by Cleo Odzer
None of the Goa Freaks spoke about their families or countries of origin. As if their fives began the day they'd hit the road, reasons for their expatriotism remained private. The past belonged to the straight world they'd renounced. From their speech and mannerisms, though, you could tell they came from comfortable middle-class backgrounds, with well-balanced meals and well-rounded educations. They looked beautiful and healthy, and rich too, covered as they were in silver. They seemed to have it all.
I wanted it too.
I wanted desperately to be one of them. How could I support myself to five in Goa? Would I be able to model in Bombay? I didn't want to five in Bombay, though; I wanted to five on Anjuna Beach. How did the Goa Freaks make their money?
As the sun disappeared, people made plans for dinner. "Come with us to Gregory's restaurant," said Richard.
Great. Thrilled to be part of the gang, I put aside functional worries.
Waving to dark shapes, we left the beach to a litany of "See you at the party" and headed inland. I turned on the flashlight I'd learned to carry at all times. Richard waxed a candle to half a coconut shell. Surprisingly, his contraption produced more light than my modern one, and it didn't extinguish as we walked. To reach the restaurant, we had to cross a corner of the paddy field, jump a ravine, and pussyfoot through a ruin.
Gregory's restaurant attracted customers by having the only delicious food in Anjuna. Gregory, another wrinkly Indian, had been a cook at the French embassy in Delhi, which accounted for his gourmet fare. Set in a garden of tropical flowers, the outdoor restaurant consisted of four wobbly wooden tables with benches and one small, wobbly plastic one with plastic chairs. The miracle of electricity had not yet graced Anjuna Beach, so petrol—kerosene pump-lamps—hung strategically from trees. A lopsided blackboard leaned against a wall misspelling the day's specials: carrot soup, prawns in wine sauce, and apricots and cream.
We entered the kitchen to order and then joined a table. At the head sat Alehandro, big and bare-chested. According to rumour, Alehandro belonged to an aristocratic family in Spain but had been banished from the country. No one knew anything else of his past, and no one would ask.
"Oh," he exclaimed loudly to me before pounding Richard on the back. "Ola, hombre, you want smoke chillum? You have hash?" Richard offered him a dusky, halvah-textured rectangle, which he took and smelled. "What's this?" He sniffed again. "Afghani?" A deeper sniff. "Afghani, no?"
Alehandro moved aside an empty soup bowl and began the chillum making ritual, a ritual to be seen repeatedly throughout Anjuna. He emptied a cigarette's tobacco onto the table and, holding a match under the hash, broke the hash into bits that he sprinkled over the tobacco. Then he filled a six-inch chillum with the mixture. Next came a nicotine-stained rag that he wrapped around the clay pipe's base. Richard lit three long matches and held them to the top of the pipe.
"BOMBOLAI!" yelled Alehandro at the top of his voice before puffing out clouds of smoke. A loud and resounding "BOMBOLAI!"— or "BOM SHANKAR!"—was a blessing recited over hash whenever a chillum was lit. The louder it was said, the better.
Inevitably, the chillum was passed to me. I'd recently learned how to hold the awkward device and was eager to show off my style. I wrapped the rag, held the base just so, and cupped my other hand around it to block unwanted air holes. I took a little hit, again trying less to inhale and more to blow out so the top would light up. Luckily, this was a pass-it deal, and the business with the rag and the complex hand positions required such deft manoeuvres that, by the time the pipe came around again, the food had arrived. I declined. Uh! The tobacco had made me dizzy, and my fork now weighed a ton. I really had to stop smoking that stuff.
The tables filled up; greetings and news echoed back and forth. I heard again about Pharaoh's new speakers, which were compared exhaustively to the ones someone else had brought the year before. Everyone planned to go to the party.
After dinner I headed back to the beach with Richard. I dropped him off and walked alone by the sea. A piece of moon had appeared in the sky, so I shut off the flashlight. The sand shone bright and white against the pointy outline of palms. Occasionally a wave surrounded my feet with warm water. I raised my arms to embrace the night with the rapture I felt. Hello, stars. I stopped. I spun around. I sank to the sand, rolled in it, and tossed a handful in the air. I felt more satisfied than ever in my life. I'd found a home.
