by Cleo Odzer
"That's it exactly, then. A surprised, pregnant ostrich!" We pointed, laughed some more, and attempted to imitate the step. We were Goa Freaks, elite beings, and no one else mattered.
A bouncer approached, asking Barbara's friend to remove his hat. "Men don't wear hats indoors in Melbourne," the bouncer told him. When the friend refused to comply with the archaic request, the three of us were politely asked to leave.
The next day, white Aunt Sathe was at the beauty parlour, Barbara told me about the trouble she'd had later that night after they dropped me off. "I was followed by the police," she said. "I'm living in a quiet, residential neighbourhood. Maybe they didn't like my freaky clothes."
"Maybe they were just making sure you got home safely," I suggested. "When will you take the cases?"
"I was supposed to meet the connection tonight to weigh the dope, but now I don't know. What if the police are watching me?"
"Barbara, I can't wait here forever. This hotel and my aunt are costing me a fortune."
"But I'm scared."
"Okay, if you don't want to go, I will. Give me the name and address, and I'll do it myself." Feeling confident and fearless, I was sure I could handle it. "Of course expect more money," I added.
In the end, Barbara decided to go that night herself, and she had no problem. A few days later, she gave me forty thousand Australian dollars, and we kissed goodbye, planning to meet in Goa. I gave Aunt Sathe half, twenty thousand dollars.
It was still too early to go back to India. The house wouldn't be ready yet. Aunt Sathe and I decided to stay in Australia and have a vacation. We flew to Sydney and checked into another Hilton.
"So, tatala, how do I find my rich next husband. Nil? Any suggestions?"
"Find a man you like and stare at him. You'll see. It works."
"Oy! I couldn't!"
She could. And she was great at it. Elegant and beautiful, she didn't have to work hard to collect admirers. As we explored the city, we never went far before Aunt Sathe found us a personal guide. We'd visit the opera house, the koala bears at the zoo, and other assorted tourist sights, and, not long after we arrived back at the hotel, one of our guides would be calling her or sending flowers.
"Why don't you answer the phone, already?" shouted Aunt Sathe from the bathroom, removing rollers from her hair.
"I don't want to miss this TV program. It'll be for you, anyway. Who is it this time? The lawyer?"
"I hope it's the mensch from the opera. Remember? With the moustache?"
We intended to stay in town a while, so we moved to an apartment, and I made plans to model—just for fun; I didn't need the money. One of Aunt Sathe's boyfriends sent her an opal necklace.
One night he heard a knock on the door. Aunt Sathe and I looked at each other.
"Who is it?" we asked.
"POLICE. OPEN THE DOOR."
"Oh, shit."
No choice but to open the door. Three of them entered, two men and one woman. "We have reason to believe there's heroin or methadone in this apartment," the woman said.
Aunt Sathe had no idea I'd been doing smack. The amount I'd brought to Australia with me had recently run out. For two days I'd been making desperate—and obviously not subtle—quests for more. I'd been able to find only methadone, and that was exactly what I had in the apartment—a full bottle of methadone. The police began to search.
Less than an hour before the police had come, I'd swallowed a speed pill that now took effect and caused me to buzz around joyously. While I was concerned they'd find the bottle of methadone—not to mention Aunt Sathe's kosher stash—it was nonetheless difficult for me to stop smiling. My mouth couldn't restrain its happy grin. Soon the policemen were charmed, and they joked with me as they peered into drawers and cupboards. They thought Aunt Sathe charming too as she chattered about the difficulties of the currency exchange system.
And all I had with me was some of your Australian dollars, and of course they wouldn't take my American dollars, and then, oy, when I pulled out Indian rupees.
The policewoman, however, was not impressed. She threw me dirty looks. When she examined my passport and saw my birth date, she became ferocious. It turned out we were born the same day of the same month of the same year. We were both twenty-six, only she looked over thirty and I barely looked eighteen. She hated me.
"Where is it?" she asked me coldly. "We know it's here. Where is it?" She seized my handbag and hunted through it. She unfolded a letter I was in the middle of writing.
OH, NO!
