In Gujarat, just north of Mumbai, I met a journalist that did a video about my travels for the local news. He gave me a contact in Mumbai at the Times of India and said they might be able to help me find a boat to Africa (I wasn't using internet). So I contacted them and they did a newspaper article in the Sunday paper, but they couldn't help me get to Africa. I made some flyers at a print shop asking if I could board a boat to Africa in exchange for working and I handed them out at the docks but got no action. Then I left my bike in Bombay and flew to Sri Lanka for a visa run where I was twice robbed--once when I fell asleep on a public bus and the other time by immigration officials at the airport.

The Indian government then devalued their currency and, overnight, all money lost it's value and needed to be traded for new bills at banks. People had to prove where they got their money in order to change it so you can imagine the absolute mayhem that ensued. As a tourist I was allowed to change about $100 worth at a time, and then I could go to another bank and wait in line for an hour and do the same thing. I met a guy called Peter Wilberg who was a lifelong drug dealer from Canada. He'd been in India for some 30 years and spent some of that time in prison. He had a ton of cash that he needed to exchange to new bills and I helped him for about a month, he gave me 10% of whatever I changed. Then I moved to Goa to work for him and nearly died. Here is what happened:

Nearly Killed

Working as an ecstasy dealer in Goa was short-lived. I was always hanging around the bars and getting to know as many people as I could; I became a local at a cool bar, it was an old rock bar that reminded me of Goldstar in Chicago. One night, xmas eve '16, I was at another bar and saw a woman I knew—British, late 30s. She had been hanging around Goa for many years and we sat together for some beers. She was very flirty and I thought she wanted to sleep with me that night, I remember trying to think of ways I could get out of it. This was a sketchy bar with lots of shady Indians and longtime expats. I only had a couple beers. I was relieved when the girl joined a group of old friends and I left. That’s all I can remember.

I blacked out while driving home, wrecking the motorbike into a field about a meter lower than the road. I was found the next morning, xmas morning, and I never knew who found me. To this day I am convinced someone drugged my beer that night. I used to think it was the British girl, but it also may have been one of Peter’s drug dealing rivals who didn’t like me sticking my nose into their business. I can’t accept that I just naturally lost consciousness while driving on an empty road, but who knows… I have no recollection of what happened.

Apparently I was taken to a hospital where I became semi-conscious. I couldn’t tell them my name or where I lived and I didn’t have any money so they just let me out on the side of the road near where I wrecked. Peter—the seedy drug dealer I befriended months earlier in Bombay, 20 years my senior—found me because his girlfriend saw me sitting in a ditch on the side of the road. She tried to talk to me and I didn’t recognize her despite having lived with them for over a month. Peter picked me up and drove me to a public hospital. He said I was incoherent and was worried I’d fall off the back of his bike. I have very little recollection of this, exactly like that of a dream. Also vague is the memory of waking up a day or two after that in a crowded room of sick Indians—they were everywhere, lying on dingy cots, leaning against walls, lying on the floor. I felt pure fear, I don’t really know why, and I reacted violently. Maybe a fear of helplessness; fear from not having any control, from not understanding where I was. I ripped out the IV and some staff tried to restrain me. I kicked in a glass door and left, just walking alone along a sidewalk and not looking back… a dream-like state not understanding what was going on around me. I somehow managed to take a bus back to the area I lived in, about 20 miles away, and then I slowly began to become more aware.

I had a room with its own entrance attached to a house. My landlord was surprised to see me and kept asking where I’d been. I didn’t know. The accident happened on xmas eve and my girlfriend Ý—pronounced like the letter E—was afraid because she hadn’t heard from me for a long time. Although I wasn’t using internet, I had a nokia with a sim card and talked to Ý and my family often.

When I talked to Ý and my mother they said I didn’t sound right, something was off. I just vacantly kept telling my mom not to worry, everything was fine—very cold and distant. My brother arrived a couple days later, he’d bought a ticket and then changed the date to come earlier after he’d heard what happened. It was very hazy when he was there, I still couldn’t understand what was going on. I remember trying to take him to bars and show him a good time but I couldn’t drink or have fun; I was a mess, I needed medical and psychological treatment. He didn’t recognize that, and neither did I. Somehow I offended him and he left abruptly, he flew home after only 2 or 3 days without telling me he was leaving. After that I felt very betrayed. I’m sure he also felt betrayed: like I didn’t show any affection or appreciate him coming. I was cold, distant, absent-minded and in retrospect I feel awful about it, even though it wasn’t intentional. I think neither of us understood what had just happened to me or what I needed. After a while we spoke again and have had a great relationship since.

