When the Road Calls

By Bill Girvin

Throughout history, there have been a handful of brave souls who cast it all to the winds and let fate decide what might be hiding around the next bend in the road. These remarkable individuals all shared a yearning to discover the world, not only to find the treasures that were out there waiting to be had, but also to discover what made them who they were as they dealt with near impossible, unexpected, and, too often, dangerous situations. This is the remarkable true story of a small group of modern-day adventurers traveling overland to India from Holland on the infamous hippie trail in a $360 Volkswagen van during 1973. They were challenged by the hatred they faced in countries like Turkey, Iran, and Pakistan-just for being Westerners. There were unforgettable moments sitting on top of their wheels as they drove through the blazing Desert of Death in Afghanistan toward the lush Himalayan Mountains en route to the Heavenly Valley of Kashmir and Nepal. They were saddened by the poverty they experienced in the slums of India yet enlightened by the holy gurus and people they met along the way. From the crossing at Dover to the brothels of Thailand, each day brought new memorable moments never to be forgotten, originally written in a daily journal. More than forty years later, that journal was discovered buried deep in a steamer trunk about to be sold at a garage sale. In book form, it is now ready to be shared with the world and hopefully encourage readers to make the most out of this gift we call life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662419126

Book preview

Chapter One

Today was the first day of the rest of my life!

Lesson one—stay out of the roadway or some rude son of a bitch right-wing truck driver will run your stupid ass over. He had made those intentions perfectly clear, with a flip of his middle finger, as he almost nipped my side with his twenty-ton 18-wheeler. The strong gush of wind from his passing sent my hat flying off my head and high into the sky like a kite. A mixture of mud and water splashed my freshly washed blue jeans, adding a little unwanted brown color and texture. The curse words followed out of his foul mouth.

Fucking hippie! Love it or leave it! Get the hell out of the road!

I pleasantly waved back at him with a friendly smile on my face as he drove on with a loud blast of his truck horn and his middle finger held high. Long-distance truckers! Most of them were a group all their own. But not all, as I would find out in the days ahead. It was sad that so many people hated the peace movement and hippies in particular. It also made it hard to catch rides. My long golden locks and full beard blew sideways in the strong breeze and, to some people, clearly identified me as a moving target. Threats came frequently as cars passed me by. I did my best to let the catcalls roll off my shoulders. I weighed all of 145 pounds, soaking wet, and stood about 6 feet tall. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I didn’t look dangerous at all—to anyone. I hoped to keep the peace by using facial muscles instead of my fists. When traveling, I kept to myself much of the time. Some called me a loner. That was the farthest thing from the truth. I loved company. I was young and slim, and more than one girl said I was good-looking. I sincerely appreciated their loving attention on occasions.

With my thumb cast out to my side, I was hoping to catch a ride quickly. I knew there could be more than a hundred strangers in cars stopping for me in the days ahead. My hitch to Bangor, Maine, would be nonstop. There would be no time for sightseeing along the way. The latest storm’s departure that winter day had marked a slick, shimmering road and bitter cold wind as a path for me to follow. The sky was a brilliant blue. The air felt crisp. Fresh. Smelled wonderful. It was a good day to leave—to start life anew!

During the first few days of travel, there were a couple of the rides that let me crash at their homes when the hour was too late to keep going. The rest of the time I simply snoozed during rides, or slept out in the cold. No money could be spared on something as extravagant as a beat-up hotel room with four decrepit walls and a shared lukewarm shower down the hall. In areas of the Midwest, I was stranded for what felt like an eternity in a mixture of both rain and snow. I’d simply shiver from the freezing temperatures waiting for the next ride. It would come—eventually. Right then, the rides were too few and far between. I’d never make it to Maine in time at the pace I was going. It had been half a day between rides, and I was stuck in the middle of nowhere on some freeway on-ramp with few cars passing by.

I tucked my hair up beneath my 1940s tan-colored hat. It made my appearance somewhat more acceptable to the cultural sensitivities of many drivers. Doing that I was just a weary traveling soul hoping for a break. My favorite hat looked like it belonged to a member of the Italian Mafia. It came from just that type of person at the San Jose Flea Market one hot Saturday afternoon the summer before. It would have been perfect for Humphrey Bogart in the movie Casablanca. The guy I bought it from was an older Italian gentleman pushing into his seventies and definitely on the far side of Mother Luck. His pitch-black hair was graying at the sides and slicked back with some thick cheap gel that smelled like Old Spice aftershave. The hat was one of my favorite purchases of all time. Especially for a couple of dollars. It gave me some character. I knew it had a history. It made me look a little more mysterious, but best of all, it kept my head warm. Damn snow never seemed to stop falling.

Too few cars came by. I had no choice but to toss my backpack across my shoulders and head down the on-ramp and onto the freeway. There, plenty of cars zoomed by at nearly the speed of light. I looked skyward and prayed to the snow clouds that someone would stop before the police. He did, and that trucker helped changed my opinion of those in his profession. It was the longest ride on that crossing. Over the next two days, I rode high in the cushy passenger seat in that warm cab. I take back what I said about truck drivers. This one was my savior.

Where you headed, he asked, as his side door swung open wide to greet me. I could feel the heat pouring out, beckoning me in.

Bangor, Maine, I said, adding, and points beyond.

That’s farther than I’m going, but I can get you a few miles closer.

Perfect. We talked for several hours and quickly became friends. Both of us liked to travel, as was obvious from his job. Neither one of us was married with kids. Independence was a common bond. I explained I was headed all the way to India. He didn’t believe me but said it made for a good tale.

