Baba's

Lunch today was French fries at Baba’s, a small restaurant and guesthouse a hot, dry walk away from where we’re staying on Hampi Island. We sipped sodas and played cribbage on a stone table looking out onto rice paddies and watching a bird build a nest on a low-hanging branch. We talked to Baba a bit before his nephew came over bearing potatoes in his hands. He held them up to Baba for inspection and they were deemed fine for our fries. As we played cards, Scott could hear chopping and finally, much later, we both heard the frying.

In the meantime, a few more people came to Baba’s, interrupting the quiet and spoiling our image of Baba’s being a secret out-of-the-way gem. The first man walked over to Baba with a joint in hand. The second man was staying at Baba’s guesthouse. The next two that arrived where the oldest hippies I’d ever seen – skinny white men with loose fitting gypsy pants on the bottom and heads full of thick dreads on top. As they sat down, one of them immediately said, “Baba, I need to talk to you about something. Let’s go inside.”

And finally it was obvious – Baba was a dealer. And there we were ordering French fries.