Dinner time and the guide disappears to eat with his "sister." Hush comes over to chat. We exchange personal details about why we all came here. She's wishing for another life. She's bored and that's why she's on this pilgrimage. Her father, whom she says I should meet, encouraged her to travel. But all her friends at the college thought she was a banana for quitting... She's proud and happy to do something for herself, which is not allowed for Indian women.

I'm sure the moment would last longer, but for Hush's unwitting concern that others in her tour will know she's talking to me, and which suffices to convince her that they'll gossip. She doesn't really care, but wants to preserve the social forms simply for the sake of getting along - much as many of us pretend to be sane, even after we can't possibly be any longer.

Hush is lovable, that's the first thing. Two minds embrace. She absorbs my confidence and penetrates my protective subconscious distance instantly. She's a whole woman. But I'm a motherfucker. Yes, and that's what she wants: to flaunt and hold the man whom she isn't supposed to have.

I'm a man - because I'm by myself and belong nowhere... Some foolish women are attracted to my kind, strange though they are... They're often beautiful, too. I'm lucky... In keeping with her character, she gives me 300 yuan after I explain how the Nomads have robbed me. I promise to mail her cash when I return to Taiwan. Is this her pilgrimage spirit? Must we do penance for the lonesome bed we moderns have made?

No electricity here, so I light my candles as Hush goes. That energetic angel of Mumbai drops in to invite me to dinner. My pleasure, and I do feel privileged. Rice and lentils done with curry are basically very tasty.

Night brings heavy rain and the concrete floor in my room becomes a small pond, somebody having removed the stovepipe in the ceiling some time ago... I think the little old lady put me in here, hoping it would rain. I don't care at all. My only problem is inability to forget my past. But I'll never achieve enlightenment in the Buddhist sense - even though I do remember too much. I'm not vain enough to believe an occasional second sight qualifies me... Curiously, this familiar mood of disillusionment resembles deja vu. Heedless of the water splashing through the roof, I sleep. I'm awakened before dawn by voices. The Indian pilgrims have assembled in the courtyard, and they mount ponies for a walk round Manasovar. It's 5:00 A.M.

The men ride ponies and the women walk. That's the Indian way. I suppose the men want to feel like tough guys. But the ladies get to be the ones who get to be tired and live longer... Their Tibetan guide is roused by his sister and slips out in a moment. The night may linger for two hours yet. I don't want to go out there! I snuggle the heavy duvet and pray for sleep. None is left, a futile wish for a different life. Dreamer I remain, today, tomorrow: unrepentant.

But I get up and outside: there she is again, the young woman, aging on the doorstep of her unbroken hope. What am I? A ghost to keep company with all unlikely things. Rustics like me always play at being wise. What's she thinking, with her forgiving, whimsical look? Yesterday, in less than thirty minutes, we spoke of family and love. A strange conversation - so brief - so intimate! No two individuals are perfectly matched for each other - that was my pith, sensing her wishful lust... Yes, I've a woman at home, I said, and sometimes I wonder why I'm with her, because I wished we could talk more about life. She's young, my woman at home. I know other women with whom I can speak easily on any subject. The young one, my lover, is the companion of my forgetfulness. But how can I last long enough for her? When will she realize that she was fulfilling her wish to be loved, as she granted my wish to forget?

I'm always a lie. My love isn't enough. I'll be too true to join the other one... I feel indifferent to my destiny, even to the love I owe my lovers - yes. Women always expect you to get to know them, hope that you can cherish and love them so much... Well it takes time to get to know you, baby... I do love my woman, but I want all women... I want to fuck, suck and duck. The unknown, lusty woman is more exciting than my old faithfulness... I don't mind falling in love with any girl, in the knowing way that happens to sensitive souls. I love the one I'm with, and I want more. So why not? I want new girls to eat them all up wet. You don't have to worry about taking advantage of those who want it, sap - not unless you already view human relations in mistaken terms of usury, theft and corruption. Free love is pure joy to those who need it. If you don't want it - stay away. If you need more honey - come and fuck...

Hush drinks up my explanation of human imperfection versus ideal love. She needs to believe in life again, perhaps in the faith with which she began. Her husband wasn't the choice of her intellect, either. It was a comfortable choice - the safe one. Such honesty and openness with a stranger is rare, isn't it? How can two people know each other merely by wanting to know each other? She smiles for my memory, looks closely at me. If the other travellers weren't with us, we could have gone to bed - easily... I want more women like her.

5:00 A.M. takes her away. I'm not able to sleep. I pick up the novel. Real life, told in a satirical vein. The Scottish have truly mastered mockery, and can deflate self-interest and communicate sense with a slight lift of their prominent chins. Yet, where do they get energy sufficient to keep it up, after all the hard labor, pissing on each other's shoes? His book actually makes me laugh aloud.