The snowstorm was blinding, and eventually I couldn’t stay awake any longer. The back-and-forth motion of the swishing windshield wipers was hypnotizing—making me doze. My weary head bounced off my chest, hitting my chin, startling me back awake. I remembered him popping pills every couple of hours to stay awake. Morning came after countless hours of driving, and we stopped for breakfast at a nondescript roadside café. I took off my jacket and settled in. He kindly suggested I take off my hat out of respect for being inside.

I said, I really need the ride. I’m not sure I should do that.

Why not? he questioned.

Because I’m not sure you’ll take me the rest of the way you’re going.

Why not? he said as his eyes narrowed.

I took off my hat and my hair fell out upon my shoulders.

Well, lookee what we have here! He laughed and hollered for the waitress. Get me some scissors, girl! My hippie friend needs a good trim job!

I got up to leave. The entire café was staring at me. There weren’t many smiles to be seen. He said, Oh, I’m just kidding. Dammit! Sit back down! I don’t give a shit if you’re half girl. And I did as instructed.

Why would you want to go to India? he asked as our breakfast arrived.

I’m hoping to start an import/export business. Buying one-of-a-kind trinkets and clothes to sell when I get back home. I was excited he sounded interested in what I was doing. I like the idea of working for myself. I also love the idea of traveling for a living. If I can make money combining the two, it could be an exciting life and a wonderful career!

Looking at his plate of food, he said, What in the hell do they eat in India anyway? Dog?

No, not even their holy cows? I think they’re mostly vegetarians, I suggested.

Well, that sounds like fun. Hope you enjoy it, he ribbed me sarcastically, taking a bite of steak.

He had a strange sense of humor, but the ride worked out well for both of us. I helped keep him awake with conversation, and he got me a thousand miles closer to Bangor. When I was let out, I asked for his address and promised to drop him a postcard from India, if I made it all the way there. He was still convinced I was lying. Hiding something probably. I hoped to surprise him months from now.

A few more days into the trip, I crossed into Pennsylvania and was dropped off at a deserted corner, in a horrendous snowstorm—one of those dreaded hundred-year blizzards. Blinding snow filled the dark sky. Clouds of condensation poured from my mouth with every breath. Bone-cutting winds chopped at my face. It was just past 1:00 a.m. I was hungry and beyond tired. Cold as an ice cube. It was a deserted outpost where two main roads intersected, and no cars were expected to come along at that time of night. There were no restaurants. No motels. No chance of catching another ride until morning. It was well below zero, and I was going to freeze to death if I didn’t find some shelter—quickly.

Peering through the storm’s darkness I made out a small deserted building. It looked like an old abandoned gas station. The gas tanks to fill up cars were either stolen or had been sold off by the previous owner. Even the signs were missing. I was surprised the storm hadn’t blasted it into a million pieces. I walked across the street and checked the front door. Locked. Walking around the backside, I saw there was a broken window. I pushed it open as wide as it would go and tossed my backpack through before following. More chunks of broken glass hit the floor, and as I grabbed the windowsill to climb in, one shard offered up a nasty cut on my right hand as a greeting.

The interior had a musty smell, desperately in need of fresh air. Mold probably lined the corners of the walls, floors, and ceiling—everywhere. It was too dark to tell, but I didn’t care. No doubt, old motor oil had been spilled on the floor. It was slippery, making my footing unsure. A shredded blanket lay on the floor and was topped with a dirty pair of men’s underwear that surely held a story all their own that deserved never to be told. The howling call of the wind forced its way in through the cracks and crevasses in the walls. Some broken glass from the window and bottles crunched beneath my feet as I searched out the cleanest possible spot to roll out my sleeping bag, kicking the trash out of the way to make room. I took off my shoes, wiggled in, and used my jacket as a pillow. My bag was supposed to keep me warm up to 20 degrees. I was positive it was much colder than that. I was so unbearably tired, I quickly drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later, I was startled by the sounds of more shattering glass and pounding on the wall from the far side of the room where I had entered. Two highway patrol officers were standing there staring at me with their faces sticking halfway through the broken window. Their flashlights nearly blinded my eyes, making them water like a crying baby. I squinted away the pain. I had been so tired at first, I had no idea what was going on, or where I was. They started barking orders for me to get up.

Hey! You over there! Hippie kid! Get your sleeping ass up and open the damn door before we break it down. I was instantly wide awake and obeyed. I struggled with the rusty metal lock on the door and opened it. Cautiously walking in, the cops glared at me. Their silver badges of authority glistened on their puffing chests while their flashlights darted about the room to each of the darkened corners. They wanted to make sure I was alone—that no one was hiding in the shadows to surprise them. They asked where I was headed. I explained, but like most others, they didn’t believe me.

Bangor, Maine, and then onwards to India? they questioned, with a disbelieving glare. Saying India always caught everyone off-kilter a little, but it was a good icebreaker and made me seem different in a surprisingly good way. Most people were traveling a few hundred miles—some across the state they were in. One or two might be going all the way across the country, but never in the winter. Then the big finale. Not a single person they’d ever met had said they were going all the way to friggin’ India!

Well, not India tonight, I joked, but I plan to get there in a few months. First, I’ll be stopping over in Bangor to visit a friend going to college. I’ve known him since elementary school, but I haven’t seen him for years. Since I was going to be passing through, I thought I’d stop in. I said all that with a big honest smile on my face. Then, I’ll fly out of Boston for London. Once there, it’s across the channel to Europe, buy a car, and start driving east.

Are you nuts? one of the police offers said.

No, just cold, I replied back. Without my jacket on, I was shivering uncontrollably.

