Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  "Okey dokey, let's go."

  That night, Richard and Narayan came for us on their motorbikes. It seemed everyone had a motorbike, as it was one of the only ways to get around. The public himos (open vans) went by sporadically, bin if they had a fixed schedule, I didn't know it. I'd never been crazy about bikes. Though Richard didn't drive fast, I was still apprehensive.

  "Please slow down," I told him more than once, imagining my knees colliding with asphalt.

  A goose ran out to greet us as we pulled into the flowered courtyard of their house.

  "Beware of the goose," said Narayan. "It bites."

  As I climbed off the bike, the beastly thing followed me, honking and pointing its beak at the hem of my dress. I could hear Monica laugh behind me as I jumped backwards out of the goose's way, up the steps to the porch. From elevated safety I watched it turn around to snap at Monica's blue satin harem pants.

  "Whoa . . ." she shrieked and quickly jumped up to the porch next to me.

  The inside of the house had the old Goa look combined with Balinese batiks, a form of hand-printed fabric. We had several rounds of coke, and then a Balinese servant brought in the meal. Everyone ate with chopsticks—an "in" thing to do.

  "Sorry," I complained, "I don't have patience for these things. May I have a fork?"

  After a dinner swimming in soy sauce, Monica followed me to the outhouse in the yard. We had to run the last few feet to escape the goose.

  "Let me have a hit of your smack," she said as we slammed the door just in time to evade the oncoming beak.

  "I thought you quit."

  She winked at me. "Maybe tomorrow."

  Music blared when we returned to the house. I danced over by Narayan. During dinner I'd been impressed by his clever remarks. He wasn't just sexy, he was really smart. Though not my usual type, there was something awfully attractive about him—maybe it was his bright red Chinese pants that opened to reveal the sides of his legs. I smiled at him, and we danced toward one another.

  "Want to see my batiks?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  We danced through the doorway and into his room, where, after a quick glimpse at the batiks, we sat on the bed. He opened a case of odds and ends and took me on a tour of his life.

  "This is a picture of my ex-wife. You know Krishna? No? She fives in Anjuna. We both grew up in California, though I didn't know her then. Her name wasn't Krishna in those days, of course. Mine wasn't Narayan. Here, look at this shell. I found it on a beach in Australia."

  We spent the evening browsing his memorabilia, until Monica sauntered in and said she was leaving. Richard leaned on the wall and rattled his keys.

  "You're going? I'll go too then," I said.

  "Stay a while," said Narayan. "I'll take you back later."

  "No, I'm going." Part of me wanted to stay. I loved listening to his witty stories and had an urge to run a finger along his exposed leg. Another part of me, though, kept focusing on his measly two inches of hair.

  "So," Monica asked later when we were alone. "You like him?"

  I scrunched my face. "Not my type. That hair!" But I couldn't get him out of my mind.

  The next morning, as I lounged on Monica's porch eating my usual fried chicken for breakfast, Narayan zoomed across the flagstone path that connected the bungalows. Patrick opened his door to investigate the racket and waved. Narayan waved back and shut off his noisy vehicle by our steps. Today he wore bright orange Chinese pants. To drive the bike he'd raised them around his waist, leaving his legs bare. He looked graceful as he swung himself off the bike.

  "How come you're so graceful?" I asked him. "You move like poetry."

  Monica rolled her eyes, groaned, and went inside her room.

  "I used to be a dancer," he said, pirouetting over to me. "Do you always eat chicken for breakfast?" His red, flowery kimono opened, revealing a lovely chest, hairless and tan.

  "No. Sometimes I eat steak, but they don't have it here."

  "Meat! I've been a vegetarian for four years now."

  "I hate vegetables. Never eat them. Ugh, they crunch." I pointed at the beautiful thigh Narayan held behind him in an arabesque. "I wish I could bend my leg like that." Monica slammed her window shut. Was she trying to tell me something? Did I sound retarded? "What kind of dancing did you do?" I asked.

  "Ballet." He held out a book with Chinese lettering. "I came to your I Ching." After explaining the ancient form of fortune telling, he sat next to me and spread a piece of blue velvet material over the wooden boards of the porch. He handed me three coins with square holes in the middle. "Throw these," he said.

