Tomorrow I'll tell you about Bombay Bongo - and the HORRIBLE thing.

Sounds like the title of a Dr. Seuss book.

Yup, Marija, I agree, "Bombay Bongo - and the HORRIBLE Thing" by Dr. Suess. I'd buy it.

I'm reading too, and enjoying.

Dogster--I don't often sign on--but rest assured I am one of your avid readers.

Great stuff, Dog - another classic in the works...

How peculiar that on its website the Apollo lists "Mac Donalds" as a nearby attraction and fails to mention the Majestic Dining Hall.

When I saw the title of the latest of Dogster's chapters, I thought perhaps it related to Michael Jackson's performance at the Apollo Theater in Harlem with the Jackson Five. Here in America we are saturated -- supersaturated -- with MJ these days. Happily it is another chapter in the the Lives and Loves of Dogster in India --- escaped from the cruise ship -- oh happy day -- and doing fun things in India. Keep up the good work!

I thought it might refer to the vampire books/movie. I am enjoying these Colaba chronicles dogster ~ bracing for the HORRIBLE bit. . .

Morning guys - [well, a Dogster morning: 1.30 p.m.]

You'd think the Hotel Apollo would know a bona-fide wonder in their midst, Marija: but the Majestic Dining Hall is the LAST place anyone would expect to find a tourist. It's half a block away, directly across the Causeway from Shivaji Marg.

In all my Indian eating, I think it's the quintessential experience. I went there twice a day for a week.

Of course, I hadn't thought that my title might reflect on the recent demise of someone people call the King of Pop. I dealt with that topic, in my own sweet way, with a story called 'The Devil in Kolkata'.

But I am very taken with my accidental Dr. Seussism. Yup, Bombay Bongo and the HORRIBLE Thing DOES sound like a Dr. Seuss title. Well, he can't have it.

I, too, have to brace for the HORRIBLE bit, trav: however, as I think my horror will be for your enjoyment - [and MY eternal shame - lol] I'll not fuss too much. For it to work I'll have to bung it all in, in one go - so, I'm building up for my public humiliation.

First, I have to go over to www.cruisecritic.com and see what susiesan has done to me. She's posted a link to my cruising story in the Azamara section. Oh dear. I'd imagine there'll be abuse.

Hi Dogster, I'm just back and see I have lots of reading to catch up on - looking forward to a peaceful day or two to read up on your doggie tails before having to get back to some work. Hope I manage to pick up all the reports I've missed!

Heya Mary! Welcome home. Everybody here has missed you. I hope you and the roo-buster had a restful and relaxing time. Is it trip report material? Or just a big long relaxa-vac?

I think there's just the 'Wonders of Cruising' bit to read - but, like everybody else, I'm lost. Nobody will ever read any of this in sequence, anyway - except for my faithful Fodor's friends - of which, you are one.

I'm delaying putting the second half on this post in. It's SO humiliating. lol .

O.K. Here goes. Get under the blanket.

Northern hemisphere: I'm not sure this is ideal breakfast reading. Exercise caution.

Southern hemisphere: grab a bottle of your finest Dog-Slayer, you'll need it.

Settle back and witness Dogster's ruin.

Bombay Bongo and the HORRIBLE thing.

Bongo was having a baby in Bihar.

Frankly, he looked like it. His stomach bulged out of his singlet as he sat on the roof beside me, a melting Michelin Man splat fat on a mat. It was evident he hadn’t washed for a while. He leant over and rested his head on my shoulder.

‘I’m having a...’

He shuddered and started to sob.

‘Who-o-o who-o–o wargh-h-h...’

I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this sudden emotion. I couldn’t give him a reassuring hug – he was far too huge for that and anyway, he was leaning on my arm. I didn’t want to encourage him at all, really - he was a bit pongy and quite unattractive, unshaven and turning rank. I decided on manly silence while he sobbed. Manly silence covers a multitude of sins. Mostly it means that a man doesn’t know what to do – but then, I think half of us already know that.

Bombay Bongo was one of the security guys at the Hotel Apollo. Quite how I’d ended up on the roof with him sobbing on my shoulder at midnight is just too complicated to explain. Who cares? I was there. We were both a long way from home.

‘Weugh-h-h,’ he wailed, ‘ba-a-a-a-b-e-e-e!’

I sat there stoically while he dripped on me. This was all going to take quite some time.

Bongo hailed from Bihar where he had a pretty wife. Well, he thought she was pretty – he’d hardly seen her; just long enough to marry and impregnate before he hurtled back to Mumbai. She sat gestating in the village in Bihar - he sat sweating on the roof of the Hotel Apollo, working triple shifts. Obviously, it was all getting a bit much for him.