You better not be lying, the other added.

No, sir, I said, shaking my head from side to side, showing I understood. Then I pulled out my passport and handed it to them. A stern look of interest came over their faces as they squinted to read the pages, casting one of their flashlights upon it for a better look and keeping the other flashlight shining in my eyes. They read out loud some of the countries I had been to: Italy, Holland, England, Greece, Switzerland, Turkey, and when they came to the visa for Israel, one of them asked, Are you Jewish? What did you think of the place?

It was a little scary at times. Lots of bad stuff had gone down. The massacre at the Olympics in Germany was horrible and happened when I was working carrying bricks in the Sinai desert by the Red Sea. I was stuck with little money—less than fifty dollars—and no plane ticket home. Had to work to get out of there. Are you Jewish? I asked. The cop smiled but didn’t answer. I said, I swear I didn’t break that window to get in here. I was only trying to stay alive and get out of the storm.

There was a moment of silence, and they looked at each other before one of the officers spoke. We know you didn’t do it. The window has been broken for some time. You’re not the first traveler to get stranded here and spend the night. That’s why we keep an eye on the place.

We do it mostly to make sure no one’s frozen to death in here, said the other. Too much paperwork to fill out if that happens, and it has, once or twice before. Don’t do any damage and just be gone in the morning.

Don’t worry. I won’t steal anything, I said jokingly, looking down at the garbage-ridden floor I had been sleeping on."

As they opened the door to leave, a gust of wind blew a few inches of powdery snow into my face, covering the cement floor around me. If I had been caught outside, I wouldn’t have thawed out and been discovered until that spring. I locked the door and did my best to get some shut-eye before morning but didn’t have much luck with that.

Rides continued to be slow. Still, they eventually came. Some were short—just a few appreciated miles of comfort left behind me. Others were longer, but nothing like the ride on the truck. In the last week of January, I arrived in Bangor at the university campus dorm where my good friend Ron Krueger was living. The grounds were covered several feet high in banks of glistening snow that sparkled in the moonlight. The storm had passed, and the silence was overwhelming. When the door opened, Ron was amazed to see that I had made it safely across the country in the dead of winter.

For the next several days, I stayed with Ron, and we visited during his downtime from his studies. Mostly I just needed rest. We shared our memories when we were kids. Like the sleepovers at our parents’ house or building a raft out of logs, and almost drowning in the flooded creek during a torrential rainstorm. When we first got our driver’s license, we took Ron’s parents’ car, without their permission, to Mexico and got turned back at the border for being too young. Ron taught me how to pick up girls at the walk-in movie theaters on First Street in San Jose. It was there that I got my first kiss. I missed those days. When it was time to leave, he gave me a ride the rest of the way to Boston, arriving around 8:00 p.m. for my flight out. Best wishes were exchanged as I waved farewell and turned to hurry inside, wondering if I’d ever see him again. Our childhood had turned into adulthood. We were now twenty years old, and I was going overland to India while he’d be graduating in a couple of years from college. Our paths had crossed again at that inevitable split in the road.

My plane would depart in a couple of hours. I had arrived just as planned, all the way from California. Funny how things turn out. Mother Luck was on my side after all! I went down the loading ramp to the waiting plane. With a wave of my hat, I hollered out my farewells to the friends and loves I was leaving behind.

Goodbye, America, and hello, world!

Chapter Two

I had been to London twice before, and the memories came flooding back. I had explored the city from top to bottom, making several new friends and lovers, learning the cool places to party, cheap places to eat, dangerous places where I never should have strayed. Too many fights—even between the girls. The last place I’d stayed was called the Mayday Youth Hostel. I had to tie what little I owned to my bunk bed so it wouldn’t get stolen. I had no plans to return there—even if it was still open, which I doubted.

I located the local bus terminal at the airport and boarded with my backpack across my shoulders. Going down the narrow aisle, I bumped most of the passengers with my heavy load. Eighteen miles later, I arrived at Victoria Station. I quickly hopped on the Tube, as the underground subway system was called, and headed for Piccadilly Circus. The Tube was usually safe during the day, and depending where you were going, not so safe late at night.

Historical sites and buildings lined the close-quarter streets like a patchwork of life that it had grown to be over the hundreds of years since it was first founded. The famous Tower of London, the Palace of Westminster, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square all looked historically beautiful. There were the typical stained glass windows and solid mahogany wood doors, uniquely carved to perfection by craftsmen of another era. Even common day things I was familiar with back home were different here.

It was difficult getting accustomed to cars, buses, and trucks driving on the opposite side of the street. I was convinced we were about to have a head-on collision. It was a bit troublesome. Most of the working class looked very English. Odd little top hats. Long black overcoats pulled tightly around their necks to keep out the cold. Crisp white shirts under their dark business suits with similar ties, perfectly knotted—very conservative. I once again felt out of place.

People in their late teens and twenties were more accepting of my appearance and lifestyle. My backpack always made me stand out, just like my hair and beard. It made the younger crowd curious while the older crowd shied away. Like every big city, there was also the typical drunk and homeless. I had no intention of ever ending up like them on a long-term basis. There were a few scattered tourists, busy taking countless photos every which way they looked. Most of the foreign people my age were still back at school. They wouldn’t invade the continent in hordes until the summer break arrived.

My first stop was the American Express office to see if my friend Mike Bennett had arrived safely. Fighting the crowded streets on foot for what felt like miles, I made it and headed down the stairs to check for messages, but none were waiting for me. I left one for him saying I’d be back every day at 5:00 p.m. I knew that since he was on a charter flight he could get delayed—perhaps for days. They didn’t fly normal schedules and left when they were full. I’d just had to be patient and hope he’d arrive soon.

