Chapter 5 — That Krazy Hostel
And thus begins Chapter Five.
Now, children.
This happened years ago.
Before Kasol.
Before Rishikesh.
Before the Unbegun understood what hostels meant to wanderers.
The council nods.
You see,
back then,
the word hostel meant something very specific to me.
A building.
Rooms.
Beds.
Possibly students.
Perhaps a depressing corridor smelling faintly of detergent and regret.
The council approves.
University.
Exactly.
That was my understanding.
A place where humans slept because circumstances required it.
Children.
That Krazy Hostel was not that.
Not even remotely.
The council leans forward.
We rode through fields.
The Abomination rattling beneath us.
Into trees.
Then deeper.
And deeper.
Buildings disappeared.
The roads narrowed.
The forest swallowed us.
Children.
At some point,
I became reasonably certain Kosmo had decided to murder us somewhere scenic.
The council nods.
A familiar concern.
But Paul appeared unconcerned.
And remember the ancient system.
Paul calm?
Nuo calm.
Mostly.
So onward we went.
The Abomination screamed through the greenery.
Branches overhead.
Fields behind us.
Civilization becoming increasingly theoretical.
And eventually
an arch.
The council watches.
WELCOME TO THAT KRAZY HOSTEL.
Children.
We crossed beneath it.
And I discovered something.
A place could have a personality.
The council grows interested.
Colour.
Everywhere.
Painted signs.
Graffiti.
Strange little drawings.
Patterns that seemed designed by people who had spent significant time negotiating with psychedelics.
Walls covered in art.
Messages.
Symbols.
Things hanging from things.
Things painted onto other things.
Nothing matched.
And somehow,
everything did.
The council smiles.
Then came the people.
Indians.
Foreigners.
Backpackers.
Dreadlocks.
Bare feet.
Loose clothes.
People lying across chairs like gravity was merely a suggestion.
Someone at the bar.
Someone on the patio.
Someone under a tree.
Someone who may have been asleep or meditating.
The archive cannot confirm.
And children
the smell.
The council inhales.
Agriculture.
Sweet,
glorious,
unmistakable agriculture.
Everywhere.
A joint at the bar.
A joint on the chairs.
A joint beneath the trees.
A joint passed between strangers who appeared to have become friends sometime between lighting it and finishing it.
The council nods.
Community.
Exactly.
That was the word I did not yet possess.
To me,
it simply felt
right.
The council grows quiet.
I had never been somewhere like this.
A place where nobody appeared particularly interested in who you were supposed to be.
Nobody looked overdressed.
Because nobody was dressed normally enough to establish a standard.
Nobody seemed hurried.
Nobody seemed embarrassed to be strange.
Children.
For perhaps the first time,
I walked into a place full of people who looked exactly as homeless as I felt internally.
The council applauds.
My people.
Years later,
I would understand this feeling.
The hostel.
The temporary family.
The strange little society created by travelers who all arrive carrying different roads.
But back then?
I knew none of that.
I simply thought:
Holy hell.
This place is cool.
The council nods.
Sometimes understanding arrives years after affection.
Now.
Kosmo greeted the owner.
Naturally,
everyone seemed to know Kosmo.
The council waits.
Paul and I stood nearby.
I was probably staring at graffiti.
Perhaps a dog.
Perhaps both.
Kosmo handled whatever needed handling.
And eventually,
we were shown our dorm.
Children.
Prepare yourselves.
Because nothing outside had prepared me for what waited inside.
The exterior of That Krazy Hostel suggested:
We built this using recycled wood,
three blankets,
and faith.
The room?
Impeccable.
The council gasps.
Hardwood floors.
Clean.
Beautiful.
Proper bunk beds.
Not squeaky metal prison frames.
Expensive looking bunk beds.
The kind where you look at the craftsmanship and briefly wonder whether sleeping in them requires a reservation months in advance.
And then
air conditioning.
The council erupts.
AIR CONDITIONING?
Children.
In Goa.
In a forest.
Inside a psychedelic hostel where half the residents appeared to have spiritually rejected capitalism.
Air conditioning.
I was stunned.
Now.
For the first time during the pilgrimage,
I contributed to logistics.
The council rises.
Historic moment.
I looked at Kosmo.
Looked around the room.
Then asked:
“How much is this per night?”
Children.
A valid question.
A room this good?
Surely expensive.
Five hundred?
A thousand?
More?
The council waits.
Kosmo answered.
“One hundred rupees.”
The council falls silent.
Children.
My soul left my body.
One.
Hundred.
Rupees.
The council erupts.
PER NIGHT?
PER NIGHT.
Gods.
At that price,
I did not want to visit.
I wanted tenancy.
Permanent residency.
Citizenship.
The council applauds.
Children.
I immediately began reconsidering every decision that had led me to live anywhere else.
Why own property?
Why pay rent?
Why participate in civilization?
For one hundred rupees,
I had hardwood floors,
air conditioning,
a forest,
dogs,
strangers,
and enough cannabis smoke in the atmosphere to affect local weather patterns.
The council nods.
Economic paradise.
Now.
We settled in.
Bags dropped.
Beds claimed.
And then
Kosmo reached into his pocket.
The council leans forward.
The envelope.
Children.
The quest item.
The reason Goa existed.