THE LETTER! Memory of what I'd written shot through my brain. OH, SHIT! I'd recounted the details of the Melbourne scan, and how much money we'd made. If she read that, Aunt Sathe and I would be dead.
I lunged at the policewoman and grabbed the letter from her hand. I wanted to jam all four pages in my mouth and swallow them. She held on tight, though, and her eyes flashed poison as we struggled. Of course she pried it back.
Gratification spread over her face as she read it.
"Look at this," she said to her companions when she'd finished. She oozed with triumph and smiled menacingly in my direction.
Meanwhile, something had stunned me—the image of wrestling with a Inspector of the police. Only criminals fought with police, and I'd never pictured myself a criminal. I viewed my enterprises as capitalist, not felonious. Drugs were illegal in the western world, true, but they hadn't always been, and they weren't illegal everywhere in the world. I considered the prohibition against drugs a temporary situation and considered myself an innocent creature in a time trap. A criminal—no! Not me! I'd always been comrades with the police. Struggling with the woman placed me on the other side of the law for the first time, and I didn't like the way it felt. Her side was so much stronger.
They continued searching. My pensive state coursed away on the tide of the speed pill and I floated through the next hour, peppy and exuberant. A policeman took Aunt Sathe to the safe in the office and found our cash—the exact amount of Australian dollars I'd mentioned, braggingly, in the letter.
They left the money in the safe, though. And I kept smiling.
The police woman looked into everything, opened everything, and pulled everything inside out. She did the bedroom last. I held my breath when she took hold of my overnight bag—that was where I'd put the methadone. Still smiling, I watched her Lift everything out, piece by piece. Johnson's Baby Shampoo. Birth control pills. She laid them on the bedside table. Her hand closed on the unlabeled bottle of methadone. She placed it on the table next to the shampoo. It stared at me from across the room. But she didn't notice it.
Hadn't they come specifically for heroin or methadone? Didn't they know what methadone looked like? The yellow liquid seemed the brightest thing in the room. To me, it glowed like a slice of sun, and everything seemed to point in its direction. But she didn't see it.
They found nothing illegal.
Three hours after the police arrived, they left, taking my letter with them but leaving the money. Glaring at me murderously, the woman was the last one out the door.
Ecstatic from the Speed and heady with the satisfaction of eluding the police, I felt like Master of the Universe. I knew they'd be back as soon as they drew up the necessary papers to get at the Australian cash we had no way of legitimating. I immediately moved us to a different hotel, and by the next afternoon Aunt Sathe and I were out of Australia.
Successful in the face of adversity! I had no doubt foresight and good sense would protect me forever.
Ever since she'd seen The King and I, Aunt Sathe had dreamed of visiting Siam. I wanted to give her a treat she'd always remember, and since I'd heard that Siam (now called Thailand) was the heroin capital of the world, we flew to Bangkok.
The month long co-existence had strained our relationship. Aunt Sathe had been unnerved by the Sydney affair, and, though we looked forward to touring Bangkok together, we agreed it would be best to five separately. I had the secondary motive of needing to find a connection. I too
k Aunt Sathe to the Sheraton, then went to a place I'd heard about, the Malaysia Hotel.
The Freaks were international and mobile, so Freak enclaves existed around the world. These havens provided access to the local scene. Among fellow Freaks, friendship was instantaneous and resources were readily shared. The Malaysia Hotel was a major Freak place in Bangkok. It turned out to be everything I'd heard and more. The hotel overflowed with Freaks and hippie travellers. Entering the Lobby, I had the feeling everyone knew each other. In a corner hung a bulletin board with notices, messages (some obviously coded), and warnings to beware of particular undercover narcotics agents. The warnings described the agents, noted which countries they worked, and provided the names they were currently using. I felt connected to a brethren and part of something.
Two guys stepped in the elevator as I went up to my room. "Just arriving in Thailand?" asked one.
"Yeah, hey, this is a great hotel."
"Damn right. Find anything you want at the Malaysia."
"Know where I can get smack?" I asked.
"Drop your bags in your room and come to ours. Two-oh-two."