A couple days after he left I noticed that the right side of my face had died—I couldn’t move any muscles and I had to manually blink the right eye by pressing my eyebrow with my palm. Since I only have one eye, the right one, this was pretty distressing. I could only smile or wink with the left side of my face and it would be six months before I could re-teach my lips how to whistle. At night I would tie a shirt around my head to keep my eye closed while I slept. This begins about two months of CAT scans, physical therapy, and constantly in and out of hospitals and clinics.

The first hospital I went to was a small one near my house, where the nurse recognized me and told me that I was there before; as it was near my accident it was the first place I’d been taken on Christmas morning. I had no recollection of this place at all, the doctor was shocked I didn’t remember who he was. The hospital was called St. Mary’s, I thought it ironic that a ‘christian’ hospital would dispose of a semi-lucid person on Christmas day because he had no ID or money. This doctor now told me they don’t have the facilities I need and to go to another hospital, if I didn’t want to spend money I should go to the big government hospital in Panjim, so I did.

When I arrived this was a bit more awkward because I had been violent with the staff and the glass door hadn’t been fixed—they were also shocked I couldn’t remember. The staff were weary at first, but then realized I wasn’t lying: I really had no idea what I’d done. I apologized profusely and when I saw the neurologist—you really don’t remember who I am?—he was very supportive and gave me the results of my first X-rays and CAT scan, which they had done about 10 days prior while I was unconscious. I learned I had a broken collarbone and a skull fracture. The fracture was just below my right temple and transacted the nerve that webs out into the face. The science of the face and nerves and muscles is very interesting—each side of the face has this structure, the main nerve coming down past the ear before webbing out into the face. They had a machine that had an instrument which you put on the muscle and it sends an electric pulse to make the muscle contract, otherwise the muscles will atrophy and die. Very very fortunate to be alive said the doctor with hard r’s.

I can vaguely remember these daily electro-therapy sessions. I felt bad for the poor junior nurse because it must’ve been extremely boring to sit holding this instrument in place for 30 minutes. She told me to count the pulses and tell her at a hundred, then she would move it to the next muscle and sit there holding it in place. Eventually I could almost blink again but smiling was impossible. Even now, five years later, the right side of my face is still very weak. A couple years ago I took a very high dose of lsd alone in a dark room, hoping to gain insight into this miracle of consciousness. While peaking hard I again lost all control of these selfsame facial muscles—it was beyond terrifying. Fans of H.S. Thompson will understand the Fear that I referring to. But anyway, back to 2017 and the hospital in Goa.

This was a government hospital and thus free, or practically free. I saw another doctor about having surgery to try to repair the nerve. The surgeon showed me pictures on his phone of an Indian guy that had the same surgery and I saw the skin peeled back exposing several square inches of pink flesh. That picture, along with this surgeon—gold rings, obese, cocky, lots of cologne; not to mention the general shititude of the facilities—all this made me very fearful. But I had to do it, what choice did I have?—I didn’t want to be stuck with half a face.

Ý came to see me around the end of January, and this was exactly what I needed. There aren’t many Vietnamese girls brave enough to buy a ticket and fly alone to India—a country infamous for mistreating females. She knew me and was acutely aware of what I needed. She came with me by bus to the government hospital and when she saw the endless queue she said no way; she forced me to go to a private hospital and pay the fee. She took control and I didn’t argue. This new, much nicer hospital did several tests and continued me on electro-therapy. The doctor seemed much more reliable—and higher-paid—than Dr. Bunghi. He had my complete trust and advised against surgery, just do electrotherapy combined with exercises (blowing up a balloon; drinking through a straw; eyebrow raises; etc.) and over time I should regain a good percentage of facial movement. This doctor was right. The fees were not too bad, considering how nice the hospital was—in all I spent about $700 over the course of a month (a hospital in the US would’ve probably charged at least ten grand for the same treatment). If Ý hadn’t come I would’ve gone through with that horrific surgery, albeit free of charge. This, combined with the way she cared for me, has made me forever indebted to her. It is not often in life that one really needs help, but when that moment comes and someone takes the reigns it really means a lot.

I felt bad when she left—the majority of her three weeks abroad was spent in hospitals. Of course she didn’t mind and she was happy to help me regain my lost confidence, my lost lust for life. Peter (the drug dealer) and I had an argument about something petty which ended in fuck yous and we didn’t speak again after that. I did pay the owner of the motorbike, his friend, a thousand dollars because the bike was totaled. Before I could leave and make my way back to Mumbai, and then to Africa, I had to buy a machine to do the electrotherapy on my face. I found one used for about 300 bucks at St. Mary’s—the ‘christian’ hospital—where financial transactions seemed to be worthy of their attention. All said and done, my 4 months in Goa had cost me over three grand, leaving me with about six in my bank account; but more importantly it almost cost me my life. In return I received a profound appreciation for that life and a deeper understanding of myself and my mortality.