The sun rises without me and brings little light. I look out and scurry back to my warm blankets. I read till 11:00 A.M., when I get up quickly to pack all my belongings. Outside I circle puddles to the main street. How empty and quiet everything is. A big white tent. A Tibetan couple sells needs; but their stock is inadequate for my spoiled eyes. Where's the fruit and vegetables? How about a tin of tuna? Here, there's nothing but noodles, biscuits and beer. They haven't even got wieners and someone has eaten up the ham.

Two land-cruisers and a big freight truck are pulling in as I approach. Like us, they're a tour group, risking the southern route to central Tibet.

Someone gruffly says, "Ehey!" I turn and say hi to an olive-skinned European. He eyes me with a faint, distant hostility, as if I'm here to steal something from him... I inquire about the transport anyway. Yes, he says, they're heading to Lhasa. Can I come along? He says maybe - maybe not. Better ask the driver.

The driver says no - at first. But I press others in the group to help me get on with it. Who are these guys? English speaking Nepalis! Actually, all of them are Sherpas, on the job leading a pilgrimage for some well-to-do Indians and friends of the family. The group is returning to India, overland through Saga, on to Kathmandu.

The Nepali group leader get permission from the Tibetan driver on my behalf. It strikes me as odd, to think that I was possessed, unconsciously, to walk out to the road at 11:00 A.M., just as they arrived... Very little traffic comes this way. One of the Indians, an old lady, wants my photo before. I remember to smile. Then the pilgrims blaze off eastward, ahead of the cargo truck, in land-cruisers.

Bike and I clamber into the back of the freight truck with the dark European and the Nepali guys. It's comfortable, in a way: the crews' duffel bags supply some cushioning. The truck ride is bumpier than cycling. Happy to move more rapidly than a snail. One of their number, Tsering, a Nepali man of 23, speaks especially good English and talks about how tough it is to be a tour guide for these finicky old Indians... While doing the hike round Kailash Tsering had to carry four of the heaviest tourists across a stream and then retrieve a wooden box full of oxygen cylinders. He explains how easy it is to get angry when people treat you like an ox. Too young and proud to know self-control. Really clever, though. The gift of quick humor is his.

It's too noisy to talk in the truck. The Nepali guides go to sleep... Another person rides with us. She's on the verge of thirty, dolled up in traditional Tibetan garb. She's a trifle full-bodied, but her curves are smooth and she would look sweetly plump if you could unwrap her from all that fabric. She wears enormous orange and blue stone ornaments in her hair.

Dusk slips by the truck like a quiet giant. A gigantic glittering blue platter floats - a lake points back in the direction from which we came. A patch of grass. The crew jumps out to unload supplies and put up tents. I do the same thing.

The brusque European guy is in fact Portuguese and Belgian both. His name is Miguel and he's a most unusual number. He seems reluctant to clamber off the truck after it stops, as if expecting we'd drive all night. He doesn't have any tent. He must sleep on the "dining room" floor after everyone is finished eating. He travels, apparently, because he can't stand going home. He's often blunt, and his attempts at humor are usually rude, too. But I'm a happy idiot, always friendly to anyone with whom I have no choice but to do time.

Tsering invites me to eat after the Indians retire for the night. We talk and drink some very hot soup. I meet the organizer of the tour, a young woman from Mumbai. Her name is Haaren and she's a gentle, bright flame. She's already earned a master's degree in English literature. Such literate people, these Indians! I'm chattering and boring her for sure. The Nepali potato gumbo really is a delicious treat. The crew is happy to have us since we foreigners break their monotony.

Haaren and the Nepali group leader, also called Mr. Sherpa, discuss how to pay for the gas. There's a debate about one Indian gentlemen; he's suffering from a cold and very anxious to get down to a reasonable altitude, having convinced himself that he'll choke to death if he doesn't. The poor man must endure sickness and panic for two more weeks!

Tsering speaks about his favorite singer, Jim Morrison. He was a wonderful singer, I agree. I tell Tsering that I don't have any of his CDs, since I would listen to them too often if I did, and it would make me more negative... Miguel sits silently in the corner and does not talk with anyone, except to ask for more food.

I find deep sleep on a warm tummy. Then we break the day before it can break us. The truck speeds up the Mayum La. The theory is to go early, well before noon, and so suffer less chance of getting stuck in the mossy hummocks over the pass. Snow falls blindingly behind. Two tracks and white powder trace all the long way down...

The Mayum La is over 5300 metres high. On top, we pause to refuel one of the land-cruisers. Then, both cruisers leave us to lag behind in the bouncy freighter. We descend into a pleasant valley beside a rollicking blue stream. A tiara of snow wreathes the greenish tinge upon the stiff grass and hard moss, still trying to grow.

We pass another cluster of yurts. During summer Nomad folks prefer spots exactly like this, just below a pass, in a valley protected from strong winds, mere metres below the snowline. Bonk! The truck hits a deep groove cut through the road. The back end jumps off the ground. After slamming down, the right side of the truck slumps. We skitter to a sudden halt. A flat tire?