‘I work, I work, I work,’ he sobbed, ‘I must make fifteen thousand this month, then I go to Bihar! I have baby. No village. We need Doctor, hospital – everything safe. We go Patna.’

More manly silence. I could see the domes of the Taj hotel just a block away, lit up, bruised and empty. Bongo really did need a wash.

He grunted and sat up. ‘O.K. Sorry. Finished now.’

‘Good man,’ I said solemnly. ‘Better?’

Two moist eyes shone in the dark. A row of teeth emerged from blackness.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

Everybody needs a friend. He was about to be a father. Dogster understood. Men are vulnerable, too.

I limped through the lobby, trying to be stoic. My leg hurt. This old Dog is wearing out.

Bongo looked concerned.

‘Ow-w-w.’ I pulled a face. ‘Ow-w-w. Leg.’

‘I get you massage man – tonight. Nine.’

‘Fine.’

There are five hundred massage men in Mumbai and Bongo was determined I try each and every one of them. I couldn’t stop him. Each night another youth would be delivered to my room to prod and pummel in the hope of a miracle cure. Each morning I’d come down and Bongo would leap to his feet.

‘Leg?’

‘Ow-w-w-w.’

‘Tonight. One more. Nine.’

‘Fine.’

The masseurs of Mumbai are quite a breed.

The first one was wee ferret of a man with the killer hands of a professional. I think he strangled chickens on the side. He pounced on my legs with a pincer grip of steel and didn’t let up till I cried. He was only twenty three but had a wife, two children, three girlfriends and could ejaculate five times a day, so he told me. I didn’t care.

The second flew straight from Heaven to be by my side. He was thin as a throttle but then, there aren’t many fat masseurs. Thin but very, very strong. He stared into my face the entire time. I think he was trying to hypnotize me. I closed my eyes. That fixed him.

But he didn’t fix me. The third massage man knew his stuff. He’d been trained by his Keralan grandmother. Thin again, with fingers that flew to the pressure points. He was little grubby and rather sky, a talented fawn who had found himself in the city with healer’s fingers and no rupees.

The fourth was a hearty lad with no skills at all. His winning smile wasn’t enough to stop him being thrown out after fifteen minutes. Life is short. He was replaced with a grease monkey who oiled me up so much it took a week to stop sliding out of bed.

After five of these gentlemen in a row I could barely walk.

‘Bongo. No more. No more massage man, O.K.? Ow-w-w-w.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sure enough, that night at nine...

Like many a first-time father, Bongo needed some cash. Here I was. He just wanted to keep on providing services, as many as possible, because every time he provided a service he got a two-way cut; a percentage from the service then a juicy tip ‘for the baby’ from me for providing it. It was in his interests to keep me consuming.

‘Anything else you need?’

Big Bong became my Mumbai fixer and Deep Throat; he knew Colaba like the back of his hand; who sold what, where and how much it should cost - if somebody screwed me over he would kill them. He was worth every bit of his baby’s baksheesh. I felt obliged to consume as much of everything as I possibly could.

So Bongo delivered my beer, my take-away coffee from Baristas and my charas, a nightly surprise in the form of a mystery masseur, taxis and tourist tips with a friendly smile - he pressed the lift button for me, opened the door, collected my washing, shoo-ed staff from the computer when I needed it and made it known in the neighborhood that he was my guy.

Alas, Bongo didn’t know where to stop.

Nine o’clock. The phone rang.

‘S-s-s-s-Bong-a-a-a,’ the voice said. ‘S’Bonga.’

Bongo was so drunk he couldn’t even pronounce his own name. I didn’t know that at the time. I just thought it was a bad line.

‘Come down. I have a man for you.’

‘Is this another massage man? Can’t you just send him up?’

‘No, he’s different. Come down and meet him. See if you like him. He’s my friend.’

I was pretty relaxed, Bongo’s charas was hitting home. Why not? There was nothing else to do. I knew this was a mistake. It was. I went out anyway.

‘Gokul,’ Bongo slurred. ‘Meet me at Gokul. You and me and my friend, full enjoy.’

If ever you hear the words ‘full enjoy’ in India, be warned. If someone suggests a night at Gokul, be very, very scared. Gokul is a place where many a gentlemen go for a ‘full enjoy’. It’s the most notorious bar in Colaba.

