toilet at the station was the worst yet. The smell was nauseating, and there was poop all over the main hall. While I was waiting for a toilet, a guy came in to pee, pulled out his penis, and promptly began projectile vomiting all over his penis. This went on for at least 10 minutes, at which point I left. We killed time until our 11:30pm train by avoiding beggars and shit talking Kolkatta during which time an Indian turned to us and said “... So, you didn't enjoy Kolkatta?” We laughed. He told us he was a computer programmer in Chennai and had a bunch of money but couldn't enjoy it because he works all the time. He said I was ahead of the curve, but maybe should have some kind of savings just in case something should happen.. he was a nice guy, I named him Almond II. He recommended we head to Goa for beaches, boobs, and booze. We like those things so we thought we would go.
When we finally boarded the train there were people in our bed/seat, telling us it was their seat. We had no idea if our tickets were even legitimate or not, but it turned out they didn't even HAVE tickets! This is a common practice. It's too difficult to police that many people so everyone just tries to get away with as much as possible until someone calls them on their shenanigans. We did not enjoy that train ride.

    Anytime one of us would let our guard down stowaways would come and take our seat bed, or a piece of it. I couldn’t' sleep because people kept coming by and siting on my feet. I told a guy that I was going to the toilet and to be gone when I got back. He was. There was a guy who sat on the bed across from me, hunched over, starring at me bug eyed and unblinking. It was creepy. The lady directly across from me kept deep open-mouth coughing right in my face. The whole train was rife with illness. It was a pox express. Anytime George or I would doze off a tea hawker would come up to us and yell “Chai! Coffee, Chai!” very loudly. I spread out as much as possible to prevent people taking up space in my bed. I was determined I was going to take up every square centimeter I paid for, even if it hurt my back, which it did, but I did it. I got my uncomfortable bed to myself finally, and the one across from me had six people crammed in it, plus 2 on the floor. If I hadn't have spent money I would have been right there with them, but I had, so I wasn't about to waste it. The train was packed with garbage, literally, not just the riff raff. Every so often a janitor would come and sweep it all up... and then push it right out the moving train. Not Helping! By my estimate at least half the train were nonpaying stowaways or just regular beggars. We didn't even get to leave the train at our scheduled time because the train was several hours late with no notice. Finally, after a grueling 35 hour train ride we made it.

    We disembarked at Hospet, hopped in a Tuk Tuk, and arrived at tropical Hampi. Hampi is a lush warm relaxed banana farming jungle town full of clean air, culture, and ruins. It has over 3,000 significant ruins and temples and is India's bouldering capital. George and I found a nice guest house-restaurant with an amazing room. There was a shower and a toilet, lots of space, and it was well maintained. I bargained the guy down to about half his asking price. We ate, and then found a tuk tuk driver. We got one that spoke English, as opposed to the one who had driven us from the train station. We had to keep avoiding the guy because he wanted us to hire him, but we wanted a guide and he didn't speak English! He would show up everywhere around town looking for us, and we just had to keep ducking him. We hired our driver to take us to all the major ruins for the day. Of course, while we were at all these amazing ruins all the natives stopped to take selfies with us, as if there weren't more interesting things around. Our tuk tuk driver also got us in a race with his friend, another driver, and some girls he was hauling around. It was fun. George and I went min-spelunking into a flooded out temple, but found nothing but stagnant water and bats. At the end of the day we climbed to the top of a large hill/small mountain with a temple at the top overlooking the city, and we watched the sun set over the ruins. We had a mini blessing to Shiva up there, got tikas placed on us and then we climbed down. At the base I saw some children practicing Karate in the moonlight shadow of a temple Of course I stopped to watch. It was as basic as it gets, but they couldn't have picked a better place for atmosphere. George and I got some dinner, but given the rural setting they were out of pretty much everything. The waitress/cook had me open the can of ingredients to what I'd ordered because her brother was gone and she couldn't get it open herself.