Nine days after I arrived in Anjuna, Tom and Julian were scheduled to return. I spent the morning on the beach with my growing assortment of friends and then, after a final dip in the ocean, prepared for the hike to Calangute. I wasn't sure I wanted to be with Tom again. Did I really want to share my wonderful house with those two guys? Would they hamper my efforts to assimilate as a Goa Freak? On the other hand, I sizzled with excitement to show them how I'd settled into the Anjuna Beach scene.
"Had enough sun?" asked Norwegian Monica as I tugged a white dress over my head. Her blue eyes squinted as she raised herself on an elbow. Perspiration speckled the tattoo of a butterfly on her naked left breast.
"I'm going to Calangute to meet some friends," I told her. "You should have left earlier. Hoo, boy—it's hot now."
"Oops, I hadn't thought of that. Oh, well." On my head, I draped the headdress given to me by a Bedouin in the Sinai. To hold it in place, I used a necklace with a metal teardrop I let hang over my forehead. "Maybe see you later at Gregory's."
"Okay.”
I stopped at Joe Banana's to check for mail. Nothing, of course. It was still too early. Old friends back home and the new ones I'd met on the road would only now be receiving postcards with the new address, but I enjoyed rummaging through the box anyway. It made me feel like an inhabitant. I nodded and said hello to familiar and unfamiliar faces hanging out on the porch. Joe Banana gave me a missing-tooth smile before I entered the bushes behind his chai shop and began the ascent.
As soon as I entered the Calangute square I saw the bus. I found Tom and Julian after a round of the chai shops.
"Well, hi," said Tom. "We were just wondering, you know, how to find you."
I told them about Anjuna Beach and the house.
"How many rooms?" Tom asked.
"Two little ones, a big one facing the sea, a big halt, a big kitchen." Tom was crinkling at me again. I noticed the exposed ears under his short hair. He looked so straight. "Calangute is boring, but wait till you see Anjuna Beach," I continued. "That's where the Freaks five. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Nobody wears clothes. We throw all the parties. Are you ready to go? It's a long walk."
"How long?"
"Oh, across the river and over a mountain."
"Mountain? Why don't we, you know, take the bus?"
"No, NO! Anjuna Beach doesn't have roads!" I said indignantly. "It's not for TOURISTS! You'll have to get used to a lot of walking. It's the only way to get around. Come on, come on. Let's go."
Shouldering canvas bags, they locked the bus, and we set out in the sun. Exhilarated, I marched ahead while Tom and Julian dragged their feet heavily through the sand. I could have zigzagged through the shade, but I didn't.
"I have a friend here in Baga," I announced an hour later, turning backwards to face them. Tom's nose and cheeks glistened red, and a glow of sweat hung from his chin. He wasn't enjoying the hike one little bit. "Hey, did you know Goa has eighty-two miles of coast?" I added. "There's the Baga River!"
Uh-oh. The tide was in. We couldn't wade across now.
"Do you expect us to, you know, swim?" Tom grumbled when he saw it.
Undaunted, I turned my crew inland and hoped I'd run into the ferry I'd heard was upriver somewhere. After a detour through what looked like a swamp, I did. A canoe. An old, shabby canoe on the other side of the river. We waved and shouted, but the ancient man in the stern didn't notice. Tom cursed and gave me a displeased look. Finally, the Goan saw us and pushed a pole to drift the canoe over to our side.
"Are you sure this is, you know, safe?" Tom asked, apprai
sing the beat-up boat. "I still think we should have, you know, taken the bus."
"Of course it's safe," I answered, not totally convinced.
I sank my bare feet in mud to climb into the decrepit raft. ???oozed into Tom's sandals and stained the bottom of his jeans. As we took seats one in front of the other, we watched the bottom of the boat fill with water.
"If we tip over, my passport will get, you know, ruined. There must be a better way to get there," Tom said, still complaining. What a whiner.
The man poled us across. Barefoot, Julian sat in the front and trailed his arm over the side. At least HE wasn't objecting to this adventure. When we reached the other side, Tom looked relieved.
