Last few weeks I've slowed down so much that sometimes I feel I've lost my way, and othertimes, I still feel my life is too full - full of books, of people, plans, and places. The tradition in Hinduism is that when a man gets old and has no responsibilities, then he is free to abandon his life and possessions and take to the road in a loincloth as a Sadhu. He walks and meditates and sings mantras all day, then begs for food, and sleeps in the open. Such an ideal lifestyle still seems a lifetime away for me. I tend towards activity!

That is why I got up one morning and made to Satsang with Neeru at Nadia's advice. Satsang means Truth Telling. Neeru wasn't claiming to be enlightened or anything, Nadia had stressed, its just that people came to listen when she spoke, which she did three times a week at 10am. When I arrived I recognised some of the bhajans from the far out jungle crowd. in the jungle. This time they weren't being used to assist the group trance, but to pass the time until everyone was deemed to have arrived. Neeru was sitting in a chair at the front attaching a microphone for some woman who can only have been American, who wanted the whole thing captured for eternity on magnetic tape. Eventually Neeru began her performance with beatific smile of unlikely width. And she began to talk about being happy, and playing your part, and how, once you realise it, life is just a game, and its fun. Sometimes she would interupt her flow to make sure a random admirer had got her drift. She might wonder a little further off track and ask the devotees name, or make some personal comment that referred to a previous interview, or even go off into a private discussion in the middle of the talk. I wonder if she was eccentric, or if she was trying to appear mystical. I wasn't sure if I liked her levity, though her smile could have disarmed an octupus. Also I was slightly dubious about the the expression "suggested donation 150 rupees", when I was trying to live on 250 a day all inclusive, and she had at least 15 people there, many of them regulars. On reflection I got much more from listening to Nadia, who, having tried so hard to be so good but finding little joy in it like myself, had found her salvation in being lovely and feeling lovely and wondering round the far east for years on end. The problem with both Nadia and Neeru's paths for me is that they are selfish paths, which seemed to be designed for Westerners with too much money and not enough meaning in life.

Bjorn and I discovered a solitary but interesting Austrian girl called Elizabeth in the German Bakery one day. The three of us became close very quickly and as quickly drifted apart. I was interested in this girl who seemed so remote, and who spoke some new thoughts to me. She wasn't interested in those freaks in the jungle, she said. She knew men in suits back in Vienna, she said, who didn't have to prove to anyone how interesting they could be. Nonetheless, she didn't quite show any interest until inviting me out of the blue to accompany her on a massage course. She wasn't quite comfortable with individual tuition. We did a good 6 days, three hours a day, half each way, naked, and improved, and learned an Ayurvedic massage routine. Many of those days after my morning workout, I would sit on the beach and try to meditate, or at least sit and read quietly, with some small success, and, in the heat of the afternoon, passively working on the last corners of my suntan by occaisionally adjusting my underwear (which has disguised itself admirably all winter as swimmingtrunks).

A very prominent but obviously troubled Arambol figure called John has spent a very successful winter larking about with his guitar and offering his services as a sensual masseur to scores of young ladies passing through the village. Let me make clear that that was never my intention in accepting Elizabeth's invitation.

Arumbol held its first international Carnival. Everyone made an effort - even me. Pictured here though I am riding my unicycle at dangerously slow speeds, when we hit the beach sand at the end of the road I had my juggling clubs ready. Somehow with all this attention seeking (legitimate attention seeking I hasten to posit) Nothing but the tips of my clubs made it into the official photo album. So thanks to Bjorn for being a friend to my ego

After the course Elizabeth drifted back to her life at the other end of the beach - we hadn't really had a successful conversation for the duration of it, if ever. It felt like everytime I tried to talk to her, I bored myself hearing the echoes of similar conversations in the past - or maybe she was pathologically remote, its hardly for me to opine.

Bjorn's girlfriend Judith came for a three week intensive visit. I marvel at the way Bjorn seems to plan his life so far in advance and by doing so, attends numerous vipassana, yoga, and massage courses, he gets things done and goes places. So highly organised he always has a plan for the day and carries a papaya, a knife, and a bottle of water. He's a really handy pal! Me, whatever I carry I lose before long. I dread to list the number of items lost even so far!

Anyway things worked out just right in Arambol. I was never alone for too long - and always a new friend round the corner.

One evening shortly after Judith had arrived, I met a tired looking Irishman who had just arrived for a fortnight. It transpired that he was doing his tri-annual cold turkey and that he had been a herion addict for 24 years, but had within the last ten years managed to power a thriving vegetarian restaurant in the centre of Dublin. As a youth he had come to India and cycled the length and breadth of it carrying only his moneybelt. He visited monasteries and villages, got very sick, worked in a leper colony and with mother Teresa, but still never banished his demons. His attempts to look lively in cold turkey time and to receive well meant hospitality though were to be his downfall though. One night he took me to Babylon, a reggai restaurant run by a Sudanese guy who, after I left complaining of an early start, plied David with whiskey until he could hardly stand up. Like a gentleman the guy walked him down the beach home - but it wasn't far enough. Somehow David, unaccustomed as he is to alcohol, valium, joints, methodone, nicotine and caffeine cocktails managed to fall off his first floor balcony, surviving with only a few bruises. He hoped to me later that this would be some kind of turning point for him. In the depths of depravity that he has sunk for his habit, he has exposed himself to many dangers and had many close escapes, but there's a time to wise up, he said, and age 42 sounds like it. We spent much of the fortnight together and I was sad to see him go back to the stress of his business after he was looking so much better.

No Pics of David - I seem to have lost my camera.And my watch. Oh well.

Having done ok as a thriving single person these three months, I'm about ready to meet a girl, I reckon, But it's also time to move on, or at least to do something. Spent a couple of days with an Israeli girl, but she got me so stoned I couldn't make a move. Another Israeli called Ephrat, known to Rami, seems mysterious and silent and alone; she caught my glance a few times, but never spoke. Maybe her English is weak? Another serious Chinese Canadian called Amira who has been hanging round Arambol for many months 'working on herself' just spending much of days on guitar, meditation, yoga and Tai Chi. In the last days here I was also drawn to a curious extravagent Korean girl, who's very open because she's really looking for a nice boyfriend, but is unfortunately attracting the wrong people. It would never work. Nor with Ephrat. Amira is giving no signals, so what was I waiting around for?

I made a cunning plan with Bjorn, and also I thought, with Damien, that we would all meet on the bus to Hampi the evening Judith flew home. This was in fact Bjorn's plan for himself and me tagging along, encouraging Damian, and sharing his pre-budget lifts. I don't know how long my money will last after all.

When D-day came, Damian had been lax with his email for the last 4 days and nothing was arranged, I had bought his ticket on the basis of an undeclared trust, and a half interested question at the beginning of the week, and there was no meeting point. The only thing for it was to jump out the cab near Anjuna, hitch to his house, find him in, assure him it'd be a fantastic idea, and get him packed and present on the 5pm bus in the captial.

This I did without a hitch and soon we were loaded up with bananas and samosas, smoking sweating and talking physics on the bunk of the sleeper bus. I don't know how they can call it a sleeper when, apart from the expected discomforts, you have to change bus twice in the night!

Since I now have a probable work on-line for the month of May, I'm considering going straight to Pondicherry or Dharamsala, from Hampi. 10 weeks of doing I don't know what in Arambol must have been an extravagent holiday by any standards, and now it's time to prepare for work, and for money - perfect!

Matthew