Within minutes, I had a bhong in my mouth, as I sat with them and three others. "Oh, boy. You've no idea how much I missed this sniff," I said, savouring a lungful of heroin. "I've been eating Opium and drinking methadone for weeks. Ahh. Now, this is the real thing."
Daytime was spent with Aunt Sathe. We visited the Reclining Buddha and the Emerald Buddha. We explored the floating market, the weekend market, and the snake garden.
"Aunt Sathe, a man's ogling you."
"Where?" she asked, speaking like a ventriloquist, with her lips hardly moving. "Not that shmuck with the Hawaiian shirt?"
"No. Over there by the Buddha bell."
"Oy vey, look at that pot belly. That fat tush. You can find me better than that, tatala."
Aunt Sathe loved Bangkok. I loved Bangkok. I adored the Malaysia Hotel.
At night my new friends and I would go to the movies. The Thai dope was potent, though, and I slept through most of them. We all did. When the movie ended we'd go back to the hotel, smoke more smack, and try to decipher the plot from the Bits we'd managed to catch.
"I remember him entering the factory, and then I nodded out," someone would say.
"I saw the factory scene," another would offer, "They started fighting, and a dude bashed Bruce Lee over the head with a barrel and then . . . I don't know. I guess I fell asleep again."
"That part I remember. I woke up as the barrel . . ."
One morning, my Malaysia Hotel friends and I took a boat ride down a canal. We slept through that too.
After three weeks Aunt Sathe returned to Wilkes-Barre. "Bye, Aunt Sathe," I said, hugging her tightly before she left. "I'm so glad you visited your Siam."
"It’s been heaven, tatala. I'll be waiting to hear about the next scheme."
"Scam."
"Scam. Oy, never get that right. Don't forget, if you see my doctor friend, tell him how much I liked the bracelet he sent."
*
Walking down the street a few days later, I heard a voice call my name—"Yo, Cleo, it's the sheriff. Wait up."
"Jimmy! You've been in Bangkok all this time? How's it going?"
"A real bummer, man. I'm broke."
Black Jimmy and I went to smoke bhongs, and he told me his woes. He was having a hard time maintaining his habit. I gave him some stash. He needed money. I gave him a few baht (the local currency). Goa Freaks were supposed to help each other.
"Bummer, man. The sheriff's on a bummer."
Over the next ten days I gave him more—both money and dope then I got fed up with supporting him. Fellow Goa Freak or no, his bummers ended up costing me money. Enough was enough.
I made a quick trip to Laos, partly to escape him. I returned with a Laotian marriage canopy to hang over my bed in Goa, a suitcase of Laotian wall hangings, and a toothpaste tube crammed with Laotian smack.
Then it was time for India. One last thing to do before leaving for Bombay—I wanted a porno movie. I'd bought a projector to show the movies I'd taken of the Goa Freaks in Bali. I thought a porno film would be an extra novelty to entertain the gang in Anjuna Beach.
A few hours before my flight, I went to Patpong Road and searched the streets of the red-light district for the right type of person. Finally I found someone in a bar who promised to deliver the film before I left.
"Soon, okay? My plane to Bombay leaves at 3:55."
When he didn't show at the hotel, I was disappointed.
I never expected him to deliver the film to the airport and was horrified when I was paged out of the departure lounge and confronted with the sleaze holding a brown paper bag.
"Oh, it's you. That greasy bag is for me? Uh, thanks, I guess." I looked around to see if anybody was watching. Everybody was watching. I didn't open the bag to check its contents in front of the dozen seated passengers, two security guards, three courtesy personnel, and a whole Cathay Pacific check-in counter. I paid him his twenty dollars in good faith.
Going back through Immigration and the weapons check carrying the bag, I felt conspicuous. I didn't peek inside until I reached the plane's toilet. Hey, it did contain a canister of film; and when I held it to the light I glimpsed tiny naked figures. In colour even.
Now I had the problem of sneaking it into Bombay, where such things were prohibited. The projector was another problem. India was strict about allowing certain products into the country. Cameras, tape players, and electrical equipment were heavily taxed, and the government tried to prevent their being sold on the black market. They had to be recorded on one's passport and taken out of India at the time of departure. Since I wanted to leave the projector in Goa and not take it with me whenever I left the country, it was important that it not be marked in my passport.