  I tossed them on the velvet. He peered at them and drew lines on a piece of paper. I glanced at his short hair. It looked soft. Silky and soft. I resisted the urge to touch it. How could I be attracted to someone who looked so straight?

  "Again," he said.

  "Again?" I tossed, very aware of how dose he was. "Go on."

  "More?" I noticed his pants had unwrapped from his legs again. "Keep throwing them."

  I tossed. He scribbled. Somehow, the space between us grew smaller each time I leaned over to toss the coins and he leaned over to study them.

  "Okay, that's enough."

  "Aw, I was just getting into it."

  He laughed. "Now let's see what your fortune is." He leafed through the book, matching lines. I leaned closer to watch. Our heads touched as we looked down at the Chinese characters and the English translation beneath. We maintained head contact, and I had trouble concentrating on what he said. To make sure he didn't move away I asked a few dumb questions. Yes, lust definitely made me sound retarded.

  The warm days in Bali passed quickly. More and more Goa people arrived. As the summer progressed, the Freaks finished their business and looked for a nice spot to stay till the monsoon ended in India. Patrick and Sylvia got together for a few clays before deciding they weren't compatible. Steve and Laura continued their on-again-off-again dance with smack. And Narayan and I consummated our relationship.

  We spent long afternoons in his bed. I was crazy about him. But he kept hassling me about the smack.

  "Want saki?" he asked once.

  "No, thanks."

  "Oh, excuse me, I forgot you were a smack head. Who needs saki, right?"

  Black Jimmy was my connection, and Monica and I never failed to spend a few hours a day smoking bhongs in his bungalow. Smack was great, but smoking smack was definitely the greatest pastime on the face of the earth. Ah, loved the feel of holding in a lungful of it.

  One day, Jimmy appeared at my door. "Yo, it's the sheriff. Can I talk to you?"

  "Come in. What's up?"

  "The contact in Legion is drying out."

  "Uh-oh. What are we going to do?"

  "I'd like to score some weight and I need an investor. You interested?"

  "Um . . . about it."

  "I'd fly to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia. I heard the smack's cheap there. Come back with a pound or so."

  "How much money would you need?"

  "I could do it with five thousand."

  "Let me think about it. I'll let you know."

  Secretly I was thrilled. Here was the chance to be an investor. Big profit. No risk. Of course I would accept.

  I told Jimmy the deal was on and retrieved five thousand Canadian dollars in cash from the manager of the bungalow lodge, with whom I'd deposited my funds.

  Jimmy seemed in no hurry to get going, though. Two weeks later, he still hadn't left. Our smack supply ran low, and it became a chore scoring enough of it.

  "I'm quitting today," announced Monica one morning.

  "What, again?"

  "No, this time I'm really doing it. It's the perfect opportunity since there's so little available."

  "Maybe stop too," I said. "This way, when Jimmy comes back front Malaysia—if he ever leaves—I can make money on the deal instead of consuming the entire smack myself. Okay, but take the Coke Cure. I don't want to suffer."

  That af
ternoon I purchased enough coke to last a week. I finished my remaining dope stash and began the cure.

  Large doses of coke made the first day merry. Of course at night I was too weird to sleep. That was okay too; I just deal more coke and went for a midnight dip in the ocean. By the third day, though, things became hairy. I was so wired. My nerves were a disaster from all the coke and no sleep. Every noise made me jump. Air molecules grew thick and moved around tauntingly. I hid in my room, being in no shape to socialize.

  Monica gave in and indulged in a few bhongs with the sheriff.

  I told myself: I'm going to get off this drug, even if Monica doesn't.

  By the third night, I looked like a paranoid schizophrenic. When I'd first arrived in Bali, I'd bought a Balinese mask of the demon Rangda and had hung it from the ceiling fixture in my room. Its three-foot-long blonde hair hung halfway to the floor. The face of the mask had the most hideous features imaginable, and the Balinese waiters who brought room service would see it hanging there and marvel that I could five with it. It had never bothered me before. But now the damn thing swung around with every vagrant air current, and that horrible face turned to look at me no matter when: I went in the room. From Monica's bungalow came spooky Pink Floyd music.

