Information via the local telegraph, i.e., Early Warning, gave notice that an open party was being held that very evening at a location not precisely specified, but somewhere in the jungle within a short walk from downtown.

Being an inveterate but unwilling party pooper, the news was not a windfall. I have never attended a party that was both satisfying and joyful. But then, I have never participated in a party organized by a socialite. Mainly, one witnessed the abject misery of people pretending to have a good time. I can count on the digits of one hand those parties at which I was suitably primed and prepared to enjoy at all costs, and indeed was flying invincibly high.

Is there in life any better example of man’s failure to achieve abiding happiness than the party? Not birthday parties, tea parties, friendly get-togethers, assemblies of people with common interests, or political parties, but ‘the party,’ the primordial gathering of ‘homo testicular.’ In our teens, it was mainly parties that offered the best opportunity for meeting a girl and appeasing our lust, so naturally, all the negatives were tolerated.

There was only the sound of music to go on, which was soon traced to its origin. Early Warning was sleeping soundly on the concrete floor just inside the front door of a typical village hut. A man, probably the host, was dispensing spoonfuls of fruit salad, which would have been quite acceptable if they had been placed in a dish or upon a palm leaf, but they were coming individually. Here comes the little train into the tunnel, choo choo choo, open wide. Before I had time to take pre-emptive measures, his bespectacled, grinning face was before me, and the train was heading fast for the tunnel. I took my medicine bravely, not wishing to be a party pooper. He may have been a cult figure experimenting with his latest mind-altering drug or just a generous distributor of lysergic acid diethylamide. I took the risk and was relieved when he moved on.

No conversation to speak of was going on in the room, and the dim light made it difficult, without being rudely inquisitive, to tell how many persons were present. What fleeting surreptitious glance I did allow myself suggested the Hippie part of the social spectrum with much hair and nothing clean cut. No greeting came from the dim recesses of the room. It was impossible to ascertain with any certainty who was who, and what manner of beings were enjoying whatever they were enjoying.

So how exactly does one exit an incompatible scene as quickly as possible, without appearing discourteous or like an undercover agent for a drug enforcement agency? “Hi, guys. Having good hallucinations? Peace. See you on the other side.”

I moved through the room without acknowledging anybody and exited by the door on the other side. I was relieved to see the palms and the stars that were just becoming visible through an opening in the canopy of the jungle trees. An Australian girl I recognized from Bangkok or another place was dancing by herself in the small clearing adjacent to the hut. Was she a girl or was she a young woman? Paradise definitely had a timeless quality that made it difficult to determine age. Her movements were frenetic, arms and legs forcefully coordinated, shooting and flying and twirling in all directions, not exactly swanlike, but more resembling a demonstration of how to limber up for the very, very advanced. Definitely, there was some personal discovery going on there, and she was surprisingly doing it on her own. Bravo.

There was nothing to do in the circumstances but to call it a day. It was not the last party I would ever attend, but it was definitely the briefest. There, that should truly confirm my curmudgeonly status.