Get me out of this monkey suit

After much deliberation over the past couple of days, I bit the bullet and purchased some cheap baggy cotton pants in expectation of many, many hot days ahead. Dresses with tights are too slutty; jeans are too heavy. When I returned to the hotel at noon for check-out, I showered and changed into The Pants. Now I'm camouflaged in the haute couture of India's white gypsy throngs.

Not two hours after climbing into the loose anonymity of The Pants, I begin to wonder if they will be a magnet for evildoings. The first stop, post-Pants, was at a Tibetan-run cafe, where I planned to kill a couple of hours reading. (I'm in limbo until my bus leaves tonight.) Not 30 seconds later, I was joined by a sketchy Venezuelan named Alfredo, or alternately, Ananda, his Indian name. Uh-oh... immediate wariness regarding adults who choose to forego their birthnames in favour of monikers more ethnic, flaky, and stupid. It's great fun to obstinately refer to these folks by the name they're trying to shake off, pretending ignorance of the attempted change. In this instance, I prefer "Alfredo" due to the signature hand-flapping arrogance of the most peculiar Latin Americans.

Alfredo was raised in a middle-class Venezuelan home in the slums. This was the first of endless contradictions. He joined the Hari Krishnas with his mother at age 14. His current passport, Spanish, is fake. He threatened to throw his French girlfriend out the window when she asked him not to drink so much in the morning. According to Alfredo, I shouldn't use shampoo because it's composed mainly of hand sanitizer. I shouldn't bite my nails unless I intend to play the guitar. Alfredo began to refer to himself as "a Frenchman at heart" during his initial attempts to kiss and grope me. I was planning my escape while Alfredo lured a meaty young Finnish man over to the table that was no longer mine. Their conversation turned to Rainbow Gatherings. I sprinted away. If you're seeking an outlet for hate mail, please direct it to anandaji108@hotmail.com!

I've been in McLeod Ganj for 3 days without any form of hassle. Is it safe to blame The Pants for those 45 minutes I'll never get back? I was not even remotely Alfredoed while clad in regular ol' trousers.

A suspicion has been confirmed: travellers are far more likely perverts than any local creep. The night bus to Manali, another mountain town in northern Himachal Pradesh, leaves at 8:30 pm. This gives me over five hours to avoid my new best friend.

There's something about the Rainbow Gathering that I really resent. On principle, it's difficult to take a stand against tenets of peace, love, harmony and beautiful locales. But perhaps we can compare the Rainbow Family to Crocs -- decent in theory, horribly ugly in practice.