    George and I relaxed that night, or tried to. Around this time George began developing noticeable symptoms of illness like headache, possible fever, over tiredness, and general irritability. His immune system had been compromised. A couple weeks before he had come to India, he had his wisdom teeth removed and had developed an infection. While still fighting that he had started prophylactic Malaria medication and then had changed to the opposite side of the Earth, switching time zones, sleeping schedules, eating habits, and then been dropped into the deep end of crushing poverty followed by a two day high stress train ride with unhygienic sick people. The perfect storm for disease, and his body had succumbed, though only slightly at first.

     The next day, after my rooftop morning exercises watching the villagers, elephants and the rising sun, we got ferried across the river and climbed the 575 steps to the top of the Hanuman temple, the monkey god's supposed birth place. There certainly were monkeys everywhere. Then we wandered the market where George bought some souvenirs, including a few bracelets for himself. One of which was completely broken by the end of that day. We visited more temples, including the central temple where we got another Tika on our foreheads. We were going to get blessed by the elephant that gives blessings there, but the wait was ludicrous. Before we left Hampi we got some nice deep tissue Turkish-style oil messages. George said it was the best he'd ever had; He needed it with the state his body was in. Mine was in the top three. My guy wasn't used to needing to work so hard, but over an hour and 15 minutes of elbow kneading and bending me like a bow getting strung, the guy earned his money. Feeling content George and I hopped a bus to Goa.

     We had no idea were we were going, other than the state of Goa, so when the bus driver kept asking us where we were going we didn't have an answer. A passenger thought we didn't understand the question. It was the answer we didn't know. The passenger, an English girl, had been to Goa 10 times, and recommended Anjuna beach. So, Anjuna beach it was. The bus ride wasn't great, but it beat the hell out of the train. It also beat the hell out of us. The bus was a sleeper bus, so instead of seats it had bunks. George and I where in a “double”, meaning we shared one, all the way in the back of the bus. Every bump the bus hit sent us flying dangerously all over the place. We bashed into all the walls, the ceiling, and each other. Our cubby had no light, a broken shelf, and air conditioning that would alternate beyond our control between freezing full blast, and sweltering not on at all. The bed felt like it was covered in cat litter. The ride was scheduled to take seven hours, but it took 12, and not because of bathroom breaks because there were none. It was on this bus that I learned about the guy who shit himself twice. George and I wound up peeing into a soda bottle he had.
The second we arrived in Goa we made our way to Anjuna beach, and a beautiful lodge right next to the beach itself. George needed the relaxation as his condition worsened: sweating and cold sores joined his list of symptoms.

    We quickly took off for a stroll on the beach. It was a nice beach but it had just been hit with a tsunami the week before we got there. The wave had dug the beach about a meter lower and many of the residents were struggling to adapt. We were told it was much more beautiful right before we arrived. Typical. Also, the beach had a lot of cows on it, so no change from the rest of India. The second we got to the beach we were instantly besieged by touts. George, not as familiar with NFP (no fixed price) economy and bargaining, got snookered into having his hair fully braided, buying a bunch of jewelry, some clothes, and souvenirs which quickly began to disintegrate. Every time I turned around he was getting bamboozled. In his defense they were no amateurs. I haggled a girl down to an agreeable price and right as I was bout to pay, another kid and lady who where in on the racket and ran the store next door swooped in and stole my money. They said they were making change for the bill, but instead just tried to give me a bunch of crap bracelets. We argued for awhile but they kept lying to me. I finally slapped the bracelets out of the kid's hand and just got started building up to my rampage when they gave me my money back. Their lying and obnoxious third world sales tactics had lost them a ton of my business; I actually wanted a quite a bit of stuff. If they just would have let the first girl handle everything they would have been better off. Lesson: Your elders don't always know better. We spent the rest of our time in the beach town doing beach town stuff. Swimming in the ocean, playing Frisbee, para-sailing, drinking, and doing handstands.