Of course, I knew none of this. All I knew of Gokul was a doorway opposite my favorite shopkeeper, a glimpse of tables, a roar of Hindi, a line of motorbikes and handsome young men outside. I passed it ten times a day, to and from my barber, Leopold’s and the joys of Colaba. Everything is hidden in India – until you find it; then you realize it was there all along.

I think my baksheesh were being used for something other than Baby Booties. Bongo and his mate seemed to have drunk the last installment; they arrived in a very garrulous state. His friend had no English at all but a great deal of Hindi. He just stared at me silently with adoring doe eyes – I thought at the time he may have been slightly retarded, but he was just naturally stupid.

We slid into a cubicle deep inside Gokul’s. The seat was three feet wide. I was by the wall. Bongo’s friend squashed in beside me with a smile I could only interpret as predatory. Oh dear.

Bongo slid in opposite us and grinned. He ordered three beers. Of course, I was going to pay.

‘He’s a rich man,’ he said to his friend.

The friend nodded eagerly. He was twenty three, a young man with a hook nose and keen expression - rather like a slim Harpo Marx, an Indian Bruno sired by Borat. If he had a name I’ve blocked it out. We’ll call him Bingo.

There was something about Bingo that made my flesh crawl. He was a deeply unattractive man with a very large, moist mouth, dumb, carnivorous and slightly out of control. I suspected Bingo was a not-very gifted amateur roped in by our mutual friend; both were already crazed with the prospect of a kamikaze attack on my wallet. Bingo was even more crazed at the prospect of sex.

Young Indian men teeter endlessly at the edge of the sex cliff, always the bridesmaid, never the blushing bride. As we all know, the poor sods ejaculate within fifteen seconds anyway - God only knows when anybody had time to think up the Kama Sutra.

It’s taking me a while to realize they are both drunk. Bingo’s behavior is very strange, rather eager, over-excited and garrulous. As I’d never seen him sober, it was kinda hard to know when he was not. Bongo just cut to the point.

‘You like?’

Clearly, they had concocted a money-making plan.

‘Ohh-h, no-o-o-o, Bongo.’

‘He’s my best friend. Very good man.

‘Ohh-h, no-o-o-o, Bongo...’

‘One day off work to meet you tonight. Full night with you - full enjoy.’

How can I say this gently? He’s practically sitting on my lap. There must be things that arouse me less than Bingo but I can’t think of any right now - maybe sex with a squid. Really, all I had to do was get up and leave - but I was blockaded, both by Bingo and my own stupid breeding.

The beer arrived. The waiter looked at me with a very strange expression. I felt like an old prosciutto hung out to dry, trapped between a con, a cock and a concoction in Colaba.

‘He’s a very nice man but... no, Bongo. Please – no-o-o-o. This is not my thing...’

It was evident that Bingo and Bongo were only going to hear what they wanted to. Bongo only translated the ‘he’s a very nice man...’ part.

My neighbor beamed. One leg clamped against mine. A bony hand reached over under the table and grabbed my dick.

I’d imagine this was about as exciting as squeezing an uncooked sausage. He was very persistent, imagining that prolonged squeezing would bring life to the dead. He squeezed and squeezed. The sausage stayed rare. There would be no salami for Bingo tonight, no matter how hard he grabbed and grunted.

‘Stop squeezing my dick.’ I said.

I was very calm. Bongo translated. Bingo nodded urgently and changed tack. He stroked instead of squeezed.

It was evident that young Bingo studied at the Squash, Crash and Burn school of romance. The Saveloy D’Amour remained asleep.

‘Leave my dick alone.’

Bongo leant across the table.

‘He wants to kiss you.’

‘Wha-a-a...?’

The friend leant over, enclosing me in a tangle of limbs. It’s a car crash. Only scattered fragments of memory remain.

I recall a glimpse up one of his nostrils and then a giant pink clam yawned open inches from my face.

‘Wha-a-a...?’

The clam hurled itself against my mouth. Wet, runny and determined, the toothy void advanced. Poking out of the clam was a vast purple slug.

That’s all I remember. I think I fainted dead away. Plonk. In a Gokul’s booth in front of sixty other people - pressed against a wall, impaled by the tongue of death.

The sausage didn’t sizzle on that barbeque.

‘Argh-h-a-loof-a-rgh-h-no-o-o-o!’ I said.

Bloop-a-bloop-a-bloop went the tongue.

‘Argh-h-h-argh-h-h-a-larga-a-alerk,’ I said.

I’ve blanked out the rest of the conversation. Heads are turning. Mine is rotating. This frozen moment lasted for ever; I still think about it - smothered by that great pink clam; slow death by sea-slug.

Horrible.