"Now we go up," I announced.
By the time we arrived at the top of the hill, Tom was bathed in sweat. He threw me more nasty looks.
"There it is!" I said, jumping excitedly. "That's Anjuna. Isn't it beautiful? I five halfway to the far hill. About there is Norwegian Monica's house. Oh, and see that roof sticking out of the trees? That's Bombay Brian's house. He had a great party the other night. Must have been two hundred people squeezed inside. Over there is Kurt's Tree. Kurt's been living under that tree for years, and over that way is Eight-Finger Eddy's Porch. It's actually a ruin, but a zillion people are always hanging out there, and sometimes Eddy hosts a flea market. Hey, where did Tom go?"
I found him in the shade sitting on a boulder. "Is there a place nearby where we can, you know, get a drink?" he asked.
"Sure. We'll stop at Joe's. Here, let me carry that."
I brought them to Joe Banana's, where we collapsed on a bench. As we drank our milkshakes, I couldn't help comparing him to the Anjuna people. Look at that watch! At least Julian had removed his.
"What's that?" Tom asked someone, nodding at a rolled, vegetable looking thing.
"It's a beedie. Indian tobacco wrapped in a leaf. Want one?"
"No, I don't smoke. I was just, you know, curious."
"Can I try one?" asked Julian.
Oh, no! How embarrassing. Now everybody would think we were three tourists. "Come on," I said. "Let's go. We're almost there."
I led them along paths I now knew by heart. I stopped and pointed out houses, wells, bushes, rock, buffalo. ". . . And that's the Monkey chai shop, there's really a monkey there. . . . Oh, and beware of those thorny plants. One took a bite of my velvet dress the other night. Look, look! You can still see a piece of material on it! That's my dress!"
We were all half-dead by the time we reached the house, but I forced them on a tour. "This is the kitchen. Please notice the hanging basket. You must bang your food from the ceiling or within minutes an ant will zero in on it."
"Where's the bathroom?"
I slid open the wooden bolt and swung wide the kitchen door as if unveiling the Mona Lisa. "Ta-daaa," I chanted. "There it is. Down in the well."
"Where's the, you know, door?" asked Tom.
"No door. Many toilets are like that, only closed on three sides. You'll get used to it. Wait till you see the pig rooting around under you, waiting to be fed. That's the taxing part. The pig's so disappointed when you only pee."
Julian placed his bag in a small room, while Tom brought his to the big one. For a while the three of us chatted as the sun dipped and coloured the sky outside the window. Tom turned me off. I didn't want to be with him. I didn't like his voice. I didn't like his smile. I didn't like his shoulders. His every move grated on my nerves. But Julian, smaller and thinner, charmed me. Curls fell over his face as he lay sideways on his elbow and chased a dying bug around the candle. I liked his English accent.
We went to bed early. "No," I told Tom. "I'm not in the mood."
The next morning Tom took the bus to the town of Panjim for repairs. He'd be gone overnight. Glad to see him go, I brought Julian to the south end beach.
"Hi, Monica. This is Julian." I introduced him around and watched him undress. Mmmmmm. Very nice. How do I accomplish this? I smiled at him.
Around noon, the hot sun urged the sun bathers into the sea. I followed Julian in and threw seaweed at him. It clung to his neck, a slimy strand of it sticking on his cheek. Laughing, he threw it back.
That night Julian and I sat in my room and talked. He smoked a beedie. I watched his hand pick at lumps of wax around a candle. He stuck a finger in the melted liquid and let it harden on his nail. The curl hung over his eyes. He wants to go to Amsterdam in the spring, he was saying. I leaned into a cushion and stared at him. He was only inches away. "I don’t have an apartment in Amsterdam, since I spend most of the time on the motorway," he continued. "I stay with friends or sleep in the Sunshine Bus office."
I grinned at the cute way he said "office," the "o" like a balloon shaped object popping out his mouth. He looked at me.
"Why don't you sleep in here tonight?" I suggested.
He fetched his sleeping bag and zipped it to mine. We climbed in and faced each other. The oversized shadow of a moth bounced across the wall in the candlelight. Tom's presence grew in the space between us. I crossed the ghost and touched Julian. His arm was soft with light hairs. Our heads moved together, and our bodies met.
