Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  "Did you hear the news?" asked Georgette, accepting the bhong I held out. "They're bringing electricity to the beach."

  "Lino, my landlord, told me," I answered. "I'll believe it when I see it. It'll be like that bridge they're building—under construction for the next fifty years."

  "No. They're already stringing wires," said Norwegian Monica. "I've seen them."

  "Electricity! It'll ruin the beach," Paul stated forcefully.

  When I left Alehandro's, I headed inland to Gregory's restaurant. I ordered the day's misspelled speciality, Lobster Stew, and joined some friends at a wobbly table. At the end sat Ashley wearing a straw hat with a two-foot-long feather.

  "Gregory would have served you a crustacean without the stew if you'd asked," said Dayid with a lobster in front of him. "Do you know, a sea anemone is not really a flower, but is composed of solitary polyps grouped together?"

  I flicked a caterpillar off the table and settled down to eat. I almost choked on my mashed potatoes when I saw who sauntered in.

  "Hey, hey! Narayan!" shouted someone at another table.

  Ashley and I exchanged looks.

  "Looks like your nemesis from Bali," said Dayid. They knew my story with Narayan. By this time Dayid who snorted smack heavily, and the thought of Narayan's tossing my pound of it into the ocean was enough to make him forget the lobster claw in his hand.

  Narayan sat at a table opposite us. When he saw me, he offered a lopsided sank.

  My fury at him returned full force. The wrath and frustration he'd caused had not subsided one Speck. I'd never gotten revenge.

  We were seated facing one another, and our eyes kept meeting. I wanted to squish my potatoes up his nose with the pointy end of a fork. That wouldn't make for a tranquil season, though. How would I deal with Narayan?

  I pushed my plate away. "Enough of this! Who's ready for a nice snoot of smack?"

  I didn't wear the orange sannyas outfits long. I never wore much of anything in Goa, and what I did wear wasn't orange. Since the mala didn't feel right over blue or green, I stored it in the safe, using the blowtorched hole as a door.

  Settled into Anjuna life, I went to meet Inspector Navelcar of the Panjim police.

  The Panjiin police complex consisted of low buildings framing a courtyard of shrubs. I climbed creaky wooden stairs, as directed, and introduced myself to Inspector Navelcar. He didn't leave me standing in the hallway, as was typical of Indian bureaucrats. If the lawyer had accomplished nothing else, at least he'd paved my way to respect in India's system of caste and status.

  While Inspector Navelcar and I chatted, half the police force found a reason to poke their heads in the doorway to peek at the "hippie." The inspector and I got along well, though he never believed a word I said. Apparently they'd read the letters in my safe, some of which had been revealing-of scams, drugs, and illegal money. Stupid me, I should have learned that lesson in Australia. What could I say to the Inspector? He'd learned my secrets. I could only be, and be obviously in order not to offend him.

  "Oh, I made that up," I said to his query of a Canadian scam I'd written about. "It's a fantasy." I twinkled at the Inspector to let him know I knew that he knew the truth. I shrugged a shoulder to convey my apology for having no alternative but to be. I didn't want to appear to be conning him. He seemed a nice man. He was just doing his job. I didn't want to hurt his Feelings.

  "Ah! A fantasy!" he twinkled back. "The part about making twenty-thousand dollars from selling hash in Australia, a fantasy?"

  "Yes. I wanted to impress my friends back home."

  He paused. I shrugged.

  "You are telling me this is not true, then?"

  "Right. I never did that. I made it up."

  I smiled foolishly at Inspector Navelcar, and he smiled back.

  "About Laos and a tube of toothpaste . . . ?"

  "I invented everything," I answered, raising my eyebrows to beg forgiveness.

  "So, you are saying you did none of the things written in the letters?"

  "Right."

  We smiled at each other.

  There was no point in going further. He ordered tea for me, and that was the end of that.

  "Can I have the movies back?"

  "Yes, yes. A simple formality."

  I'd already been exposed to what Indians called "simple formalities" and sighed as I realized the ordeal coming my way. Damn Giuliano.

