After a decade of searching for the truth in esoterica and the occult, and planning for a life-long journey around the world with a friend of mine, I was confronted by my dad: "Here, since you read weird books..." He handed me a 3-volume work in a blue cassette with gold stamping. I acknowledged his good intentions with the usual nod of stoned contempt, unaware that his gesture was to change my life forever.

The books appeared new and unread, despite their used-books origin. The image on the cover was reminiscent of the horrendous battle scenes I had recently read about in the summary study of an unpronounceable title. I flipped through the first volume and realized that these three books comprised the part that wasn't discussed in the summary study: the discussion between the warrior Arjuna and the blue guy who always seemed to show up in the right place at the right time. Now, here was something interesting... The attention was short-lived, tough. It didn't make it further than the first sight of the word "God." Uhm, this was about God? I found my present a new, permanent home on the top bookshelf, out of sight, so it wouldn't interfere with my longstanding affection for anything opposed to God, and moved on with my oh-so-important quest for the truth.

A friend of mine, let's call him Mr. Ed, had been reading a book at his work that was so weird that he felt compelled to keep reading it, despite the fact that he didn't understand one iota of what it was about. Somehow, through fuzzy communication, we matched the cover images of his work of the weird with my recent present of the weird (the topic, not my dad). It turned out that his book was a severely abridged edition of my 3-volume set. The challenge was on. If the abridged version was beyond comprehension, then what about the full version?

I gnawed through the preface and the funky text with dots and stripes in the introduction, digging for the promised esoteric mystery, until I hit the paragraph that stated:

"So according to the statements of Bhagavad-Gita or the statements of Arjuna, the person who is trying to understand the Bhagavad-Gita, we should at least theoretically accept Sri Krishna as the Supreme Personality of Godhead, and with that submissive spirit we can understand the Bhagavad-Gita. Unless one reads the Bhagavad-Gita in a submissive spirit, it is very difficult to understand Bhagavad-Gita, because it is a great mystery."

I took a leisurely half an hour to debate with myself whether this was a blatant attempt at conversion, an intellectual slight-of-hand, or perhaps a genuinely empathic outreach across the divide of believer and non-believer, before completely focusing in on the word "theoretically." If I were to read on "submissively" to gain access to any mystery, then this would be the crossed fingers behind my back. This would be the handy re-conversion, the slippery hand that would disengage, the fire-proof suit, the wings to lift me out of God's grip if it were to become uncomfortable. "Theoretically" was my protective counter-trick.

Then, like the Fool from a Tarot deck, I walked into the trap with eyes wide open. Dyutam chalayatam asmi. A mere six months later I found myself scraping carrots and washing pots in the kitchen of a four-story building edging Amsterdam's notorious Red Light District. The short walk from the tram stop to the "temple" was lined with small shopping windows showing mannequins in lingerie -- or so thought my mom on her first visit. The hookers usually glanced away bashfully if any saffron clad monk walked by. In that sense they were infinitely more respectful than the larger part of Amsterdam's melting pot of cultural hogwash.

The temple's 72 rooms were inhabited by the remnants of grand guru Bhagavan Goswami's fall down: a pityful fifteen men and women out of a yatra1 that once boasted four hundred members and two castles. I was told that Bhagavan used to eat from a golden plate and even had a golden toilet seat. After my initial misunderstanding about the literal connection between the toilet seat and his fall down was cleared up, I was assigned to cleaning the building's sixteen toilets.

Mr. Ed and I were likely the most zealous monk(ey)s that the Dutch yatra had ever seen. Nothing was unsacred, no rule left to be obeyed. Pseudo-spiritual competition was the key to survival. The weak would never see saffron; perishing in the proximity of their unattained goal with the last image burned into their cornea, our grinning. This was a monk eat monk world.

Never would we be outdone again by the hapless teenaged neighbor, let's call him Tim, who felt the pressure of our newfound transcendence long before we entered ashram life in Amsterdamned. He had even had the nerve to precede us. Now the three of us shared one room. Had we been allowed to gamble, it would have made for some interesting pastimes.

Our bhakta program2 was as rudimentary and thorough as that of the old Spartans and was given by whomever happened to be available. The daily women-bashing class on the Isopanisad and a "hands-on" demonstration on how to put on kaupins3 where highlights carved into the marble of our memories forever. After a month the indoctrination was considered complete and we were awarded the coveted bhakta Medal of Honor and Bravery: saffron dye for our dhotis and kurtas4.

