Are You Experienced?

by William Sutcliffe

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know. I regret it a bit now. I’ve decided I’m going to spend it all as fast as I can, then go back and apologize.’

  ‘That’s very moral of you.’

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘No. Not really. Look – d’you want to share my room? It’s a double anyway, and it’ll be cheaper if we go halves. I could do with some company.’

  ‘Fuck cheaper. I’m living on borrowed time before I get strung up by the balls. I only came to this shitty little hole because it was the first one in The Book. I’m spending one night here, then I’m off to Kovalam.’

  ‘What’s in Kovalam?’

  ‘Girls, man. Girls on package tours. It’s like Goa, but with less hippies, and the season’s about to start. It’s right down south, so the monsoon’s almost finished. I’m going to check myself into a posh hotel and screw as many white girls as I can before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘Oh, that’s what started all this shit off. My dad’s trying to marry me off to this tight-arsed virgin bitch, just because her dad owns the Bombay stock exchange or some other crap like that. He’s not letting me go home until I’ve said yes.’

  ‘Jesus! What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve said yes already. There’s nothing I can do about it. I said yes, then I pissed off.’

  ‘With your uncle’s money.’

  ‘Right. It’s the least I deserve. Look – d’you want to come with me? I’ll pay for your room. We can have a laugh. If you buy some clothes, eat a bit of decent food and have a shave, you’ll look reasonably presentable. We could do pretty well, me and you. My cousin’s told me about this excellent hotel where all the loosest women go. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Course I am. Are you on for it?’

  ‘Er… why not? Sounds like a laugh.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll send a boy to get train tickets, you go for a shave, and I’ll meet you back here later.’

  ‘All right. You sharing my room, then?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Sick rooms aren’t really my scene.’

  Golf?

  The journey to Trivandrum took ages, but Ranj bought a couple of water-melons, a bag of mangos, several bunches of bananas, a kilo of mixed nuts and an endless supply of Bombay Mix, all of which went a considerable way to helping the time pass. We shared our compartment with a family who were carrying even more food than Ranj, and with everything getting passed around, the whole thing felt more like a banquet than a journey. No one in the family spoke any English, and Ranj couldn’t communicate with them either due to some problem with dialects, but this didn’t seem to stop them from wanting us to consume vast quantities of their food.

  I had to go easy on the fruit, for obvious reasons, but there were plenty of other things to eat, most of which I stuffed down with glee. The sheer relief of finding myself back on the road without being alone had brought about a sudden return to full appetite.

  For the first time since Manali, I was properly happy.

  From Trivandrum, we got a bus to Kovalam. On the way, Ranj started reading aloud from his copy of The Book.

  ‘What do you think of this? “The most luxurious place to stay is the Kovalam Ashok Beach Resort, on the headland just above the bus terminal. Studio rooms and cottages are Rs 550 single and Rs 650 double. The hotel has every facility you would expect, including air-conditioning, swimming pool, bar, crafts shop and boats for hire. Beautiful place blah blah blah facilities for yoga, ayurvedic massage, golf, tennis, blah blah etc.” What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Six hundred and fifty rupees? Are you mad?’

  ‘I’m not getting a double. How are we going to get the shags in if we’re in a double? We’re talking five fifty each, man.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you’re paying?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Swimming pool and air-conditioning?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Golf?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Nope.’

  And with that, he threw his Book out of the bus window.

  ‘What… what are you doing?’

  ‘We don’t need that any more. We’re on holiday now.’

  ‘But… but… How are we…?’

  ‘Calm down, man. It’s only a book.’

  ‘But…’

  I was in shock. The blood had drained from my face.

  ‘Relax. I haven’t thrown away your copy.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’m saving that to wipe my arse on.’

  ‘Jesus! You’ve gone mad!’

  ‘You’re acting like I’ve killed someone.’

  ‘You have. Not literally. I mean, how… if you don’t have The Book, then you don’t know where all the other travellers are. How do you expect to meet up with other travellers?’

  ‘On the beach, maybe.’

  ‘But what about…?’

  ‘Besides, we’re not looking for other travellers. Who wants to get into bed with some dry-pussied uptight middle-class bitch who can’t come and won’t suck cock. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Raise your horizons a bit, man. We are looking for sex-starved divorcees with twenty years of prime shagging experience stored up in their vaginal muscles and a five-year drought which is just begging to be blasted away by the biggest fucking thunderstorm of their whole damn fucking lives!’

  He was jiggling around in his seat, slobbering with anticipation.

  ‘You could have a point. I’ve never done it with an older woman.’

  He stared into space, his eyes glazed over, and mumbled to himself, ‘Jesus Christ! This is going to be fantastic’

  South London was clearly a randy place.

  I’ve got breeding

  The hotel was initially reluctant to let me in, and only when Ranj had displayed a wad of cash would they give me a room.

