true hallucinations.htm - Shroomery

true hallucinations.htm
unpaved main street were piles of Macadamia nuts drying in the sun, waiting to be bagged for export. Maumere had a two-room Chinese hotel
in which I expected to stay one night before returning to Bali.
Then the fog closed in. It was a soupy, ground-hugging tropical fog that my Chinese host assured me was known to last for weeks this time of
year. I visited the airport the next day but it was clearly a futile gesture. The Bali plane circled the field four times looking for a hole in the
cloud cover before giving up and flying on. I was no stranger to delay. Travel in Asia is made of delay. I returned to the hotel for another
round of chess with the local chess fiends and assumed that the next day would be clear.
Five days later I was still on Flores. I had played chess with all comers, I was running out of dope, and the specter of staying forever in
Maumere seemed too real to be a joke. I thought it over,
decided to forget Bali, and put out the word that I would take the next plane out to anywhere.
That decision seemed to be all that was necessary for the weather to clear off long enough for a plane to get in under the clouds. It was the
weekly Garuda flight to Kupang. Before I had time to reconsider my decision, I was on the plane and headed back to Timor.
The town was unchanged and my earlier visit had put me on a first-name basis with the rickshaw boys. I felt almost like I was home. "Rama
Hotel," I told my favorite driver, and before I knew it I was back in room number one, and the fog-bound chess tournaments on Flores seemed
no more than a half-remembered dream.
As I lay on the bed watching the ceiling fan idle against a background of spider-webbed corrugated metal, I became aware of voices in the
next room. German and something else, which was softened by a women's voice and more exotic, not Indonesian, maybe Pashtun, I thought.
Apparently the travelers who had checked in the night before my departure nearly two weeks ago were still there. That meant they were
certainly not tourists; nobody without a good reason lingered long in Kupang.
I am not big on chance meetings. In those days I always tried to avoid having anything to do with what I considered "non-freaks." However,
that evening as I let myself out of my room to go to dinner, the door of the next room opened and I was face to face with its occupants.
"Herr McKenna, is it not?"
As I turned to face my questioner, the uneasiness that I felt being addressed by my name must have shown in my face.
"The manager here has told me of your biological researches on Timor. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Karl Heintz of Far Eastern
Mining and Minerals, Inc."
My relief was immediate. Obviously this guy wasn't some kind of Interpol porker come to track me down. But he had the look. He was
powerfully built with swept-back, iron-grey hair and strikingly intense eyes of glacial blue. He sported a schmiss on his left cheek, a long, thin
scar. I had never seen a schmiss before but the crossword puzzle term sprang into my mind unbidden. I wondered if he
had received it in the traditional manner, in a sword duel that is part of the hazings that used to go on in the university fraternities of Prussia.
"As we are the only guests here at Rama Hotel, may I invite you to join my wife and me for some schnapps? I am keen to hear your
perceptions concerning Timor."
The town was too small for me to refuse gracefully. Had I said no we would have ended up at separate tables in the same five-table restaurant.
I hated the idea of spending time with straight people but there seemed no decent way to escape.
Hearing him speak brought his wife into the small foyer to join us. She made the decision easier, though I was careful to guard my reaction of
amazement. Only a year or two older than myself, maybe twenty five, she was stunningly beautiful, dark, sari-clad with huge fawn-like eyes, a
gold nose ring, and many bracelets. In that tropical backwater her appearance was as unlikely as a flying saucer; she was a vision of
overdressed Brahmanic perfection. Her name was Rani, and when she spoke her voice was cultivated and musical. Though she rarely spoke,
her English was better than his. This was no girl from the villages. I confess that I was intrigued. What could I do but accompany this pair? It
wasn't as though I had something better to do.
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