With hopes of finding a possible place to stay, I had several friends to check in with from my last trip to London. Even though it had been more than a year since I’d last seen her, my first call got me a room for the night. Her name was Mary. We were just friends and had met on Corfu, a Greek island. We were never romantic, which had definite advantages—no hurt feelings and disappointing endings. Mary was surprised, and I was glad she remembered me. She was living in a flat, or a crash pad as she called it, with six homeless young men. She was generous and let them all stay for free. She loved the company and had a bigger heart than most.

You have the choice tonight of the floor or the couch, Mary said. It’s a tad crowded. People are sleeping absolutely everywhere.

Sounds like fun. Either would be fine. I wondered if I’d catch any sleep at all. I was so hungry, I could barely think straight. A shower to help warm my bones and erase a couple of days of travel was needed. Mary’s directions were simple, and in no time, I was there. Warm hugs and happy smiles were exchanged.

What a pleasant surprise your call was. I truthfully never expected to see you again. Come in and make yourself at home. Excuse the mess, but there’s a lot of guys living here at the moment, she repeated.

Not a problem, I said. Are you sure you have room? I don’t want to interrupt anything.

It’s never a problem. And it’s good to see an old friend, she said with a sincere, welcoming smile.

Coming through the doorway, I noted that the place was a mess, just like she warned me. Trash lay on tabletops, booze bottles littered nearly every vacant space. Clothes were draped about, and people were partying everywhere. The stares I got offered up questions that needed to be answered quickly, especially when I was introduced as being from America. We were not always as welcomed as I would have liked. On my first visit to Europe, many indicated the US involvement in Vietnam was the cause of that.

As introductions were made, my California accent instantly became the butt of jokes. My appearance with the backpack, long hair, and beard gave them plenty of material to work with. I didn’t mind. I just wished it had been a little different. From their slurred words, it was obvious they had been drinking for some time. That was not a good sign.

Throw your pack over there in the corner for now. It’s Robert’s twenty-first birthday, and we’re having a little party. Come join in, won’t you? asked Mary.

I did join in. Getting smashed at the party was a better way to put it. The hunger pains I had been feeling quickly faded away as the booze filled the void in my stomach. An hour later, we visited a nearby pub. It was dark inside. Smelled like spilled beer and cigarette butts. The music roared over outdated speakers, and the air was thick with smoke, the walls a yellowish tinge from years of nicotine. It was crowded with folks of all ages, and everyone seemed to be having fun, and surprisingly, I had been accepted into their pack. Like elsewhere, there were always dozens of questions about America and my lifestyle. Some of them innocent. Others brash. Most simple.

So, who’s your favorite musical band? one in our group at the table asked.

The Beatles, of course, I said. And the Rolling Stones. Laughter and agreement filled the air.

How do people treat hippies in the States? another one of them smirked at me.

I do my best not to get beat up.

If it’s so bad, why the long hair and beard?

Half of it is trying to make a point. I just hope people like you will get to know me and not prejudge me by my appearance. Once they do, they’ll find out I’m, for the most part, harmless and can be a lot of fun. Just ask Mary.

That’s right, boys. Bill’s an okay guy. Give him a chance. You’ll see, said Mary.

All right, maybe we will, but maybe we won’t! another said jokingly. So, what do you do for work? Do you drive one of those big gas-guzzling cars? Have a girlfriend or are you queer? They laughed at that. And then the most expected of all, What the fuck is the United States doing over there in Vietnam? Are you for or against the war, or just as ignorant as most Americans about what’s happening in the world?

I never can understand how anyone could be for the war, I honestly said. That was what they wanted to hear but also what I believed. No one our age is sure why we’re there or even where Vietnam is.

To them, Americans were warmongers. Hungry to conquer. Steal what they could. Rape the women and shoot the babies. I didn’t like the picture they were painting, but I let them rant and listened. Sometimes when outnumbered, you just have to do that. Even more so when people have been drinking. Although the grilling was nonstop, in the end, no harm was done. We closed down the pub and headed back to the flat. I was beyond tired. My last thought for that night was about Mike. Had he arrived safely?

Leaving all my belongings at the flat, I checked in the following day at the American Express office about forty-five minutes early. Mike had arrived and left a message he’d be back at five. A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I waited another half hour before walking back up the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, looking up and down the street for his bright red hair and freckled face. A young girl about my age was standing nearby. Like me, she was waiting for someone. Her name was Tina from Washington, DC. She’d been in town for about two weeks, taking a short break from work to visit friends, and was a bit agitated for being stood up. We hit it off with small talk, so time passed quickly.

About five forty in the afternoon, I was still talking with Tina when Mike walked up, with his backpack slung over his shoulders. Tagging along was a rather large gentleman named Jim, dressed to the hilt and wearing a grin so wide, it looked like his mouth was the size of a half-moon against his midnight-colored skin. His teeth gleamed a pearly white, and the smile never left his face. It was very odd. The physical contrast between Mike and Jim was downright disturbing. Mike’s hair had grown past his shoulders, more freckles than stars in the sky, and light-colored skin. Jim was huge by comparison, and Mike was no small guy either. Mike was also a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Casually dressed, he rolled with the punches and loved to laugh and have fun. On the other hand, Jim was dressed in a dark business suit. When introduced, he claimed to be a successful doctor—just taking the day off from work. I asked him what kind of a doctor he was, but he mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Or, perhaps he hadn’t thought his story through well enough to have a quick response. Something just didn’t feel right about him. Why would a doctor have a Tuesday off and want to hang around with an American hippie who’d just arrived in England?

