In 1995 I ended up in Goa after a long trip through Tibet.

I rented a cheap bungalow on Anjuna Beach and hired a Royal Enfield 500 to ride.

The coast abounded with ravers, but maintained my distance.

The bungalow’s owner had warned me that they were many thefts.

“They are not good people. Not same hippies. Baba cool very good.”

“I like hippies too.”

I handed Tony my passport for safekeeping and hid my travelers’ checks in my manuscript.

I also kept the motorcycle at his house every night,

I met an English girl: young, blonde, tattooed.

Mancy took my photo naked on the beach.

She was naked too.

I felt young.

She was only 21.

Mancy was into trance music.

She offered me a pill.

I refused.

Old school punk rockers weren’t into ecstasy.

One night I was at a bar and we smoked some weed with two Kenyans.

I dropped Mancy at the rave and returned to the bungalow, where I fell asleep.

Heavily.

The next morning I awoke to too much light.

There was a hole in the tiled roof. I had been drugged by the Africans. The two had robbed me in the night. Gone were about $50 in rupees, my cheap camera and a broken watch. My checks were still in the manuscript. No one wanted to steal it or my typewriter.

I couldn’t find the keys to the motorcycle.

They cost $2000.

I exited the bungalow into the hot sun. The keys glinted on the sand. The bike was still at the house of the bungalow owner.

“Acha, you are a very lucky man.” Tony shook his head from side to side.

“That I am. Should I call the police?”

“The police work with thieves. Buy what they steal.”

That night I spotted the Kenyans with Mancy.

They were sitting with a cop.

I pointed to them.

The four of them pointed back.

Mancy didn’t smile.

The next morning I left Goa on a fast ferry to Bombay.

I drank beer from a bottle. I stayed in a good hotel. I didn’t speak with any Africans or ravers.

Like Tony said, “They are not good people.”

But most people are, especially hippies.