     In fact we became mini-celebrities doing handstands. At one point in time we had a crowd of over 20 people circled around us. Of course they wanted selfies with us. Many asked if I went to the gym for such a thick vascular “personality”. I finally told them it was from Karate and martial arts, but they still didn't believe me. I should have told them I was in-shape from throwing away my garbage and waiting in line. Maybe they would have done it. The initial handstand fun lasted until I blew the crotch out of the cheap trunks I'd purchased earlier. I couldn’t' carry on upside down in this conservative country with my wiener flapping out freely. Later we went out to the Saturday night market which has a gigantic flea market like atmosphere complete with food carts and live music. George bought more things. We tried to go out drinking and partying to meet foreigners and swap stories with them, but all we could find were locals, despite the fact we went to Baga, the supposed foreigner party capital of Goa. We just wound up on a pub crawl and doing some night beach walking. When we had our fill we got a bus to Mumbai, the Bollywood glitz hub of India.

    As we were waiting for the bus some foreigners, Dutch I think, got up to leave and left their garbage. India is already a garbage dump but that doesn't mean contribute. As they left George said “Hey! You forgot your garbage!” They turned around. I thought I would have to fight them. Instead they were just regular pricks. They just came back, grabbed their shit, and said sarcastically “Thanks for saving the planet”. You're Welcome.
The bus to Mumbai was worse for me than the previous one. The bed seat was pleather and I kept sticking to it because of how hot it was. I was jostled way harder than the previous ride, but George managed to get to sleep. Probably because of all the diseases wearing away at him. When we arrived in Mumbai we stored our bags with the bus company. They didn't issue a receipt or anything, so I wondered if we had just paid someone to steal our things.

     We took off for “High Street Phoenix Mall”, India's oldest and largest mall. It's so Glitzy! It has numerous floors and stores as well as a little children's park, a movie theater, a fancy hotel, vale, etc. The mall is truly a monument to the concept of the “have's and the have not's”. Though the caste system is officially illegal, it is still very much ingrained in the culture. Discrimination of all forms runs rampant. George's condition was still worsening as we explored the high class area, so we quested for a pharmacy, finally finding one in a side street market. George bought “cough and cold” medicine with no clear dosage or instructions. Roll the dice! George seemed to have gambled and won for the time being so we took off for the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel and the Gateway to India. Regardless of how good or bad he felt, his flight out of Delhi was looming closer and there were still things we wanted to do together. We sought counsel with a travel agent. He gave us advise on a series of trains to get us were we wanted in time for George to catch his flight. We bought the tickets. After paying, the agent said “Come back in 20 minutes and I'll have the tickets.” I didn't trust the guy, but we did it. To fill the 20 minutes we went to the Hotel Godwin rooftop restaurant and had masala chai with a view. We also took the opportunity to use their wifi with George's phone to contact my old Kyokushin buddy Yusuke who was now living in Mumbai.
We returned to the travel agent … he did not have our tickets. He swore he would email George the tickets when we got to our next destination: Aurangabad. At this point we didn't have much of a choice, so we agreed, after swapping every possible form of contact. George and I went back to the Hotel Godwin to meet Yusuke and his coworker, but unfortunalty we didn't have time to do much more than exchange pleasantries. Traffic was bad and we had a bus to catch. After a long taxi ride I was surprised to find our bags were still at the place we stored them. The bus was late, but it did show up eventually. The bus bunk had two TVs and audio jacks that had been ripped out leaving jagged edges everywhere to hit while you were being flung about. There was also no space for carry on bags either.