  It was more than I could stand.

  Eeeek! I threw down the paperback behind which I'd been hiding, stood on a chair, and grabbed Rangda. I flung the homely thing face down in the closet. After securing the closet door, I went to Monica's room.

  "Monica, please, please. I can't stand it. Please lower that music. I'm flipping out here. Please, please."

  She winked. "Okey dokey."

  Jimmy finally left for Malaysia. His girlfriend, Flame, remained behind, and she too decided to quit the dope. By the time she felt uncomfortable, I was on my fifth day (it was taking longer and longer to get the sniff out of my system). I'd discovered that, by drinking titanic volumes of alcohol, my nerves weren't in such a sorry state from the coke, and I could even sleep. Flame came to my room, and we ordered two bottles of gin. To call the waiters at the lodge, slit-shaped gongs hung on every porch and were to banged forcefully. Elame and I banged and banged on ours all night, sending the Balinese waiter for repeated orders of ice and orange juice.

  "Hello again." Elame and I giggled at him hysterically. "You're so pretty. What's your name?" We nearly fell off the porch in drunken laughter.

  When the sky over the sea glowed with morning, Elame and I tottered to the bed and barely managed to hoist up our legs and arms.

  "I wish Jimmy were here. I'm so horny," she said.

  "I have a vibrator."

  "Goody, a vibrator. Maybe that will help."

  I stumbled to the closet and fished under Rangda's hair before victoriously returning to the bed with the instrument.

  "Ah," shrieked Elame when I poked her in the ribs with it. "That tickles."

  After a final burst of laughter, we fell asleep, heedless of the humming from the vibrator. By morning the batteries had led.

  On the seventh day, I felt fine. I'd had a good night's sleep, and the withdrawal symptoms had vanished. I joined Monica on the beach.

  "How are you this morning?" she asked me.

  "Great. It's over. I'm clean. Wow, I actually did it. That was some heavy week. But it's over." I lay down next to her and soaked up the splendid sunny morning.

  By night time, I was stoned on smack again.

  Oh, well. So maybe I didn't have to quit completely right now. I had set out to detox, and I'd accomplished that. I no longer needed dope—I just wanted it.

  Whatever smack was available had become precious. One day Narayan stopped by to ask, "Come with me to Denpasar?"

  "No, I'm waiting for someone."

  "Who? Your new smack connection?"

  "Did you see Monica on the beach when you drove in?" I said to change the subject.

  "What's the matter—are you running low?" he asked sarcastically. "What will you do when you run out?"

  "I have enough. Don't worry about it."

  "I'm not the one who's worrying. What happens if Jimmy doesn't come back? What if he takes your money and goes somewhere for a vacation? Then what will you do?"

  "Leave me alone. Go to Denpasar already."

  "Maybe you're out of dope now? Is that why you're so snappy?"

  "Will you leave me alone?"

  "Why don't I check. Where do you keep your stash? In here?"

  He started opening drawers. I ran after him. "Stop. Stop. Go away."

  "What? You prefer your heroin to me? Silly question. Of course you do. No contest, right?"

  "Are you crazy? Stop this."

  "I'm not the one who's crazy."

  He found my remaining stash and declared, "Look what I found!"

  "Give me that." I lunged after the precious packet, but he held it out of reach. "Give that back." I jumped in the air after it, but he grasped it tight and prevented me from squeezing open his fingers. "NARAYAN! Give that back."

  "Look how angry she's getting. Look at you, you're a mad woman."

  "GIVE ME THAT!"

  "What would you do if I flushed it down the toilet?" He went in the bathroom.

  "DON’T YOU DARE."

  "Look, she's starting to panic."

  "NARAYAN! I SWEAR I’LL NEVER TALK TO YOU AGAIN. DON’T DO IT."

  "Say please." He held my priceless treasure over the toilet.

  That was it. The relationship was over. Nobody did that to me. Do anything, but don't take my stash. Finished. We were finished.

  I walked away and sat on the bed.

  I would not let him humiliate me over this. Did he want to prove that I had no control over using? I could stop if I wanted. I'd just done that. Did he want me to show I favoured him over heroin? No way!