At least according to the three idiots inhabiting this particular chapter of history.
Kosmo sat down.
Paul moved closer.
I moved closer.
The little envelope opened.
And there they were.
Seven squares.
The council grows quiet.
Tiny stamps.
Small enough to seem harmless.
Colourful little pieces of paper.
Children.
Seven squares that had somehow acquired the power to make three grown men stare at them like archaeologists uncovering an ancient artifact.
Kosmo held them up.
Then said:
“Behold.
Sacred geometry.”
The council erupts.
Children.
Was this scientifically accurate?
No.
Was it dramatic?
Extremely.
And therefore,
accepted into canon.
Paul stared.
I stared.
Seven little stamps.
Our first acid.
The thing we had heard about.
Talked about.
Travelled for.
There it was.
Real.
The council nods.
And then,
something happened.
Something tiny.
Something I did not understand at the time.
I reached for my phone.
The council watches.
Camera.
Photograph.
Click.
Evidence.
The council becomes very still.
Children.
That was it.
I did not announce anything.
No revelation.
No dramatic realization.
I simply looked at those seven squares and thought:
This needs to be remembered.
This needs proof.
The moment needs to survive after the moment ends.
The council smiles.
The Archivist.
Not fully.
Not yet.
No sacred laws.
No endless recordings of suspicious rocks.
No compulsive documentation of dogs scratching themselves.
But there.
A spark.
The first little instinct.
Events need proof.
Children.
Perhaps the Archivist was born in that room.
Not on a mountain.
Not beside a river.
Not during some profound realization.
Looking at seven stamps of acid inside a one hundred rupee hostel dorm.
The council applauds.
A dignified origin.
I photographed them.
Probably several times.
Different angles.
Perhaps unnecessarily.
The archive had begun.
Now.
The next question.
Where do we take them?
The council leans forward.
Children.
Acid was not something we wanted to consume in a dorm room.
No.
This was new.
Mythical.
Potentially reality destroying.
It required somewhere worthy.
A special place.
The council begins considering.
Beach?
Forest?
Hilltop?
Temple?
Children.
We chose a rave.
The council collapses.
Naturally.
Music.
Lights.
People.
Chaos.
Exactly the environment three first time idiots should select for an unfamiliar psychedelic experience.
The council nods.
Flawless risk assessment.
Now.
The rave had a name.
Probably.
The council pauses.
What was it?
Children.
No idea.
I never learned.
Perhaps Paul knew.
Perhaps Kosmo told me.
Perhaps it was written on a poster directly in front of my face.
None of this information entered permanent storage.
I simply knew one thing.
There would be a rave.
We would go.
The council writes:
Destination — Rave.
Additional details — unavailable.
And once again,
this was enough for me.
Paul knew things.
Kosmo knew more things.
I merely needed to remain physically attached to the group.
The council nods.
Ancient navigation system maintained.
Now.
The rave was in four hours.
The council checks the clock.
Four hours.
Children.
Once again,
Goa presented us with free time.
And once again,
we made excellent use of it.
Joints were rolled.
The council sighs.
Food was eaten.
The council cheers.
Progress.
Dogs were pet.
The council applauds louder.
Civilization achieved.
We sat around That Krazy Hostel.
Talked.
Smoked.
Wandered between the bar,
the patio,
the strange chairs,
the people.
Children.
And this time,
I noticed something.
People talked to each other.
Not because they knew each other.
Because they were there.
The council listens.
Someone would sit down.
Another would join.
A joint passed.
A story began.
Nobody required formal introductions.
Nobody asked for credentials.
Nobody cared what you did for work.
You were there.
Therefore,
you belonged enough to sit.
The council grows quiet.
I didn’t understand how much that would matter to me later.
Years later,
I would call these people campfire families.
Temporary packs.
Roadside brothers.
Strangers whose lives touched yours briefly and then continued elsewhere.
But in Goa,
before I had language for any of it,
I was already sitting among them.
The council smiles.
Origin stories rarely announce themselves.
The first hostel.
The first instinct to archive.
The first realization that strangers could form a little world simply because they happened to occupy the same place.
Children.
Perhaps more of the Unbegun began here than I remembered.
Not the philosophy.
Not yet.
But the ingredients.
A road.
A hostel.
A temporary community.
A dog nearby.
A camera in my hand.
And several truly terrible decisions approaching rapidly.
The council nods.
The foundation.
Eventually,
the sun shifted.
Four hours began shrinking.
The acid waited.
The Abomination waited.
The rave waited somewhere beyond the forest.
And three idiots prepared themselves for an experience none of us understood.
Thus concludes Chapter Five.
That Krazy Hostel.
The Hundred Rupee Paradise.
Sacred Geometry.
And The Birth Of The Archivist.
Children.
I came to Goa looking for acid.
I found it.
But hidden inside that ridiculous little quest,
without realizing it,
I had stumbled across other things too.
The first hostel that felt like more than a building.
The first community of travelers that felt immediately familiar.
The first moment I looked at an experience and thought:
I need to keep this.
The council grows quiet.
Years later,
the Archivist would record mountains,
rivers,
dogs,
roads,
people,
rocks,
and entire wanderings.
But every archive needs its first artifact.
Mine,
apparently,
was seven little squares of sacred geometry.
And children,
in four hours,
we intended to eat them.