    With George's departure looming there wasn't a moment to waste. We arrived in Aurangabad, dropped off our bags, and immediately set out for the Ajanta Caves... via local bus. The bus took 3 hours. We were sat up front, George half on a chair, and me on a metal grate on the floor. That was a long 3 hours. The Ajanta caves were worth it though. They are an amazing series of Buddhist caves carved in a ravine over the course of hundreds of years. The craftsmanship and artifacts that still remain are breathtaking. Of course, the people there were taking pictures with us instead of the site itself. We had our picture taken by 20 groups or so that day, including women and a school field trip. Are the thousands of years old caves full of archeological wonders really less fascinating than a couple of non-Indians? Even more curious, there were a couple of other obvious foreigners there, and they weren't getting their picture taken... what was the x-factor that made us so special? The local bus back was more crammed than the Tokyo subway and the bus jostled so hard the seats came off. That was also a long 3 hours. When we got back to town we tried to hire a tuk tuk but the 2 guys inside were drunk, lost and illiterate. They took us to 2 wrong hotels and then tried to charge us for it and then charge us for the correct one. We just got out and walked without paying a single rupee. On the ride back we stumbled into a side village full of kids who swarmed us. I don't think they'd ever seen a foreigner. It was nice to make their evening, but we were lucky a guy found us, kept the kids at bay, and pointed us in the right direction. Otherwise we would have been shaking hands and answering “how are you!?” until the morning. We got back and ate dinner at a Turkish place. The food was good, but the waiter was so nervous and attentive I'm sure the owner beat him regularly. We also found out that the travel agent from Mumbai really did email us our train tickets!

    With our onward tickets in hand I made one more stop in the area before leaving. The Kailai Temple in Ellora. The place is a wonder that wouldn't seem out of place in Indiana Jones or Tomb Raider. An entire temple carved away from a mountain over the course of 10 generations and 200 years. Being in it's presence is captivating. I did have my awe interrupted many times to take pictures with people, but it was worth it. On the way out I haggled with a kid who had some old East India Trading Company currency I wanted. I got him down super low and bought a coin, but then he showed me a better one to try to get me to buy that one too. I proposed a trade. He said no. I asked to inspect the better one, and while he wasn't paying attention I switched the two. Since I'd already haggled him down George decided he would get some at my rate, cutting out the middle man. We grabbed some food and I finally got the full paparazzi experience; As I was leaving the toilet the staff asked to take pictures with me, and then different staff interrupted my meal for pictures. I suppose I should have been put off, but I was fascinated by their fascination. Maybe I should have tried to have them comp my meal? It was only 2$US... As we went off to the train they gave me a hearty “Nice Body!”.
The train we took to Delhi was so much better in every way than that first train we had taken even though it was only one pricing tier higher. We were provided linens and pillows, there were no beggars, people weren't stealing seats ,there was proper food, properly maintained toilets, soap, etc. It wasn't a bad 24 hour ride, except for the fact that George's condition continued to deteriorate. His fever was rampant and he needed to wrap himself in a damp shroud and take aspirin to get stable.

    When we got to Delhi, George finally got the last piece of the puzzle: Diarrhea! They don't call it “Delhi Belly” for nothing! He almost made it the entire trip through India without it, but he gambled on a fart and shit his pants. “Only a little” he said, but something is something. I was going to get us into a hostel to use as our base in Delhi, but with his cough and fever I thought it best he be quarantined, as much for his safety as theirs.
I thought Delhi would have taller buildings and much worse garbage given it's status as India's most populous most polluted city, but it really wasn't as bad as Kolkatta. Going to Kolkata makes everywhere great by comparison. In fact I was struck by how there seemed to be two very different Indias. On the one hand you've got the nice people you run into and the bar I was in serving illegal alcohol with impeccable service that refuses to disclose what's in their food, or gigantic marble floored mega malls. On the other hand you’ve got pooping in the street, scamming everyone, throwing garbage everywhere, and staring bug eyed unblinkingly like they're the only ones that exists. It's all very confusing when trying to talk about India with someone who isn't with you in that moment because you could be describing two very opposing places.