Well, hello there, my friend! My name is Jim, and I’m from the West Indies, he said proudly with his chest puffing out like he was the master of the world.

Nice to meet you. I’m Bill, and this is a new friend of mine, Tina.

Nice to meet you both as well, I’m sure! The smile still clung to his face and grew wider when he spoke.

Glad to see you made it, Mike, I said with a hug and hearty handshake. I was a little worried when you weren’t here yesterday.

No trouble, Mike said. Just an unexpected delay. Damn charter flights always get delayed. London is so cool! I’ve been having a great time. Even making a few new friends, like Jim here. He’s a doctor and wants to talk to us. Mike was rambling a little, words slurring together. It was cocktail hour in foggy London. Can’t wait to see all the sights! Mike added.

That might be a bit hard to do, but we’ll see enough, that’s for sure. So, what’s up? I said, nodding toward Jim.

I met Jim over at a pub just around the corner, and we’ve been talking about business.

Nice, I said, hoping Mike hadn’t mentioned anything about our plans. That would make us a target, and this guy might know we’d have some cash on us. Apparently, Jim had been buying Mike meals and drinks all day while hanging around waiting to meet me. By this time, they had already jumped the wall that separated common sense from liquor-induced delusions. Perhaps that explained Jim’s wide grin. No matter how friendly Jim was, two plus two never added up to five. I was right to be suspicious of his intentions. Dr. Jim came across with more than just a tiny bit of flair and imagination. Perfect for hauling in the crowds. I’d been ripped off enough in the past to learn that lesson. I knew most everyone had one-sided motives for their own best interest, not mine. When those motives became clear, chances were something could go terribly wrong. Things could turn up missing. Like money. It was time to get better acquainted and figure out what was going on. I asked Dr. Jim about his schooling.

Unfortunately, I have little college education. In my country, a formal education isn’t required to be a doctor. We are instructed by our elders and taught everything we know to help those less fortunate.

Jim was very quick with stupid answers that sounded ridiculous. Street jive. Tina cast me a questioning look as well. Jim insisted we get out of the cold and go back to the pub. Come on, mates! Drinks are on me. We can have a good chat. I have something very important I’d like to discuss with you, he said.

Tina looked around, gave up on meeting her friend for the moment. Why not? Could be interesting.

Mike thought it a good idea as well. Me? I could have passed but went along with the game. I’ve always loved a good con when I knew one was on. Made me smile inside in an odd way. I just had to be on my game. I only hoped that Mike had picked up on it as well. I believed he was smart enough to do that.

The pub smelled dank. Smoky, like the one the night before, dark, and not very welcoming. More a place to hide out and get wasted. As my eyes adjusted, the conversation went back and forth. Jim led the way. My family is very respected by the government of Kenya. We are very close to the president, you know.

Really? I replied. No, I didn’t know that.

We have been assigned the task of acquiring a few trusted investors to help increase tourism and enrich the lives of the poor natives. What we need are a few savvy investors who can see the future for Africa. It’s all very exciting! said Jim with a wink as his half-moon smile brightened the inside of the pub.

Tell him all about it, Jim, Mike said. He’d obviously heard it already himself and loved the story. Jim gave off an aura like a lion circling the prey, tying not to cause any suspicion, but getting ready for the kill.

The government has promised to match every dollar we bring in to build a new hotel on the edge of the most wonderful game reserve in all of Africa. They’ll match us ten dollars to every one dollar we bring! There will be an instant return of your money, promised within two weeks’ time! We will give you a five-to-one return with the other half dedicated to building the most beautiful hotel. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! How could anyone say no? What a hairbrained lie, I thought. The look on Tina’s face agreed with me. Mike smiled on as well.

Of course, we will work with only the right partners. Like all of you! Someone we can trust, big Jim said. I chuckled to myself. Trust. That was enough to send shivers up my spine. Mike swayed a little from the previous drinks. Tina rolled her eyes as Jim ordered another round of drinks.

Looking at me, Jim said, Mike told me you were headed to India to start an import/export business. Why risk going all the way to India when opportunity is so much closer? With so much less trouble too! It won’t take much money. Just a few thousand dollars that will be wisely invested. The fine government of Kenya will turn two thousand into twenty thousand dollars in less than two weeks. Half of that can be yours! And think of all those poor starving babies you’ll be saving in Africa. You’ll be giving their parents somewhere to finally work and help support their families. It’s a good thing. And saving the animals at the same time! That’s a really good thing, don’t you think?

Jim couldn’t stop talking. Conservation with animals in Africa is the future. Tourist love the monkeys, the elephants, hippos—and especially the tigers. Don’t you love them as well? Crowds will come from all over the world! Hundreds of thousands will visit each year. Perhaps millions. From every corner of the world! And what will be the first thing they’ll need to do? Find a place to stay! Our hotel! said Jim, our African safari leader, reaching out with his arms as if to welcome us into his family. More drinks arrived. I refused mine. Mike was getting still more tipsy, downing his glass in a single gulp. Tina wanted to leave and head back to the flat she was staying, hoping to find her friend. I’d just about heard enough and wanted to depart as well.

"All I need is two thousand dollars to get you started. Being such influential Americans, that small amount is only pocket change! Americans are rich, very smart, and never let a great opportunity get away. Capitalists! I love Capitalists! What a great investment for your future. And…the future of all of Africa!"

I have to go, boys, Tina said with an insincere smile. I do wish you all the best of luck.

