Yeah, I know… another monkey photo. I just couldn’t resist with this shot — I love the serious look on his face and the stiff pose. I passed this guy on my way to the Beatles Ashram in Rishikesh and though it looks like he was cooperating, he actually only looked at the camera for a split second.

How do I keep ending up in these holy towns with no meat or beer? The lack of meat I can deal with, but it’s been two weeks since I had a beer and it’s driving me crazy.

I was sitting at a coffee shop overlooking the sacred Ganges in Rishikesh, watching the monkeys torment the tourists. Unlike Pushkar, there are few of the graceful, quiet langurs here — these are stocky, aggressive macaques and they delight in stealing food or bags from unsuspecting pedestrians. And once they have your goods in their grubby little hands, you’re not getting them back without the aid of a well-seasoned local or a two-by-four.

I’m not sure what the Indians call them but we tourists usually just refer to them as “those little red-faced bastards”.

All in all, Rishikesh is an interesting scene — a long suspension bridge crosses the blue-green Ganga sixty feet below and hotels, cafes, meditation centers and ashrams line the steep hills on both sides. The crowd is a mix of young backpackers, older Western travelers carrying rolled yoga mats and Indian families here to visit temples and bathe in the river. It’s quiet and peaceful, for India, and I should have been perfectly content. But I wasn’t.

I’d become obsessed with the thought of propping my feet up and enjoying a cold beer. I’m not sure why — was it simply because I’d been told that I couldn’t? Was it just that secret thrill I got from doing something forbidden? Occam’s Razor might suggest that I’m just an alcoholic. Regardless, I had the thought in my head and wouldn’t be satisfied until I had at least a token drink.

Everywhere I asked, I got the same response: “Some places sell it under the table, but I don’t know where.” Wandering up the hill, I walked past the tourist-oriented Delmar Restaurant and noticed that they had a patio with a nice view and a pool table. More importantly, the staff was made up entirely of men in their early twenties — these guys would know the scene.

While ordering a coffee and a bowl of soup, I quietly asked the server, Anu, if he knew where I could buy a beer. He looked over his shoulder before whispering “I know someone who can buy it for you. He drives to Kaudilaya everyday and can buy beer there in the market.”

Kaudilaya was 38 kilometers away and his friend ran a risk of being searched by the police, he said, thus the price was pretty high: 200 rupees per beer. That’s $5 US. To put that number in perspective, the cost of just two beers would buy you a night at a decent hotel and a fancy dinner. It’s an outrageous price –beer from a wine shop is usually 80 rupees for a foreigner and probably less for a local. But I didn’t care — I was having a beer tonight and to Hell with the budget.

The timing was right — his friend was already on the road and could deliver the goods here to the restaurant in just an hour or so. Anu frowned a bit when I ordered just one, asking for a single Kingfisher or –even better– a Kingfisher Strong. If I’m paying a ridiculous amount for a drink, I reasoned, I may as well get something with a kick. The call was made.

After an hour and a half, Anu scurried over to my table and whispered “The beer is here. Open your bag and I’ll drop it off.” I did as instructed and moments later he approached with a black plastic bag in his hand, dropping it in my backpack as he passed by. It felt like I was buying a black-market nuke and I found myself wishing I’d been given a secret password or a code-name. I wasn’t buying a beer, I was buying an experience.

Only after the beer was in my possession did he mention that the shop was out of Kingfisher and they’d had to substitute “something else.” I had no idea what “something else” might be but I’d already bought my ticket and figured I may as well enjoy the ride.

Hurrying back to my room, I tore open the bag like a kid on Christmas morning. Inside, wrapped in two layers of newspaper sat a green half-liter can of Carlsburg, imported from Denmark. My disappointment was profound.

Now, I have a lot of respect for the Danes — don’t get me wrong. They do a lot of things really well, but beer isn’t one of them. Along the bottom of the can was their motto: “Possibly the Best Beer in the World”. I guess there wasn’t room to include “But It’s Pretty Damned Unlikely”.

Regardless, I stuffed the beer in my bag and climbed up to the rooftop terrace to watch the river flow by and enjoy my victory. The sun was glowing red above the horizon and the breeze was still warm as I plopped myself into a chair, propped my feet up and cracked open The Most Expensive Beer in India, feeling quite pleased with myself.

