Travellers of all nationalities abound in India, each behaving in their own odd ways and carving out unique reputations for their compatriots.
Brits have a reputation for never leaving Goa, roasting in the sun and partying hard. Americans are known for… well lets just say I have witnessed one incredible hissy fit over black coffee (or nescoffee as it is known in India) costing one rupee more than white nescoffee. Australians are renowned for our rougher, perhaps uncultured, nature and I often found myself cringing on hearing one of us use the word “youse”.
One notable ambassador for his country who did his best to outclass the Indians in the insanity stakes is a Japanese fellow with whom my partner, Deb, and I shared a guesthouse for a while. He introduced himself to us as ‘Whitestone’, son of ‘Blackstone’, though we prefer to call him ‘Yoshi’.
Yoshi is a crazy man.
Yoshi told us that he is a Christian (which was why he never eats apples except when he is sick and then he eats half an apple, giving the other half to a monkey). He also said that he is a Hindu (which is why he must kill all insects, just as being a vegetarian is killing too). Finally, Yoshi insisted that he is a Buddhist (which is why he spends his mornings copying out ancient Chinese poetry).
In accordance with his no doubt onerous range of spiritual obligations, Yoshi had acquired a number of musical instruments which he liked (or perhaps was commanded by voices) to play all night. When our guesthouse owner would knock on his door to tell him to be quiet, Yoshi knocked back and repeated, word for word, every plea for sanity.
When the guesthouse owner told Yoshi not to play his flute, he played his bells. When told to stop playing the bells, he played his clapping sticks. In reserve he held a whistle, a radio, a powerful singing voice and even a GONG!
Guesthouse residents who offended Yoshi earned a deathly curse. (My time is now well overdue.) Unfortunately, Yoshi offended easily and snapped whenever he heard the words ‘Hindu’, ‘Asian’ or ‘rickshaw’.
Yoshi smoked a lot of hash. A LOT! He told us that different coloured chillums have different flavours. Red ones taste like strawberries.
When we left that guesthouse, Yoshi was still in residence. He brought with him a certain unifying presence becoming a sort of conversation piece for everyone. Like a dog. He also brought with him a load of Yen, which (as every Indian knows) convert very well into rupees.
Clever man, that Yoshi.