When Tom returned the next day, it didn't take him long to figure out what happened. He moved his bag into the other room. Julian stayed with me.
*
One day, news came of a party at Dayid and Ashley's house on the northern end of Anjuna. I'd seen Dayid and Ashley on the beach and at a flea market. They were Super Couple. Dayid, an Australian, sported a drooping moustache and very long hair in brown and silver streaks. He wore silver belts around his waist and turquoise jewellery on his wrists and neck. I especially remembered Ashley from the flea market. Canadian, blonde, and sleekly beautiful, she'd paraded topless in a wispy skirt and floppy hat. People raved about the interior decoration of Dayid and Ashley's house, and I'd heard stories about the party they'd had the year before. Everyone expected this year's bash to be no less spectacular. News of the gala event travelled the beaches of Goa.
That night, I took care dressing. With imported food colouring, I dyed the bottom half of my hair blue, something I hadn't done since Amsterdam. My eyes sparkled with red glitter. Tom, Julian, and I set out.
Unfamiliar with the northern end of the beach, we stumbled through the paddy fields. Mounds bordered each family's field and had to be clambered over. The moon hadn't come out yet, and our flashlights and coconut lamps lit only slivers of the dry, cracked earth. After climbing up and over a countless number of mounds, we were no longer sure in which direction we were headed. When we finally dragged ourselves out of the fields, we were lost. Which way's north? Where had that path gone?
Who knows how long we'd have blundered through the underbrush if we hadn't run into other people headed for the party. More familiar with the terrain, they led us to a paved road. A road?
"I thought you said there were no, you know, roads in Anjuna," remarked Tom in a mocking tone.
I ignored him.
"That way goes to Vagator," explained one of our guides. "Over there's the bus stop. The bus will take you to Mapusa. Or you could hire a motorcycle and driver."
Without asking questions I found out Mapusa was the closest town. It had a Post office, marketplace, pharmacies . . .
Down the road, we heard music. We passed a wooden fence and saw lights flicker through the trees. We entered a gate and wended down a gravel path. "BOMBOLAI!" came loudly from various directions as chillums flared. Clusters of people sat grouped around candles planted in the sand. "BOMBOLAI!" Music blared. Soon we had to shift and sidestep through wildly moving dancers. Dressed in glitter, silks, and tassels, hundreds of Freaks swayed to the Beat. "BOM SHANKAR!" A fieldstone house came into view. On its circular porch, a band played, wiggling, wagging, bobbing up and down.
"Let's find somewhere, you know, to sit," Tom yelled.
"Over here," shouted Julian. "Did we remember to bring a candle?"
I surveyed the colourful dancing figures, the b
and; the porch cluttered with amplifiers, the woman in the doorway tapping a tambourine on her hip, the guy leaning out the window. I didn't want to sit; I wanted to roam.
"I’ll be back," I said and headed toward the house.
Rhythmically I meandered through the dancers, recognizing no one. As I edged closer to the hand, I noticed again the people leaning, out the windows. Inside the house—that's where the Anjuna people would be; outside was for tourists and people from other beaches. I belonged with the Goa Freaks. But the band prevented access to the front door. How to enter?
Dancing round the side, I found the kitchen blocked by a feathered and bedecked crowd. I squeezed by a woman with purple paint on her face and purple sparkles in her hair and entered the kitchen. Through a hallway of gyrating forms, I inched to a front room and spotted Norwegian Monica. I joined her. What a room! Brightly coloured saris climbed the walls to the rafters. More saris were draped from the roof, giving a tent effect. Small, round mirrors sewn into an intricate Rajasthani artwork over the doorway reflected candlelight. The room was packed with people sitting and lying on satin cushions. Across from me sat Dayid and Ashley, holding court. Dayid wore burgundy velvet pants and a full-length burgundy velvet cape over his bare chest. Embroidered in gold on the back of the cape was a crab. Ashley—in a silk Jean Harlow dress—held a gilded mirror an her lap. She was chopping cocaine.