I kept the can out of sight — it wouldn’t do to be seen drinking alcohol so close to the Ganga– but I’d been up here several times and always had the place to myself. The taste was about what I had expected, like what I imagine vinegar tastes like after being strained through a skunk carcass. It was disgusting but I didn’t care — I had my forbidden beer and I was on top of the world.

Taking my time, I had just a sip every now and then, attempting to savor –as much as possible– my hard-won prize. The sun was lower now, casting a warm glow on the buildings across the river and I spent several happy minutes snapping photos and watching the crowds crossing the bridge. Then I heard a clatter behind me and felt a flush of panic — someone had crept up behind me.

I quickly turned and looked. To my relief, I found just a monkey — a large male– shuffling along the patio floor about ten feet away. That sense of relief lasted just a split-second before turning to horror, as I spotted the shining green can in his filthy little hands.

I chased after him, shouting “You little bastard!”, but I had no chance of catching him — he had a head start on me and… well… he was a monkey. Before I’d taken two steps, he’d hopped over the railing, dropped to the roof below and scampered out of sight, leaving behind nothing but a watery trail of beer and foam and my broken dreams.

Not only had he stolen my beer, he had denied me the opportunity to watch an honest-to-God drunken monkey in action and for that, I could never forgive him.

The monkeys come out to play at sunset. This one likes to hang out on the rooftop patio of my hotel and beg for scraps.Sometimes she does more than beg — just a minute after I took this shot, the guys who work here had to chase her out of the kitchen where she’d been digging through a bag of vegetables.

I was sputtering my way up a steep steep hill on my rented powerhouse 110cc Honda scooter, when I spotted two dumbass tourists standing right in the middle of the road. As I swerved into the other lane, I saw that they were being entertained by a troop of monkeys. Within moments, my scooter was parked on the side of the road and I was standing next to them.

P.S. This is being posted via my newly unlocked iPhone, tethered to my laptop, while sitting on a deck overlooking a lovely bay. I’m in geek heaven.

While traveling in many parts of the world, you’ll run across many of these deceptive creatures. Yes, monkeys are cute. Yes, they look just like tiny, furry people. Just never turn your back on one — they can turn vicious in an instant.

I first learned of the monkey’s true nature while visiting the Elora Caves in India. I’d just arrived in Bombay a few days before and this was my first stop — it was also the first time I had seen monkeys roaming freely about the landscape. There were a least a dozen gray and black macaques milling about, grooming each other, and generally looking adorable. A woman was seated conveniently nearby, selling small bunches of over-priced bananas to tourists. I, of course, couldn’t resist and bought a bunch.

About this time, one of the larger males saw what was happening and slowly approached to within a few feet. I tore a banana loose in my left hand, leaned forward a bit, and held it out for him. I’d just almost finished saying “Here’s a banana for the cute little monkey” when the little bastard leapt straight in the air, screeching, baring his teeth, and spraying spittle in my face.

I was suddenly trapped in a scene from The Matrix where the monkey seemed to hover in the air while I was frozen in place, hypnotized by his flashing incisors. His hand snaked out in a blur, snatching the entire bunch from my other hand and he then ran off at full speed.

This all happened in exactly the amount of time it takes to soil your pants. I quickly tossed the remaining banana after him and retreated to hide behind the banana vendor.

Later in the trip, while seated at a cafe overlooking the Ganges River in Varanasi, a similar macaque overturned my table and spilled hot food in my lap while stealing the salt shaker. Later that evening the same monkey stole my socks. I’m 99% sure it was the same monkey, though I have to admit that I never saw him actually wearing the socks.

A month later I was walking through a small market when a full-scale monkey war broke out on the roofs above. Monkeys were leaping from one side of the street to the other, bouncing off vendor carts, screeching, and generally raising hell.

While airborne, one of them managed to crap on me, depositing a moist green pellet on my shoulder. An Indian man passing by laughed and told me that this was actually a sign of good luck. I thanked him, but I really didn’t believe it — I think he was just trying to distract me from the fact that I’d just been crapped on by a monkey.