    For our final day together George and I took a train to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. It was closed. Closed!? It's only closed one day of the week, Friday, and that's when we were there. It was the only time George and I could have gone, so we had to take what we could get. We went and trespassed through someone's yard to get as close to the river/moat as we could, but we could barely see it because the smog was so bad. The guy who lived on the property was standing outside and he told us not to go where we were, but we ignored him. On the way out we saw he had a large rifle. Dodged a bullet! Thankfully just metaphorically. Since we couldn't see the Taj we went on a textile tour. George bought everything: marble, tea, and a rug. I got a new gaudy belt buckle I barted someone for. We decided to leave Agra way earlier than originally planned because we didn't want to be there anymore. We went to the train station and asked the conductor of one of the trains if it was going to Delhi. He said yes, as the train started to pull away from the station. “Can we get on?” “If you hurry.” It was picking up speed fast. We had to literally run and jump onto the train! We made it. On the ride back to Delhi we met practitioners of Kalari Pryiatt, one of the oldest martial arts in the world, and yoga. We talked philosophy and techniques the whole way back, and one of them taught me some Kalari meditation technique, as well as yoga postures, and issued a challenge to complete the poses. Challenge accepted! George was able to do the back lotus shoulder stretch the guy showed. Both guys were from a small village and this was their first time leaving. They were going to Delhi to take a 4 month kinesiology personal training course. We got along well.

    The next morning I saw George off at the train station. He said he hoped he hadn't slowed me down too much with his illness causing him to lag. If anything it kept me focused! We said our bro-byes and I barely made it back to our place in time for checkout. I went down the street and checked into a hostel, just in time to join a city tour. We went to the parliament buildings, the gate of India, to the Siekh temple were we paid respects, and to the lotus temple. The lotus temple is a temple of Bahai , a religion extolling the virtues of science, progress, and critical thinking. I highly recommend it. Also one of the girls leading the tour was a second degree black belt in an Okinawan Karate style, so we had much to discuss.

    The hostel I was staying at in Delhi was pretty good. It had a high up rooftop that was cleared of obstacles were I could go and have a workout, complete with a billboard I could do pullups on. One of the times I was up there training, I saw a guy one roof over practicing kung fu. It gave me cool old time Hong Kong vibes. One night the hostel hosted a pub/club crawl. We went out drinking and dancing, but dudes kept rubbing my arms and shoulders and taking pictures with me. I checked with the guide to see if this was an Indian thing. It was not. It's just a gay thing...

     India was wearing on me, and I needed a break. Since I was on my own schedule I though I'd head back to the Taj Mahal before I did anything else. I made it back to the Taj without too much trouble and had someone take my picture while I did handstands. I had to be quick about it though, because the armed guards don't like it when you disrupt the flow of their sacred monument. Although it isn't too sacred to still be full of lying scam bags. After my self guided tour through the main hall I took off. I decided Nepal would be the perfect place to take a break from India, but still be close enough to catch my flight out. I bought a bus ticket to Gouripur, the border, leaving at midnight.

    I showed up at the bus station early, but after a half hour of the bus not showing up, the station guy said he'd need to transfer me “5 minutes” up the road to a different station. I got on the back of his motorcycle and a half hour later got to the other station. The bus never came. The guy said “I need to take you 5 minutes up the road”, and so on, until we arrive at the opening, chasing down the bus on a highway in the middle of nowhere. I finally got on the terrible bus with no toilet and the bright lights that couldn't be blocked out or turned off, and despite the odds stacked against me, I didn't poop myself.

    Arriving in the border town I walked to Nepal only to discover I'd missed Indian Immigration and had to walk back. Immigration was in a shack in an alley off the main road. Of course it was. I got stamped out and walked, again, to Nepal. Now that I was in Nepal proper everything was going to be better. I went to get a bus ticket to Khatmandu and the guy kept trying to trick me into buying a hotel room... NO! Finally I got my bus ticket ,“cheapest and best”... it was the worst.

    That Nepali bus was absolutely the most uncomfortable 13 hour ride I've ever been on. I was stuck on a regular bus, with seats that don't recline, built for people literally half my size, on world's most crater-filled roads with no shocks. It was awful. Eventually I made it to Khatmandu and found the hostel I was staying at. It was much better than the bus. Khatmandu is a literally broken city, with the recent earthquake not helping, but the people are for the most part nice and to themselves, which was one of my major reasons for going. The air is still viscous and there is some garbage, but compared to India, Nepal is a Shangrila nature filled paradise with the Himalayan range towering in the distance. The breathing mask George gave me got put though it's paces. Multiple times a day the locals throw water on the roads to wet them down to try and mitigate the dust in the air. It's either a mess walking around or a mess breathing in. I hit the bazaar in the center of the tourist district, Thamel, and started running recon for my friend's souvenirs.

