Romeo is Dead in the Town of Tantric Bliss

I called them The John Travoltas. The skinny boys with greased down and perfectly centre-parted hair, dressed in hip-hugging flares and carefully tucked-in, ironed polyester wide-lapelled shirts. They were always hanging around the guesthouse reception and knocking on my door. “Jas-see-car, you come motorbike ride?” “Jas-see-car, come drink whiskey with me.