Arriving in Bombay, the Customs inspector asked his usual, "Camera? Radio?"
I sacrificed the camera. "Yes, a movie camera," I said, hoping he wouldn't look beneath it to find the projector, nor beneath the projector to find the film. He didn't.
I'd changed during the monsoon season. I'd become audacious—a slayer of police dragons; and I'd become powerful—a chieftain of destine. I'd even learned to drive a motorbike! I'd earned the title Goa Freak and loved everything about being one—the excitement, the outlandishness, the opulence, and the camaraderie. What a wonderful life! I couldn't resist staying at the Sheraton. One's hotel reflected the success of one's monsoon business. The Sheraton or the Taj Mahal meant extremely profitable business; the Nataraj and the Ambassador, very good; the Astoria and the Ritz, nice, steady work; Stiffles, struggling (except at the end of the season, at which time it was okay); Bentley's, scrounging and probably looking to borrow money. Those staying by Juhu Beach near the airport were probably still doing business. And those like Kadir—who'd just taken an apartment to which no one had yet been invited—were most likely involved in a large-scale, continuous operation centred in Bombay.
Bombay buzzed as the Freaks returned from the monsoon months of business. The Freak hotels were fully booked. The air hummed with gaiety and festivity. Old friends reunited. From the end of September, ml the Goa Freaks began returning to India, Bombay was packed with people on their way down to Goa or just up from Goa. Dipti's had a crowd outside on the street, waiting to see who dropped by for ice cream and gossip.
"Shambo, man, how was your monsoon? Did you hear I saw Alehandro on Chicken Street in Kabul. He's bringing down a truckload of . . . "
" . . . about the generator Pharaoh bought in Japan . . ."
". . . superb Bolivian blow. Brought it over myself . . . let you . . ."
". . . from Laos. And I scored a porno movie in Bangkok. Why don't you drop by my room at the Sheraton . . ."
The shops and stalls of the silver market, Chor Bazaar, Bindi Bazaar, and Crawford Market were deluged with newly earned money. Dollars, yen, francs, pesos—you had to wait in line at the black-market currency exchange. Drugs
from around the world, gadgets, electrical equipment, jewellery, art, trophies from the monsoon, all exchanged hands. We sat in each other's rooms and vied over whose stash would be used.
Everyone wanted to pay the tab. For dinner, groups of us would go to the Ambassador and order four courses each. While waiting for the appetizer, personal stashes would come out.
"Have you tried my Colombian coke?"
"Hmmm. Not bad. Now do a whiff of mine."
". . . here, and pass this down . . ."
"Anybody ever taste blue coke? Try this, man . . ."
Powders would pass back and forth across the table until the food arrived. By then, of course, we were too coked-out to eat. With a concerned frown on his face, the maitre d' would ask what was wrong with the food.
"Nothing. It's great."
"Delicious."
"Wow, man."
"The best."
Nevertheless, our food wound up back in the kitchen, practically untouched.
Between parties, I tore through the markets buying things for my new house. I got carpets at the Handloom House; papier-mâché boxes, candlesticks, and six-inch-high Kashmiri tables from the Kashmir Emporium; tasselled, velvet pillow covers from Crawford Market; and yards of satin material to make sheets. I ran from my safety deposit box at the Mercantile Bank to the black-market exchange—where the money doubled—to the shops and marketplaces, and then back to the bank. I bought so much, I had to take the boat to Goa.
India was different now that I had money. This time I had a cabin on the front. First class occupied the top deck and consisted of one suite and six cabins, two of which held other Goa Freaks. A blonde Irish named Shawn had the suite. Junky Robert and Tish had a cabin across the halt from mine. We hung out in Shawn's suite, sniffing dope and coke, ordering room service, and telling our monsoon stories.
"Loathe me, it was something else, I tell you," said Shawn. "This was the first time I'd been to Ireland in six years. What a gas to go back with dough. Last time my father wouldn't talk to me because of my bong hair. Kept telling me to clean up and get a job. He talked to me this time, he did. The entire village came to see me. But, Lord, was I glad to leave. What sour fives they five—working every day."