144.
There is a wake going on in the house next to my hotel. All day and all night there is screeching, sobbing and chanting.
The madman is raving about New Zealand: “Where I come from, manhood is judged by the amount of beer you can drink and the number of men you can bash.”
I can’t sleep. The broken blisters on my back are worse. The madman is ill and more and more incoherent. His lips protrude and then pull back in a grimace that reveals his large, irregular, unclean teeth. His eyebrows slide up and down as if his forehead skin is somehow disconnected from his skull. Even his hair seems to move spastically. He “spews” (vomits) constantly into a bedpan, swears and shouts outrageous statements.
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