Such sweet, sweet recognition. It made the fact that Tim had already gone through some serious nervous breakdown seem uncannily trivial. What was he thinking anyway? Only the strong survive sleeping a mere five hours or less a night on your back or left side, and on a hard surface. Only the strong followed microscopic regulations to the tee. Only the strong would fast completely and recite an extra 1,000 mantras, standing tip-toed outside in the freezing cold. We were the strong. There was no room for error or failure. So, of course Tim fully deserved the obstructively constructive criticism for every little thing that wasn't 100% spot on.

As far as we were concerned, only time separated the consequences of Tim's weakness from his spiritual doom -- and a short time at that. The anger outbursts of the local translator, which left holes in walls; the oddball speculator with the endless instructions that he never followed himself; and the bhakta with the questionable underworld background did not help foster a healthy atmosphere, either. Plenty were the omens foreboding the vortex that would suck poor Tim into insanity. When he finally did snap, it was in a combination of a hammer and a radio-cassette player. The hammer triumphed. And then Tim was gone.

As he came stumbling from a refugee camp for wanderers and the homeless several days later, twigs and leaves in his hair, and a faintly recognizable smell, confirmed his nocturnal shelter having been local bushes generally used by tramps as a urinal. We figured that as a runaway servant Tim didn't particularly qualify for the Food For Life program5, but were instructed to feed him anyway. Meanwhile, the authorities contacted his antagonistic parents, confirming their conclusion on the idiocy of Tim's dropping out of a prestigious business college. And so Tim went home, back to the parents that had sneakily cut off his sikha6 only two weeks earlier. In the temple life went on as if nothing had happened.

Mr. Ed had gone on to become a full-time book distributor, joining the yatra's only surviving distribution warriors, let's call them Sastra-siddhi and bhakta Stefan. The temple was maya7, said their credo. It was only for those who could not brave the front lines. Nevertheless, I chose to embrace my intense aversion for any public display of proselytizing and remained behind as the odd-job man until the endless pressure of competition and fanaticism got the better of me. One fruitless talk with the president later I officially "blooped"8 and commenced with the journey that I had been planning for so many years.

My starting point: Aachen, Germany. It was just after the first week of July. Walking along the Rhine wasn't just a relief, it was therapy. Except for the weight of the one volume Bhagavatam9 in my back pack, ticks in my sleeping bag, and the occasional squinty eyed German accosting me from behind a car door with "HΘ, komm doch mal rⁿber" there wasn't much to hold back my progress. I walked in sunshine, bathed in a river, dined on wild fruits and herbs, and took all the remaining time to experience Krishna in everything. Ten days along I arrived in Heidelberg and decided to check out the local temple, where I fell for the same theoretical acceptance all over again. It was Bhaktivedanta Swami's Vyasa Puja day10.

Back in Amsterdam. I am standing in front of Gaura-Nitai11, shortly after the pujari12 forcefully removed a deranged man who tried to built a tower of Babel of old magazines on the altar. I remember thinking that since nothing at the temple had change, it was up to me to change. I gave the "fully surrender" ideology a try and ended up exactly where I had hoped never to end up. It quickly became clear that "decoy for undesirables" must have been a vacancy in the book distribution team that the sweet Lord apparently wanted me to fill. I had more people spit on me, pull knives on me, pray over me, curse me out, and steal my books in a matter of weeks than any of the other members had had in their entire careers. Most weeks went by without selling one book. Oh well, at least we had new converts coming in to offer some distraction...

Numero uno. He said his name was Steve, and he had the accent to back up his claim that he hailed from the UK. He kinda just wandered in and decided to stay. Apparently, he needed a few more chapters for a book he was writing about his life, over half of which was already done. Efforts of the part-time distribution girls brought along an older man, named Willem. He came from a troubled background, but was by far the most sincere. Since two Willems were too much to handle linguistically without audiological confusion, he was quickly baptized Willem II. Another lost soul wandering into the temple late one evening was a boy named Harold, whose gig was the I-Ching. His oriental looking eyes were drug related, though. The Let-Us-All-Join-The-Krishnas season was topped off by the gracious contribution of an Indian boy by the name of Sunil.

The Spartan bhakta program had been replaced with one much softer and more concerned with equality, namely no bhakta program. It saved the authorities a lot of time. Everything was just done and learnt on-the-job. Converts were more like convicts, having to work their behinds off just like Mr. Ed and I did -- and go out on book distribution to top it off. In a matter of weeks Steve was gone, leaving behind a room filled with remnants of his back pack, cut to pieces, and the torn-up pages of the hand written book he had worked on for so many years. I'm sure that Sherlock Holmes would have jumped on this case instantly. We couldn't be bothered, though.