  A porter took my rucksack and tried to carry it like a suitcase. This made it almost impossible for him to walk, which Ranj and I found particularly funny, but he just about managed to usher us into a lift and show us upstairs.

  A lift! This was incredible. And my room was amazing. I had got used to the idea of a hotel room having grey concrete walls, a stone floor and a rock-hard bed, but this one had a proper bed like in England, a carpet, a balcony overlooking the sea, and even some furniture! It was a single room, but the bed, I noticed, was more than wide enough for two. And there was an en suite bathroom which contained the first bath I had seen in the whole country. This was even better than Marmite on toast! I immediately filled it and stripped off.

  The water turned grey almost as soon as I had sat in it, so I drained the bath without getting out and ran a fresh one. Having soaked off most of the grime, I met up with Ranj in the lobby. He immediately took me out in a taxi to buy ‘some decent clothes’. Since he was paying, I didn’t really feel I could argue with his taste, and I ended up wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of lemon-yellow shorts, and blue deck-shoes. He also made me buy evening wear, which consisted of three shirts (all lurid, made of shiny polyester and strangely tight under the armpits), and a pair of ludicrously expensive imitation Levi’s which crawled so far up my arse they made my eyes water.

  When I was all kitted out, he clapped me admiringly on both arms, and told me that I looked like a proper Indian Playboy.

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Of course it’s good.’

  ‘Is that what you are?’

  ‘No, man. I’m the Putney Penile Pile-Driver. But you can’t buy Putney Pile-Driving gear out here, so we’re going to have to settle for Indian Playboy.’

  ‘I feel a bit of a twat.’

  ‘What do you mean, you feel a bit of a twat? How did you feel in this crap?’ He pointed to the bag containing my old clothes, which I had refused to throw away.


  ‘I felt fine.’

  ‘Well, you looked like a beggar. Where did you buy that shit?’

  ‘Around. I got most of it in Manali and Dharamsala.’

  ‘I should have guessed. Is this because you thought that wearing Tibetan clothes would help you look like a local in South India?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, then? Why do you people have to wear those disgusting clothes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got a pair of jeans and a T-shirt at the bottom of my rucksack, but when I arrived and started wearing them I just felt totally out of place. So I bought the same kind of stuff that all the other travellers were wearing.’

  ‘You’ve got a pair of jeans at the bottom of your rucksack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What make?’

  ‘Levi’s, I think.’

  ‘You’ve got a pair of Levi’s in the bottom of your rucksack?’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t worn them since I arrived, though. No one wears jeans in India.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Everyone wears jeans in India.’

  ‘No they don’t.’

  ‘Yes they do. Why the fuck did you let me buy this imitation shit, when you’ve got the real thing in your bag?’

  ‘I don’t know. I forgot I had them.’

  ‘Do you realize how much you could sell a real pair of Levi’s for here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lots. They’re gold dust. I can’t believe you carry around a pair of Levi’s on your back and walk the streets in twenty-rupee peasant trousers.’

  ‘They weren’t twenty rupees. They were fifty rupees.’

  ‘You paid fifty rupees for those! Fucking hell. It gets worse.’

  When Ranj smelled my Levi’s he almost choked. He immediately filled my rucksack with every piece of clothing I owned and sent the whole lot down as hotel laundry. I then dressed up in my new evening gear, and we went out on the pull.

  The hotel bar was like something out of a James Bond movie, and in honour of the man himself, we each had a dry Martini. Most of the people in the bar were rich Indians, which I had always thought was a contradiction in terms, but there was one corner where all the whiteys were hanging out, and we went over to join them.

  Within minutes, I’d dragged Ranj back to the bar for an earful.

  ‘What the fuck are we doing here, man? They’re all wrinklies.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Just look at them. They’re repulsive.’

  ‘What d’you expect rich divorcees to look like. Nubile twenty-two-year-old divorcees just don’t exist, you know. You might find the odd widow if you’re incredibly lucky, but divorcees are old.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re after? Them?’

  ‘Actually, I have to admit they are a bit ugly.’

  ‘They’re dogs. And none of them are even divorced, for God’s sake – they’re all couples.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m not clairvoyant. I didn’t know who’d be staying here, did I?’

  ‘The only one I fancy is the blonde one over there.’

  ‘The blonde one?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In the corner?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘With the big guy.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The one who was just going on about what an idyllic spot this was for a honeymoon.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dream on, mate.’

  ‘Well who else is there, for God’s sake?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  Ranj nodded towards an Indian girl standing near the bar.

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’s Indian!’

  ‘So.’

  ‘You can’t chat up Indians.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just… they’re… I mean, she’s with her parents.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Her brothers will come and kill you in the middle of the night.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For… insulting her honour, or something.’

  ‘Where do you think you are? Pakistan or something? This is a civilized country.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you think the race propagates in this part of the world?’

