The Flintstones should live in Hampi. Indian jungle interspersed by lakes and rivers mirroring the jungle's barbarian jade vegetation straddle colossal rock formations and archaic ruins. I continually expected a stream of tyrannosaurus rexes and brontosaurus' to ramble out of the emerald brush and eat me. I subconsciously carried a stick with me for protection. Protection against nonexistent Jurassic beasts.
One night a Dane, German, Swiss and I staged a dance party in the Dane's room at Laughing Buddha Guesthouse. After three minutes our twenty-something unaccustomed dance muscles atrophied in paroxysms of resistance. Sweat spiraled down our faces while wheezes and chokes strangled us. A South African female named Tits McGee entered our room demanding to know what we were doing. We looked like we had just completed a hopscotch marathon. We told her we'd danced for three minutes. We joined her drum circle and joints.
Hampi's nightlife is as sensational as Saturday night in a Mormon priest's house. After experiencing bars closing at midnight for four nights, Tits McGee and I resolved to take action. We decreed to throw a trance party.
Five days later the Dane, German and Swiss had left. I hung out with Tits McGee and a professional hula hooper. Hula Hoop and I were born in the same hospital in Long Beach, California. We went to the same college, lived in the same area in San Francisco, and our parents possessed the same occupation. We were basically the same person. Except that she had an awesome skill like hula hooping. I can't hula hoop, sing, juggle, do card tricks, or the splits. My eyes are as competent as Helen Keller's. I am extraordinarily gifted at getting lost though.
Our trance party venue was Whispering Rocks Guesthouse, a twelve-hut guesthouse as remote as the North Pole. A sprawling open-air restaurant sat thirty people, and a clearing large enough to accommodate a sumo wrestling convention swaggered with speakers procured by Whispering Rocks' manager. Tits McGee discovered two Israeli DJs.
Because the party was a billion football fields from the guesthouses, I tried to motivate people. I told them there would be a drunk tiger. Tits McGee seduced people to come with her chest cushions.
By ten at night, twenty people had arrived, three of whom were Tits McGee, Hula Hoop, and me. The highlight of the ten o'clock hour was when I saw a thirty-something Scottish male wearing a shirt that read, "Dog and wife missing. Reward for dog." By eleven, Whispering Rocks had seventy travelers. Of the seventy, three danced. Four if Hula Hoop hula hooping comprises dancing. By midnight, the numbers had dwindled to twenty. An Israeli who relocated to India to be a drug dealer supplied the masses with elephant tranquilizers.
The last Jeep returning to the guesthouses transported three Aussies, six Brits, and a South African at four in the morning. Two of the Brits and one Aussie prostrated themselves on the Jeep's roof. One of the Aussies fell off and landed in a thorn bush.
At five o'clock, Whispering Rocks' manager performed a marriage ceremony between a giggling Tits McGee and an Indian employee of his. Tits McGee, Hula Hoop and I ordered Husband to get us things, like beer, rum, and a drunk tiger. He never complied. We laughed passionately at everything. Our stomach muscles throbbed when a bird flew by. When someone inquired why we were laughing, grins commanded giggles and giggles bred hysterics. We dissolved into mirth when one of the employees said the moon had turned into the sun. Conversation topics as depressing as an AA meeting kindled frenzied chortles. We resorted to systematically shouting, "Why???" amid a stream of crippling convulsions.
By seven in the morning, Tits McGee, Hula Hoop and I craved our Laughing Buddha Guesthouse hammocks. When Whispering Rocks' manager offered to get us a taxi, and three minutes passed without arrival, we deduced walking was a good idea.
Five minutes later, having staggered one hundred feet down the road, howling "Why???" and hee-hawing in merriment, we resolved to accost the next vehicle for a ride. Tits McGee stated that she'd resort to flashing.
We did flag the next vehicle. Thirty-five minutes later. What we didn't comprehend was that the truck was driving in the opposite direction of our destination. Four minutes after we boarded, we drove by Whispering Rocks. We fractured into laughter as we retraced the bushes we had just trudged by and the dirt we had slogged through. "Why??? Why God why?" I wailed, arms in air, head back and retarded by chuckles.
"Where are we going? And whhhyyyy?" Hula Hoop replied, stumbling on words and peals of hilarity.
An hour and a half later, after looping through jungle, rocks, and ruins, Savior delivered us to Laughing Buddha's doorstep petitioning one hundred rupees for the ride.
"I'll pay you, but only because you're magical," Hula Hoop announced. We dissipated into delirium.
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