  Even simply paying the fine was not simple, since no one knew exactly where the form was or who had to write it up or what I was being fined for. I spent all day at the station. I spent quite a few days at the station. Mostly it was a question of finding the right room, or the right person, or the person with the right stamp, or the right day for that particular person, or the right day for a particular procedure. And then, when everything WAS right—hey, where did he go? He has left. Personal business. Come back tomorrow.

  Somehow, miraculously, I eventually recovered the movies (except the porno), and Inspector Navelcar and I became friends in the process.

  "Hi," I said, knocking courteously at his office door. "I want to let you know I have the films. Thank you for your help."

  He smiled broadly and stood up. "So, it is finished now?"

  "Yes, thanks again. You've been very nice. Bye."

  After only three and a half weeks in Goa, I had to do another ride to Bombay for cash. This time I withdrew four thousand dollars from the safety deposit box. Uh-oh—at this rate my cache wouldn't last long. Mental had not been wrong thinking that twenty-odd thousand dollars wasn't enough. Our habits could gobble that up in a flash. Okay, Cleo, I told myself, maybe it's time to slow down on the coke.

  My house became a major hangout. It had space and lots of satin covered mattresses, and I always had drugs. I felt super. Friends and strangers gathered around me. Even Dayid and Ashley joined my group. On the way to an indoor party or a beach party, Goa Freaks stopped at my house for preparty lines of coke and to add sparkle to their faces.

  "Would you apportion some glitter over my eyes, please?" Dayid would ask. "And disseminate a bit in my hair too."

  Rumours about me abounded that year. First there'd been the story that I'd ripped off Giuliano. Even those who heard my version seemed to remain unconvinced of my innocence. But then Mental arrived on the scene, and that really cinched it; the second person with a tale that I'd ripped him off. Try proclaiming guiltlessness now!

  Indignantly disturbed, I tried to explain. It became evident, though, that I couldn't erase all doubts once such accusations began. Then I looked at it differently. Imagine—they believed that little me had ripped off two well-connected guys. And got away with it. Not an insignificant accomplishment. That would take shrewdness. Realizing I'd never be able to convince everyone otherwise, I decided to enjoy the reputation.

  I flew to Bombay to pick up five thousand dollars. When I saw the diminished pile left in the box, I promised myself I wouldn't buy another gram of coke. At this rate. I'd be penniless before the end of the season.

  Back in Goa, I scored a gram before returning to the house.

  *

  Neal and Eve and the baby returned after an uneventful and nonlucrative monsoon. Neal hadn't been able to send money to reserve his house, and his landlord had rented it to someone else. The only place they could find was a dark room at the north end of the beach on the other side of the road. Inconvenient and ugly, it became even uglier because of their continuing indigence.

  "Wow, Mahara's grown so big!" I said, entering the hovel.

  Eve stared into space and whispered, "She can't pronounce Mahara. She calls herself Ha."

  "Hello, Ha," I said, stepping over a trail of ants that led to a discarded mango pit. Something floated legs-up in a glass of lemon water.

  Neal looked at me. Magic sparked between us still. But—friends. We would be friends. I'd sworn to keep my hands off him, and he'd sworn himself to Eve and the baby. We would only be friends.

  He seemed distressed. "I
was so glad to get your telegram from Canada asking if I needed money," he said. "We were in a bad way. But when I called your hotel, they said you'd checked out."

  "Oh, no! Pin sorry. Mental called first and said Giuliano was after me. So I moved." Oh shit! I'd let my friend down. "You didn't do any business during the monsoon?" I asked.

  Neal shook his bangs. "Nothing. I'm still hoping to hear from the connection in California. As soon as I do, I start something."

  "I'm sorry I switched hotels," I said, feeling like a traitor. "I waited to hear from you, then figured you'd left on a scam." Something was crawling up my leg, but Eve was watching me, so I ignored it. Bad form to get excited over a bug.

  "I called as soon as I received the cable," Neal told me.

  "Oh!" I stamped my foot, hoping the thing would be shaken off. "I'm so sorry!" The creepy-crawly held on. "What bad timing!"

  A depressing visit. I hated to see Neal in such dreadful straits. I missed his happy laugh and jolly storytelling. And as I crossed the paddy field to return home, I realized that Neal hadn't offered me a line of anything. Not once had I heard the familiar CLICK, CLICK of the razor blade on his glass block.