    While on my research I wound up in a small far off back alley looking at some bracelets. I was approached by a guy who I promptly ignored because I thought he was just a normal hawker. However, instead of the normal “My friend...” that starts most sales pitches in the area, he started with a deep “Brother!...” I turned to see an in-shape older guy with some scars on his nose and face, and a distinct neck tattoo. “... you look like you could beat anyone in a fight!” … I can hold my own. I studied the man a bit closer, noticing his hands were covered with severe scarring. He saw me and held them up “there is a secret warehouse we gather in every Friday night for fighting. I think you'd do great. If you win a fight you get 70$US”. That's a fortune in Nepali rupees! “I'm a 3rd degree black belt in karate, so I do alright. I've been fighting for 36 years, but I'm too old now and I've got a kid. I've only got a couple years left. You should come. You'd like it, I can tell.” I'll think about it. The guy gave me very convoluted directions, but I took them down and even took pictures of the intersection were I met the guy so I could find it. Even so, when Friday rolled around I couldn't find it! I couldn't very well stop and ask a cop “excuse me, where is the illegal secret Nepali pit fighting arena in Katmandu?” I was extremely disheartened, but I suppose it's for the best. Who knows maybe it was a trap and it was just a warehouse full of guys waiting to stab me and take my money. If so, then the joke is on them because they had to wait ages, AND I don't have any money anyway. I'll eventually be back in Nepal for more climbing, so I'll try again then.
Back at the hostel's rooftop hangout/restaurant everyone got a kick out of my shenanigans. Each night we would swap stories, and they seemed entertained by mine. “You're life is like a ridiculous kung fu movie!” I'm sure they were disappointed I couldn't find the secret fighting arena, though not as much as I was. We also swapped tips on good places to eat and things to do. One day one of the girls got locked out of her room. I picked the lock for her with one of the sets I had on me. “Thanks. You’re a weird guy Nash, but thanks.” Then we went to the movies and out to to eat with another guy from the hostel to a fancy cultural restaurant. It had dinner and traditional dancing in an old mansion. It was WAY too fancy for us. Everyone was dressed nice, and we were not. The menu came on a scroll, and we got 7 spoons per plate. What do you do with that many spoons!? We ordered from the ala carte poor person menu. Eating off the brass plates felt like eating off of someone's coat of arms. It felt like a misuse, as if I was eating a bowl of cereal out of a knight's helmet. The food was fine, the best part of which was the inclusion of the traditional Nepali alcohol, technically illegal but you could get it lots of places.

    During one of our story exchanges I found out one of the guys at the hostel was going to be in South America the same time I was planning an excursion there. He was originally from France, but lived a few years in Japan. He would be a perfect wing man for my plan and it seems I may have succeeded in press ganging him to join me up my climbing of “Death Mountain” in Patagonia. We'd planned to get in contact in a couple weeks when the time drew closer. In the meantime we would do our normal things.
My 3 day souvenir reconnaissance mission had been a success. I had been to every stall in the market multiple times and knew exactly who and what I was dealing with. It was now time to strike. I found a stall with everything on my list and made my move. The negotiations were fierce. For some reason the shop keeper kept asking if I was spec ops. I kept telling him I'm not the kind of guy to answer to anyone long term, but he didn't believe me. He did believe in the power of my haggling though. For the pile of items I selected he wanted 250$US. I got him down to 85$. Still a lot of money, but an expense I had budgeted for. Market bargaining is like a knife fight: you need to accept you're going to get cut, and you just try and make sure it's in a non-lethal area and you're the one who walks away.