I stood up. I’ll just walk Tina to the Tube and be right back. I had to catch some fresh air and wanted to make sure Tina was safe. The part of town we were in seemed okay, but it was almost time for the misfits to come out. Tina appreciated my offer. Mike agreed to wait.

Outside Tina said, I’d watch that guy closely if I were you. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, which wouldn’t be an inch, he’s so damn big. I think he could kill a rhino with his bare hands!

No worry. We’re gone as soon as I get back. You be safe yourself. Enjoy your stay.

A quick hug goodbye and a new friend was gone—forever. She headed down the stairway to the Tube with a hundred other locals making their way home for the evening. If not for writing her name down in my journal, I’m sure I’d forget her before the end of the first week. The best part about keeping a journal is the memories never fade, as long as the journal doesn’t get lost.

When I got back to the pub, Jim had bought Mike yet another beer. He was whispering to him in a soft voice about all his big plans with his fancy hotel in a prime jungle location. It was time to go. Listen, boys. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Get in on the ground floor, and you’ll be millionaires in a matter of just a few short years. Why bother driving all the way to India to risk your investment? The best one is right here. Right now! All I need is a few thousand dollars and you’re in! What do you say?

Thanks, but no, thanks, Jim. Mike and I need to get back to the flat where I’m staying. Friends are waiting, and we have plans for leaving London tomorrow. We do wish you the best of luck with your venture.

Hold on now! he said, obviously nervous that his fish might break free from the line, hook, and sinker. Why are you abandoning me this way? How could you possibly do that! After all, I’ve been buying Mike food all day and drinks for everyone! That was a lot of money when I have so little! Why wouldn’t you want to invest in this most lucrative and wonderful business opportunity that would make everyone rich? All you have to do is meet the minimum investment. For a mere several thousand dollars, you will get a wheelbarrow full of money! More money than you ever dreamed possible!

Did we look that stupid? Thanks for the drinks, Jim. Here you go, Mike, I said, helping him out of his chair and tossing on his backpack. It was almost as heavy as mine. Mike stumbled sideways into a nearby wall, then balanced himself for a moment, getting his bearings.

Jim came bouncing to his feet alongside us. His only hope was to make us feel as though we owed him the money. To me that was a big joke. From the look on my face, he knew it. We quickly headed out the door and began making our way through the streets. Jim followed, screaming from behind.

You sons of bitches. Take what little money I have and offer nothing in return. At least give me a hundred dollars for my time and all the drinks I bought you! I deserve something! It’s your loss. Not mine. You hear me? We didn’t turn around. Go! Die on the road to India. Let the bandits clean your pockets after they’ve cut out your hearts. You are heartless already! Aren’t you? May you both rot in the deserts of Afghanistan and your bones be bleached by a thousand burning suns!

In less than thirty seconds, Jim gave up and became convinced his efforts were for naught! I looked over my shoulder. He tossed his hands upward into the air and headed back toward the club and quickly changed direction for a young couple in their twenties with a camera around one of their necks. His wide smile and boisterous laughter filled the air. My friends! Welcome to London! Where are you from? Come! Won’t you join me for a drink at this lovely establishment and I’ll tell you all the important sights to see while I wait for my friends to arrive for a very important meeting we have. Game on.

A short talk with Mike was needed. Mike, we’ll need to be more careful on this journey. It’s not always wise to let people know what we’re doing. If they think we have money, they’ll do whatever is needed to get it—especially in Asia. It could make the difference in us getting home safe or not. At the pub, Mike had been swaying side to side like a tall tree in a strong summer breeze ever since we met up. However, he now stood straight as an arrow at that moment, and appeared to be sober as he spoke.

I know, Mike said with a wink of his eye. No problem. I knew the guy was full of shit. I just wanted the free beer and food while I waited for you. Something to do, you know. Nice tale, though, don’t you think? You should have given him everything! We’d be rich! he joked. He had a smile on his face that made me realize that perhaps the only person getting played that day was Jim. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Street smarts will come in handy. Mike had that. Big Jim deserved what he got—the bar bill.

Chapter Three

I introduced Mike to those that remained at the flat from the night before, and they all seemed to get along just fine. Mike said that he’d forgotten to give me something he’d brought from back home. It was a small pile of letters from people I’d met on my last trip to Europe. One letter was from Eric with whom I had lived and worked in Switzerland. Then there was the family I had stayed with in Belfast when machine gunfire and bombs were going off around us at night. Also, another from a couple I’d traveled with from Istanbul back into Europe. Even one from Sheila, a girl from the Mayday Youth Hostel, there in London.

Shelia had survived a terrible fight with a black girl from South Africa named Claudette. I wondered if she still bore the horrible scars from the many wounds she’d received. When I was leaving from the hostel, I’d told her I might be coming back that way soon. Her new address was in the letter. She said she would be terribly disappointed if I didn’t come for a visit. She remembered how I had helped her that awful night, doing my best to defend her—sleeping by her side to protect her against Claudette’s return. Irreversible damage had been done to Sheila’s face and body. I was curious how life was treating her. Hopefully she was doing better than the last time we’d been together.

Mike and I had no plans for the rest of that evening. He simply wanted to rest up from the flight. I told him I was headed out for a visit with Sheila on the other side of town. He was content spending time with our new group of friends. I took along the phone number of the flat and said I would call if I’d be late. The friends that were entertaining Mike looked at the address where I was going. Mary suggested I be careful as it was in a rather rough side of town. I was provided a spare key so I could let myself in if needed.