  ‘Just… I don’t know. You said yourself that you were going to have an arranged marriage.’

  ‘So. Now I’m going to arrange myself a one-night stand.’

  ‘But… do they give? Do they put out?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Indian girls.’

  ‘Not for you they wouldn’t. But remember – I’ve got breeding.’

  And with that, he smoothed his eyebrows and stalked off.

  That night, I was woken up by noises coming from Ranj’s room which resembled the sound of two people both winning the World Cup in the last minute of extra time with a shot from the half-way line. To my great relief, I soon discovered that you can get satellite pornography on Indian TV.

  *

  The following morning, he informed me that she’d been a bit young for his taste, but was a reasonable performer anyway. He then politely enquired whether I’d enjoyed my evening’s game of bridge.’

  ‘Sod off. It wasn’t bridge.’

  ‘What was it, then?’

  ‘Whist.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘And it was piss-boring. I’m not going to get anywhere if we just hang around in this hotel, you know.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We hire the hotel boat and cruise the beach.’

  ‘I dunno… I’ve never rowed before. I don’t think we’d look too cool.’

  ‘It’s not a rowing boat, you arsehole. It’s a speedboat.’

  ‘A speedboat? Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A speedboat? That’s superb. I’ve never been in a speedboat.’

  ‘You haven’t been in a speedboat or a rowing boat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What boats have you been in?’

  ‘Um… a ferry. That’s about it.’

  ‘You’re a glamorous guy, Dave. You know that?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Ping

  Ranj seemed to know exactly how to drive a speedboat, even though he claimed that he’d never done it before. We took some cocktails with us, just so we could look even more like James Bond, and did a few lengths of the beach with me leaning out of the side of the boat and screaming for joy. I’d never been so happy in my life. Within a week I seemed to have gone from one of the lowest lows of my life to… to actually being Sean Connery. Not that Sean tends to whoop with happiness - but you know what I mean.

  We couldn’t get close enough to the beach to really size up the talent on offer, so we disembarked at one end and took our cocktails for a prowl. Ranj seemed to have a kind of sexual radar which could detect women from huge distances, and as the signals got stronger, he almost went into a trance.

  ‘I can feel something good. There’s something good coming. Eyes left. Eyes left.’ He was almost running now, and with my feet sinking into the hot sand, I struggled to keep up.

  Then Ranj stopped dead, and I almost bumped into him.

  ‘Bingo. Seven blondes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘By the water. Down there.’

  ‘Can we have a rest? I can’t walk that far.’

  ‘Shit – look at that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those two.’

  He pointed inland, and I saw two Europeans in the middle distance, dressed in white saris, sitting in the shade. I realized that amongst all the women I’d seen in the whole country, I’d never seen a white sari before. I’d also never seen any Westerners in saris, so it was a strange sight. I couldn’t quite make out their faces, but there was something vaguely familiar about them.

  ‘That’s weird, that is,’ he said.


  ‘I think I recognize them.’

  ‘You know what a white sari means?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s like wearing black in England.’

  ‘What – for mourning?’

  ‘Yeah. Widows have to wear white – it symbolizes giving up on worldly pleasures and all that shit.’

  ‘D’you reckon…?’

  ‘She’s smoking a joint. She’s dressed up like that and she’s smoking a joint.’

  ‘I really think I recognize them.’

  ‘It’s spooky. That gives me the shivers, that does.’

  ‘I’m going to have a look.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’m off down there to check out the babes.’

  As I got closer and the faces became more distinct, I realized that the two girls were Fee and Caz. And they both looked like death: even thinner than before, with pale, blotchy skin and greasy hair. When Fee saw me approach, she did a huge double take.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she said. ‘It’s you!’

  ‘Yup.’

  She stared at me with a look of horrified revulsion.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  I was about to say that I’d got ill when I realized that she was referring to my Hawaiian shirt and lemon-yellow shorts, my cocktail and the snorkelling gear hanging round my neck.

  ‘Oh, you know. The usual,’ I said.

  She didn’t know how to answer that one.

  ‘But… what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just – you know. Hanging out. What about you?’

  ‘Same, really.’

  Caz, I noticed, was sitting bolt upright in the sand, staring into the middle distance and rocking backwards and forwards like an autistic child. She still hadn’t looked at me or even, apparently, noticed my presence.

  ‘Is she all right?’ I said.

  ‘No. As it happens, she isn’t,’ said Fee, in a tone of voice which seemed to imply that I was to blame.

  ‘This is the most incredible coincidence. What are you doing all the way down here? I thought you were on an ashram with Whatsername.’

  ‘Whatsername, as you so rightly call her, is not in our good books.’

  ‘What d’she do?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ I said, sitting down in the sand, and registering that Ranj had already infiltrated himself into the group of blonde bathers. Caz was still rocking and staring out to sea.