  I hated him for badgering me.

  "What's the matter?" Narayan jeered. "You won't beg? Look at this—you've given up? You don't want it anymore?"

  I threw him a murderous look but didn't budge.

  He came in the room. "Here, take your poisonous powder."

  I grabbed it from his hand and ran past him to lock myself in the bathroom. I stayed in there a long time, and eventually he left.

  He wanted me to choose? Well, I'd chosen. Ha!

  When he came back later that night, I refused to open the door. He pounded a while, then gave up and went away. Still I kept the door locked. An hour later, I went to investigate a sound coming from the bathroom and found him trying to climb in the high window near the ceiling. He didn't fit. With one arm and his head hanging in, he tried to talk me into forgiving him.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I won't touch your stash ever again. I promise. Let me in."

  "GET OUT OF MY WINDOW!"

  "Will you let me in?"

  "Never. Go away." I closed the bathroom door and went back to the spy novel I'd been reading. I could hear his muffled shouting.

  "CLEO. COME ON. I SAID I WAS SORRY. CLE-OOOO . . ."

  I ignored it but had trouble concentrating on the book. I was dying to throw my arms around him. I wanted to sit with him on his porch like the day before, laughing at his jokes and throwing liquorice drops at the goose. I wanted us to walk hand in hand through Denpasar.

  But it was over now. He'd ruined it. I hated him for it. Monica came through our connecting door. "What's that noise?" she asked.

  "Oh, it's only Narayan trying to worm through the bathroom window."

  "Did you two have a fight?"

  "It's over. It's just over."

  Next afternoon, as I returned from a shopping spree, a Balinese porter rushed to carry the wooden statues I'd bought in Kuta Beach.

  "Your friend is here," he said.

  "Who? What friend?"

  "Your friend—the black man." He smiled and added, "The sheriff."

  "Jimmy! Jimmy's back?"

  I left him struggling with the carvings and dashed down the flagstone path. Patrick was hurrying out his door. He beamed and announced, "Jimmy's b
ack!"

  I followed one rock behind him as we loped along the path. We entered Jimmy's bungalow to find everybody there from our lodge those pro-smack and those anti-smack, even baby Anjuna. Fat grins were on the faces of those waiting for the brimming bhong to come around.

  "Cleo, like, Look who's here," said Trumpet Steve.

  Jimmy sat at the centre of the group, reigning over his smoking paraphernalia, the silver star pinned to his chest.

  "Welcome back," I said, giving him a kiss. "Good trip?"

  "Right on." Jimmy held up a tin powdered-milk container. "Yo, dig this. One pound of pure Malaysian white dope."

  I squeezed into a spot between Steve and Sylvia and accepted the bhong from Elame, who lit it for me. As I exhaled a cloud of smoke, Jimmy held a carved ivory spoon to my nose.

  "Try some this way. Primo shit, man."

  I took two snorts in each nostril and joined the others in their childish grins. Patrick lifted the milk container, peered at its soft white contents, expanded his smile, and passed it to me. I gazed at it a bit, then passed it to Sylvia. Everyone had a turn caressing it. We ordered wine and lounged the night away in Jimmy's room, smoking and sniffing his acquisition. It was a time for celebration.

  The party atmosphere extended for days and then weeks as friends, and friends of friends, came by for the feast. It seemed we turned on everybody within five miles. Jimmy repeated his tale over and over.

  "I heard Kuala Lumpur was the place to score," he retold us, "but I didn't know anyone there. So, know what the sheriff did? I hired a likely looking taxi driver to drive me from the airport, and I asked for his help. He drove me around a while, and I gotta tell you, I wasn't sure this Dode wasn't gonna rip me off or hand me over to the narcs. And then."

  Narayan came to see me a few times, but either I was at Jimmy's whose room he wouldn't enter because of the smack—or I'd locked myself in my room and wouldn't answer his knock. Sometimes, I ran into Narayan at one of the outdoor discotheques Monica and I frequented. I'd ignore him.

  But I missed him. I missed the way he put his head down and locked sideways after saying something cute and clever.