I made my way out into the streets and to the nearest Tube. While riding to Sheila’s, I tried to strike up conversations several times, but everyone simply looked forward or at the ground and ignored me. No response, as expected. It was still worth a try. That was a strange thing about people being confined in a small space, like an elevator or the Tube. No one ever seemed to say a word. It was a mistake to try and be friendly. They might think you’re insane and call the police. More than likely, in that area of London, there was nothing to smile about from the looks of the shabby neighborhood where Sheila lived.

I went up the narrow brick stairway of the Tube and out into the dark of night. The buildings surrounding me appeared gray, grungy, in ruins. Two-story houses were crammed side by side. Many were built of old red bricks with corners falling off. Most stood in shambles among the garbage that littered the street and alleyways. The people living, working, and just hanging out all looked to be on the tough side. Prepared for trouble. They gave me the unwelcoming eye of dread. Once again, I was back in the slums of London, not very far from the Mayday Youth Hostel.

It was a short walk. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. I was greeted by a girl about my age named Sue. She was a good friend of Sheila’s, and we knew each other from the Mayday Youth Hostel. They had moved in with each other and were trying to get their lives together. Sue was surprised to see me again and quickly invited me in. When I explained I had received a letter from Sheila and was looking for her, Sue quickly directed me to a local pub just a few blocks away. Sheila was there drinking up a storm and already three sheets to the wind.

I remembered how beautiful she had been, both inside and out. Always laughing, loving life. When our eyes connected, she just stared at me, not sure who I was at first, but the memories quickly came back. She smiled and rushed over, giving me a huge hug and a kiss on the lips. While she might have been happy to see me, it wasn’t the same with the other patrons. As expected at the pubs in London, the hippie that I was caused suspicious stares. A few of the rougher guys bumped elbows to get their friend’s attention and pointed my way with their crooked thumbs. I was urged by Shelia to sit down with the others. The waitress came over asking if I wanted a beer.

Just a glass of water, thanks. I’m a little burned out from last night.

She replied back rather rudely, We don’t serve water. We only serve beer here!

With that, I ordered what everyone else was drinking. As Sheila hugged my arm tightly doing introductions, the rest of the group looked on with obvious disdain. I could only hope we wouldn’t be there long. To them, my long hair and beard was a moving target.

The more Shelia spoke, it was clear to me that something was different about her. The last time I had seen her she was covered in blood, crying on her bunk bed, not speaking a word. The joy of life had left her that night back at the hostel and never returned. Now her voice cackled an identifiable mean streak. Her eyes constantly darted about the room trying to identify trouble. Tension was in the air. She caught my sideway glances, expecting something unpleasant to happen at any moment. Something bad would happen if we stayed much longer.

Shelia quickly bid farewell to her friends, and we walked arm in arm through the doorway and back to the flat where Sue, her friend, was waiting. Sue had begun cooking a dinner of soup and bread along with a little cheese and wine. At first, I wasn’t going to stay the night, but they both insisted it was too dangerous to go home after dark. They began pouring more and more liquor into me, carrying on about how their lives had changed since I last saw them. I also told them how I was off on an adventure to India. They couldn’t hear enough about my plans and were very excited for me. I knew both Sheila and Sue were barely making ends meet, and I felt bad about eating their food without paying. I offered to contribute some money, which neither of them would accept. They had their pride. I didn’t want to take that from them. Our friendship was important—more so than any amount of money!

Looking closely at Shelia, I could still see heavy scarring crisscrossing her face and arms. The scars were deep and would never go away. The deepest gashes were around her eyes and right cheek. Even still, she was a beautiful girl. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something didn’t seem right about her. There was an edge that something awful was hiding behind, trying not to sneak out. Sheila decided to take a bath before dinner. That allowed me time to ask Sue how she was really doing. Her response was not good.

Sheila’s personality has changed dramatically since that fight when we last saw you. She’s basically fallen into a dark hole and never found a way to climb out, Sue said. At times, when she’s drinking, like tonight, she can be out of control with her anger. Honestly, downright dangerous and very scary for me and what few friends we have left. I just don’t know what she is capable of doing. She’s been involved in numerous fights with both girls and guys and won the vast majority of them hands down.

All I could do was listen and feel bad for both of them. It seemed even more hopeless the more Sue spoke.

She’s been fired from several jobs in the past few months, and we’re very low on money. She hardly sleeps, just a few hours a night. She gets up and is constantly cleaning house at all hours. Walking around cursing at the furniture and pictures on the wall when she thinks I don’t hear her. Always talking to herself. Mostly, she does that after she’s been drinking for hours on end, which happens almost nightly.

There was still more.

Sue went on to point out how everything in the house had been labeled with a name on a tiny piece of paper and taped to it. At first, I hadn’t noticed, but as I looked around, I saw dozens upon dozens of small labels everywhere. I stood up to read some of them. They made no sense at all. Gibberish. Words written in some strange language only Shelia could understand.

Sue watched my expression as I wandered about the room examining the notes. Her eyes caught mine, and they looked hollow, filled with despair. She rightfully was concerned for her best friend. Hurt, scared, unsure what to do or say, and undecided if she should abandon Shelia or stay by her side.

From the bathroom, we could hear Sheila happily singing an old nearly forgotten English ballad. Sue cast a look my way that would be hard to forget. Her eyes had once been filled with the same lust for life that most young people shared. Now, hope was gone. What an incredible friend she was not to abandon her. I could only wish I would have such strength as she did if one of my friends were in such need.