  After that, I went often to see Neal and turn him on with my drugs. On one visit, I heard Serge's voice on the porch. Serge! I'd been waiting half a year to see him. I couldn't have Neal, and I couldn't have Narayan, but Serge—my Serge was back!

  "Hello, Miss Cleo."

  He tossed his pink scarf over his shoulder. So cute. He sat next to me. Oh, those big, brown eyes! I wanted to pounce on.

  "I just got in last night," he said.

  "Did you have a nice monsoon?"

  "Yes, and you?"

  "Yes, I went to Moscow and Korea."

  "That's nice."

  We giggled.

  "How's your house?"

  "Fine."

  "I'm glad."

  We smiled at each other and giggled some more. "How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "That's good."

  Then I asked where he was staying, and he told me about the Frenchie.

  "I'm here with a French girl," he said. "She's never been to India before. I met her in France, and she helped me get over missing you. You know, I was very upset because of you. She helped me through it." My Serge had a girlfriend with him! I couldn't say anything, could only stare at him. "You made me so unhappy when you didn't show up," he continued. "I don't know what I'd have done without her." I wasn't going to get my Serge back. He would use the Frenchie as a shield against me. "I owe her a lot. Miss Cleo." Oh, my Serge had a girlfriend! "I really needed her to get over you."

  Get over me! He got over me. Like last year's bout of flu.

  A crow mode a noisy landing on the porch, looking for food to snatch. When Serge's eyes shifted focus, I released the lungful of air I didn't know I was holding in.

  I picked up my silver stash box and asked, "Everybody want a line?"

  I made another bank trip.

  *

  The event of the season was the wedding of Gigi and Marco. For years French Gigi and Italian Marco had been living in one of the grandest houses in Goa, situated on the road between Anjuna and Calangute. Gigi and Marco already had a five-year-old daughter, and no one understood why they wanted to marry. Freak weddings were rare. As a matter of fact, Gigi and Marco's was the only one, ever.

  A government official performed the ceremony in Mapusa. I filmed it. I'd been filming all important Anjuna Beach affairs.

  That night there was to be a feast. Sima and Bernard and Bernard's French friends slaughtered lambs one after the other, all afternoon, in the courtyard at the centre of the house. They skinned the animals by inserting a bicycle pump into slits in the bodies so the pumped-in air blew the hide off the flesh. The dead beasts inflated to grotesque size as the mosaic floor ran with their blood.

  Serge, the presiding chef at barbecues, came early to start the fire. I hated to see him. I couldn't bear being in the same place and not being with him. He smiled at me with eyes outlined strikingly in kohl. Oh.

  That night people flocked in from the other beaches. Dancers and people sitting on mats packed the are a in front of the house. "BOMBOLAI!" The Anjuna crowd hogged the inside.

  The attention outdoors centred on Serge and the dozen lambs he was roasting over the fire. They seemed to take forever to cook. The later it got, the better they smelled, and the more everyone complained of hunger.

  "Come on, Serge, old boy. We're ravenously awaiting the victuals," said Dayid.

  "Hoo, boy—what a smell," said Norwegian Monica.

  "Let's get the goddamn food on a plate, for christ sake," said Bombay Brian, who'd flown down for the occasion. "Hey, Cleo, what happened to your goddamn orange clothes?"

  Finally the animals were removed from the flame and placed on banana leaves. We had to figure our own way to cut meat off the carcasses. I borrowed someone's pocket knife and squeezed into a circle where the people elbowed each other for a slice. One person had hold of a leg. Another, pulling in the opposite direction, struggled with the neck.

  "Here, cut you a piece," said a voice.

  Serge. His curls were smoky and covered in ash as he leaned in and grabbed the haunch. I wanted to touch him and couldn't steer my eyes from the flowing red silk on his back. He stood up and handed me a chunk of meat. Juice ran down my arm and dripped from my elbow as I took a bite. He was very dose to me.

  "How is it, Miss Cleo?" he said softly.