     The rest of my time in the area was spent doing the usual: rooftop workouts, hiking, and visiting cultural sights. I walked to Swayambuthan temple, the monkey temple, with the Buddha's all-seeing eyes painted on the top overlooking all of Kathmandu. I visited the “Garden of Dreams”. It was fine. The most interesting thing about it was that gambling and card playing were forbidden inside and that's infamously how the designer got the money for the place, by winning a huge game against his father, the prime minister! I hiked to Pashupatan temple, the most important Hindu temple in the valley. From there to the stupa of Bodnath, the largest in all of Asia! It's also the center of the Tibetan culture in the world thanks to all the refugees forced away from Tibet proper.

    For Christmas time I went to Dhulikel and climbed to the top of the Kali temple for a spectacular view of the high Himalaya and Mount Everest. When I tried to take a picture of myself with Everest in the background some mist blew in and obscured everything. Why wouldn't it? When I got back to the hostel in Kathmandu, Christmas decorations and partying were in full force. It was a nice atmosphere. I decided to head off to the cybercafe and update friends on my current situation since I hadn't checked in with anyone since before George got to India. When I logged on I received a message that my place in the states had been broken into. They said the extent was unknown, but it was bad and a lot of things had been stolen. Could everything I'd built, inherited, hoarded, and guarded have been taken? I've been robbed more times than anyone I've ever met! This made five times. When I lived in the ghetto it was somewhat understandable, but not where this current base is. It hadn't been robbed in it's entire 70 year history. Was the life I'd finally started building over the past few years gone? The thought made me nauseous. Merry Christmas to me, it was time to leave.

     I needed to begrudgingly get back to Kolkatta because that's were my flight out of the area was from. Nobody in Nepal could, or would, help me with the Indian train ticket side of things. Six different travel agents said they couldn't do anything, I was convinced they just didn't want to because they wouldn't get commission. I needed out ASAP, so I got roped into taking an 18 hour bus ride that left Kathmandu at 4 in the morning which did nothing to help my now permanent bad mood. The bus ride was not pleasant. Nepali roads are terrible, but the traffic itself is worse. I don't mean congested, I'm referring to mortality rates. You are 30 times more likely to be in an auto incident in Nepal than in any developed country. The terrain is dangerous, the vehicles inadequate, and the drivers tired and often drunk. This is a country that still performs animal sacrifices to the gods when calamities occur, rather than retool their infrastructure. Their planes crash so often they're not even allowed in European airspace. Whenever something occurs, they just shrug and say it's up to the gods. The attitude hasn't helped the area, but at least they're laid back … maybe too much. They need to deal with earthquakes, drought, their infrastructure, and the economy. These facts alone didn't cause me concern, but witnessing incidents did. While on that bumpy 18 hour bus ride going up a steep mountain, my bus passed another bus that had tried to cut in front of traffic but instead had just driven off the side of the mountain. It was now teetering over the edge, action movie style, but it looked like everyone was safely evacuated before it tipped completely over. The next one wasn't so lucky though. While we were driving over a large gorge a car tied passing traffic, lost control, and drove of the side of the bridge, plummeting to their certain deaths. I alternated between thinking about crashing, the robbery, and being angry that I was twice the size of everyone and didn't fit on the bus. I knew we were getting close to India when every time the bus stopped people would flood on screaming the items they were selling. It doesn't take four people on a tiny bus to sell apples, and no one wants them anyway! A Nepali guy who could speak really good English got on and sat next to me. After the usual barrage of questions he asked “you're traveling alone?” Yes. “Do you normally travel alone?” Yes. “On Christmas?” Yeah, pretty cool eh? “Sounds like a life full of sadness.” … Thanks Nepali guy. That helps with my current emotional situation.

    When I arrived in the dingy border town, the border was closed so I needed to find a place to hole up until it opened. I found an equally dingy place I could afford. As the proprietor was giving me a tour of the room he said “... and this is the toilet” and proceeded to go in and use it. Get out of my toilet! I know how they work! Use your own toilet! What, did I have the only toilet in the place? Get out of my room, it's the middle of the night and I want to sleep! Not that it was a luxury resort. The place was covered in grime and dust and the windows were just big open holes in the wall I couldn't close.