Soon thereafter Harold's time had come. The effects of prolonged drug use interfered with his coping mechanism, and he could no longer face that no one in the temple cared a fig about the I-Ching. Then, Sunil fell victim to his own superiority complex. His attempts to convince the public that the Krishnas didn't know what they were talking about because they weren't real Hindus like he was didn't sit well with the authorities. Willem II was the last one to bite the dust. One of the bhaktins13 had fallen for a visiting impersonalist14, and on her turn she won over Willem II. We were back to square one.

In these days, from early mornings to late evenings, many have seen the Monks of Amsterdam walk the streets of many a small and big town. The often cold and rainy weather strafed the bags we carried on our shoulders: one with assorted books and one with a full Bhagavatam set15 -- just in case. The combined weight made me long for the short lunch break of cold kicari and halava16 that was cooked for Food For Life in the early morning. Five months later. Less than a dozen books sold. A personal record. The December marathon in frozen streets, with even deeper frozen people, brought me near breaking point.

After a well-deserved break in India that would warrant a chapter of its own we were back on the streets. It was as if there never had been a break. The rainy March weather chilled my bones with water-cold. The president's suggestion that I join the BBT in Sweden17 fell in front of my feet like the invitation of a mesmerizing fire place. I spent my last day of book distribution with only half an hour on the street and the rest in the warmth of the van, dreaming of my departure for the mysterious North. The entry from my diary for that departure reads:

"March 21, 1992: The doors of the train closed. As it drove off I waived my last goodbye to Bhadranga. I felt excited and relieved at the same time. This was the closing of one chapter and the opening up of a whole new chapter of my life. I was now on the way to Sweden. It felt mysterious, yet so familiar, distant, yet so close. For a while I let the memories of the bygone year float through my mind. The early days, the bhakta program, my detour to Germany, the misery of sankirtan18, New Mayapur, India, London... done. It was over. As the train made its way out of the station, the last remnants of my identification with the Dutch yatra faded away. No more stress. No more pushing. No more competition."

It was really nothing more than a trip by train -- something I must have done a thousand times -- yet a palpable difference vibrated through the ether. I was about to start a new life, and this time on my own. There were no friends to go with or join with. It dawned on me that I had left something behind and that something very new and different lay ahead. Dare I say that it felt like being born again? The crazed, wild eyes of the last born-again Christian that prayed over me, calling out to the Lord to please deliver this "child of Satan," flashed before my eyes. I decided to forgo on the multiple births. My first birth had been pretty ok.

"Tumba Station" had a ring of inherent dumbness to it that was still hard to define. I slipped from the grasp of this imponderable into the cold air of the platform, suitcase in one hand, travel bag in the other, mrdanga drum19 hanging over my shoulder. Someone was supposed to pick me up. I stared at hills piercing overcast skies, took a couple of deep breaths and directed my attention to the station. There was no waiting room and the prospect of sprouting roots outside in the bitter cold while twilight descended its murky embrace didn't inspire me the least. Then someone called out to me.

A middle aged Indian man introduced himself to me as, let's say, Srini, and after a few cordial words guided me to a white Mercedes van. I sat in the center of the van, guarding my mrdanga and admiring the endless trees and hills of the Swedish landscape, as it made its way over winding roads. The trip to Korsnäs Gård would take about an hour, the Indian man announced, because picking me up was part of his regular shopping tour. I figured that "Korsnäs Gård" must be Swedish for "Krishna's Garden" or something typical like that and couldn't help myself from entertaining a suitable skit about it involving the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show. We arrived in total darkness. The last part of the journey had past me by, but judging the of-the-road experience in the last half a mile we were truly in the middle of nowhere.

A skinny, pale devotee from Holland, whom I had never seen before, greeted me with a somewhat blank stare and guided me to the brahmacari ashram20. Man, if this wasn't straight from some cult horror flick where the nerd with the glasses dies first... The atmosphere inside was that of a wood cabin out in the bush, complete with creaking floors and a thick smell of pine resin. I got a place upstairs in the attic, with slanting walls and three companions. At least one more was a nerd with glasses, so either we were good or the flick hadn't started yet. "The curtains open at 8:15 for the last arati,"21 the Dutchy said, peering at me from behind his jar-bottom glasses. "After that there is some prasadam22 upstairs. I'll come and pick you up." With that he left me in the dim-lit room. I must have imagined the echo of his voice.

Over the next almost seven years of relative seclusion I got to know more about my new home than the fact that it looked a lot different during the day than during the night. Trial and error, colorful personalities, long walks, and getting lost in endless forests for hours gave me an unimaginable viewpoint and experience of one of the most intriguing places I have ever lived. Local lore was merely the cherry on top.