Over dinner, the three of us enjoyed more wine, spoke about life back in the United States and there in England. Things seemed to be relaxing a little. We laughed at the stories we each told. Sue’s laughter seemed normal, like mine. Sheila’s was different. It was downright spooky. There was that cackle again beneath her voice. It was the sound of someone on the brink of insanity. Sue could see the look on my face. She tried to make some expression that hinted—Don’t be concerned. This is just the way it is. She’ll be okay. I knew Shelia wouldn’t.

Half stumbling from all the liquor we had ingested, I stood and announced in a slightly slurring voice that I had to be going. I thanked them for a wonderful evening. Shelia rushed to position herself between me and the front door. You simply can’t leave. You must stay the night! Shelia insisted.

She’s probably right, you know. It’s very dangerous outside, and I’m not sure if you left that you’d make it back safely, said Sue. This neighborhood is brimming over with people hunting for their next victims. Lots of gangs out there. Why don’t you just stay here. You’ll be safe and can go in the morning.

I thought about the run-down buildings I had seen coming off the Tube to their flat. I knew they were probably right. Still, for good reasons, I felt more than a little uncomfortable about staying. Sheila insisted again, holding firmly to my arm as Sue watched cautiously, holding her breath.

Stay! You absolutely must! I won’t let you go and get hurt out there. Now come in and sit down! I gave up and did as I was ordered. I used their phone to make my call back to the flat to advise them of my change for the evening. Mike was fine and having fun visiting and said they might head out for an evening on the town to see some historical sites. It sounded like he was having fun.

When I hung up the phone, Sheila took my hand, offering me a tour of the rest of the flat. They had only one bedroom with two small single-size beds against the outside wall. There was a small window between them and a light outside that kept blinking on and off, casting strange shadows about the room. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was spotless. Simple, with only a few possessions decorating the walls. An antique dresser, a round wooden mirror, and several family photos hanging about. A little piece of paper was taped on each of them, just like in the kitchen and family room.

Seeing the sleeping situation, I spoke up and said I would be happy to sleep on the couch. However, Sheila insisted, in a slightly angry and drunken tone, that I spend the night in her bed. Don’t be silly! You’ll never get any sleep at all on that old wreck of a sofa. My bed will be much more comfortable, I promise! Shelia said.

Really, I don’t want to cause any trouble. The sofa will be fine, I said.

Don’t even think about it! Shelia cackled back at me. That would be ridiculous! I need you here, just like the last time we were together! Nodding, Sue urged me to stay, and I agreed. I once again thought about the last time we had spent the night together. I had huddled next to her in her bunk bed holding the bloody towel, trying to stop the bleeding.

Much to my surprise, Sheila immediately stripped off her clothes. She swayed back and forth as she did so, dancing to music only she could hear. She turned, stared at me from the shadows of the dim light coming in through the window between the beds, and smiled. As she pulled down the covers, more scars on her back became visible as they traced across her shoulders. However, even scarred as she was, she had a beautiful body. But, when she said anything, the hair on my back stood up, like a ghost had crossed my grave. Again, I spoke up, Really, the sofa— but was quickly cut off at the pass with a threat.

Don’t argue or fuck with me. Just do what I say and everything will be fine. Shelia gritted her teeth to get the words out. The strange smile was on her face once more. A smile that meant business!

Shelia came to me with a finger upon her lips for me to be silent. Her hands began removing my clothes. Sue sat on the edge of her bed and tried to look away, but couldn’t. I thought once again of leaving. At least going back out to the sofa. Sue knew what I was thinking. Her frightened look said that I should just do as I was being told. Don’t argue. Seeing the controlling half-crazed smile on Sheila’s face, I decided it would simply be best to let her have her way.

Sue climbed between the sheets of her own bed and faced the wall. My head was spinning from the booze we had shared over dinner. Shelia pushed me onto the bed and began unbuckling my pants, untying my shoes, and pulling the remainder of my clothes off. I lay back, and she climbed on top of me, kissing me deeply and long. She lathered the rest of my body with her wet tongue. Even as strange and awkward as the situation was, it was impossible for me not to be aroused. I feared I was enjoying what was happening more than I care to admit.

For the next hour Sheila made love with me in a combination of rage and passion, screaming out loudly at any given moment. I was pinned to the bed by her strong, experienced hands and couldn’t move most of the time. I waited for the bed to splinter into a million pieces from the fast-paced rocking back and forth as it banged against the wall. From below, the neighbors pounded their own walls and began yelling for us to shut the fuck up. The table between the beds was kicked by accident and tumbled to the wooden floor with a loud crash. There was no doubt in my mind that I was making love with a woman who lived on the other side of reality. Wherever that was, I was afraid she was never coming back and might try dragging me, kicking and screaming along with her.

Eventually, Sheila collapsed from exhaustion. She lay by my side with her head resting on my chest, pinning me to the bed. In mere seconds, she was sound asleep and didn’t move the remainder of the night. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well. Thoughts were busy racing through my head about how badly life had changed for her since we’d first met.

Chapter Four

As exhausted as I was, I was up with the sun and ready to be on my way. I climbed out of bed and dressed as quietly as possible before whispering goodbye to Sheila and kissing her on her scarred cheek. A slight smile came over her face. There was a look of satisfaction there, an understanding that it was okay for me to go. Sue got up and walked me to the door to let me out.

Sue, will she be okay? Will you be okay here with her? I asked.

I don’t know. I’m doing the best I can to help, but it seems so hopeless at times. I’m sorry about last night. Are you all right?

I’m just tired, that’s all. And a little worried too. I’m sorry, Sue, but I have to be going. My friend is waiting, and we’re leaving London today, heading east.

"I understand, and I’m sure Shelia understands as well. As you could tell, when she doesn’t get her way, things can go very badly for