     I was up at 6am, at the border by 7, and hiked across the bridge to India proper by 8. I was immediately reminded of the reason I had left in the first place. There was constant honking and shouting, people pooping the the streets, garbage everywhere, and a non stop flurry of scams. I was now in Siliguli waiting for my train to Kolkatta. I had the whole afternoon to fill, so I though I would hole up in a “restaurant” and be productive. I asked if they had a toilet, and they led me to a cubicle room without even a drain in it. It was nothing but an empty closet. I pissed in it, but what if I'd had to poop!? Of course now that I was in India, the staff kept asking to take selfies with me. Soon, I wanted tea, which the restaurant didn't have, so I left on a quest to get some. Finding the tea was easy compared with disposing of the tiny paper cup it came in. I spent considerable time wandering the outskirts of the train station shanty town holding onto the thimble sized cup looking for a proper bin to put it in. Finally I found one and dropped it in, and as I did I reflected on my surroundings. The ground is paved in garbage and the air is thick with garbage fire smoke. People are pooping, begging, and dying the streets. As I drop the cup in I think “What's the point? Of the bin? Of anything? It's all so fucked. Me putting this cup in the bin versus on the ground is doing nothing. The staff will probably just dump the contents straight on the ground. None of this matters. Are we so far gone there's no hope in clawing our way out? A free fall downward spiral into a slow suicide taking most of the planet with us?” India had opened my perceptions, but not in the way most people come for. India had pushed me into a deep existential crises. I needed serious reflection on the whole situation. In the meantime, wondering if the small gesture was meaningless, I threw the cup in the bin anyway. I refuse to give up, even though I'm pretty sure the act doesn't matter, maybe it will lead to something that does? Significant things are built from the insignificant.

    I wiled away my final hours in the train station in the first class waiting room. They let me in no questions asked, not because I was first class but because I was a foreigner. I heard an announcement that one of the trains was 10 hours late, and another 8 hours late. I couldn't afford to be that late because I had a plane to catch. Surprisingly, my train showed up on time. I had a top bunk so I was free to ignore everyone, which I did, save for the dinner order taking guy. I thought he would get food from somewhere beside the terrible looking stall that I already had said “no” to when passing it to enter the train. I was wrong. Now I got to try and eat hot greasy soup out of a paper sack while lying in bed on a bumpy train… fantastic.

     I arrived at the airport around 7am, excited to get in there. They wouldn't let me in until 10 though, so I decided I would lay on the grassy hill I'd found outside near the airport. The second I sat down two guards came over and made me and the gaggle of Indians that were there leave. They told us to go inside, but the door guards wouldn't let us in. I thought I'd found something that wasn't terrible, but I was wrong. Trapped in limbo I found a newspaper someone had left. It was full of the normal mix of horror and nonsense that comprises most news. Finally I got in the airport.

     My first flight was fine except that a guy had a seizure or something and fainted hard right next to my seat in the aisle. He was unconscious for about 30 seconds. I thought I would get to use my training, but the flight attendants seemed to be doing well enough once they finally got over there. I kept an eye on him just in case. My next flight was full of wailing Indian kids creating piles of garbage; it was 13 hours of being on an airborne Indian train. I was psyched to be in North America but I arrived in JFK airport in New York exhausted. An 18 hour bus ride followed by an almost equally long train to a 6 hour flight to a 13 hour flight and now I was on a 30 hour layover before my next flight, during a cold winter in New York. I curled up on a heating vent like a stray and slept a considerable time.

     I took my final flight, enjoyed a paved road and a functioning toilet, and got to work on assessing the damage from the burglary. It was bad, and broken glass was everywhere. It seemed to be more of a heist, indicating that it was likely someone who knew me and had targeted the place for specific items like my hundreds of knives, a World War II Japanese rifle, and antique currencies and such, while leaving behind items of actual street value like electronics and a bag of United States currency. I had my work cut out for me fortifying the place before I left for my next excursion, already planned, and time sensitive. No pressure.

​     -NASH