  "Mmmmmmm," I murmured, thinking more about him than about the food. Someone asked him for the knife, and he bent over to cut another piece. "I don't know about this lamb," I told him when he turned back. "Isn't it too raw?" His scarf brushed my arm.

  "Well, everyone complained they couldn't wait to eat another minute."

  Soon his presence was called for elsewhere. I knew his Frenchie lurked somewhere nearby. I didn't want to meet her. I went inside the house and piled a mirror high with coke; then I joined the bhong circle; then I returned home miserable, thinking of Serge.

  *

  I made my last bank trip to Bombay. All gone. I left the safety deposit box empty. There went the plan to run my own scam next monsoon. Worse than that, the little money I took back to Goa guaranteed I couldn't buy one more snoot of coke. I wouldn't be able to afford smack much longer, either.

  One day, I heard that Junky Robert and Tish had returned. Hallelujah. They owed me money from my investment. Saved! I ran to their house. They were still unpacking—or rather Tish was unpacking. Robert was teetering with his eyes closed and his arm about to drop a pile of clothes.

  "Hi. How was your monsoon?" I said, coming in.

  ???a new window," exclaimed Robert, suddenly waking up. "Who did?"

  "Hi. Heard about the runner?" asked Tish.

  "No, tell me."

  "She was stupid," said Robert, awake now. "We shouldn't have hired someone who'd never carried before. What an idiot!"

  "What happened?"

  "She got scared. Decided she couldn't do it," explained Tish.

  "AFTER she boarded the plane. When she landed, she rushed out of the airport, leaving the suitcases going around the baggage wheel."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Tish was there to meet her. I never made it out of Bombay." One of Robert's eyes started to dose again.

  "I watched the cases go around," said Tish. "The other passengers collected theirs, and ours kept circling. What could I do? I was outside the Customs area, watching through the glass partition. I couldn't get them."

  "That must have been frustrating."

  "Failure. I would've claimed them myself if I could have."

  "So what happened?"

  "The police picked her up at the hotel the next day," said Robert, struggling to open his eye.

  "Why?"

  "The dumb twit. The cases had her name on them. Of course the authorities were suspicious when no one claimed the bags. They searched 'em."

  "So she was arrested a
nyway?"

  "She would have been fine if she'd just done what she was supposed to. They never would have opened the bags."

  "Did you get her out of jail?" I asked Tish.

  "I visited her. Brought her five hundred dollars and hired a lawyer. So, anyway, we don't have your money."

  Oh no! I wasn't saved after all. "What about the second woman?"

  "She went through no problem," said Tish. "Her run covered my expenses, but we didn't make a profit."

  By this time Robert had both eyes closed. . .

  "We'll give you back your original investment," Tish assured me. "But not now. We have just enough money to last the season. Maybe in a few months. Don't worry, Cleo. We won't forget you."

  Robert's head fell forward, plunging him back into consciousness.

  "Where is what?" he asked.

  The Three Sisters' restaurant had the reputation of being the only place in Anjuna Beach with chocolate pudding. This tasty delight cost less than a meal at Gregory's restaurant, so I began trekking there for a pudding dinner. I entered the restaurant and sat opposite Canadian Jacques.

  "How's the pudding today?" I asked.

  "A little runny, I think."

  Suddenly I was struck by the graceful image of Jacques's waist-length hair cascading over his shoulder as he leaned toward his bowl. He wore velvet clothes in deep green. Silver jewellery fell from his neck and wrists. For an after-dinner snort, he used a rhinoceros-shaped silver spoon to 4; into a matching rhinoceros-shaped box. Jacques had style.

  We teamed up. I spent my days at his place. No longer indulging in coke, I focused solely on the bhong. So did Jacques. The two of us hardly budged from the glow of the petromax, which lit the bhong area and little else. On arising we'd rush to the well for a hurried bath so we could rush back to the bhong. We were perfectly suited for each other. Neither of us wanted to be more than two feet from the dope. Nourishment came from quick trips to the Three Sisters' restaurant, after which we'd rush back for a smoke. When one of my gold inlays fell out, Jacques mode the supreme effort of coming with me to the dentist in Panjim He refused to accompany me, though, to the Panjim police station when I went to say hello to Inspector Navelcar.