Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food.

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE GOING TO EVE’S? NOT NOW!"

  "We've been gone all night."

  "BUT IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!"

  "I have to go."

  "DON’T GO."

  He left. I was crushed.

  As each day became hotter than the one before, things also became crazier. Too much coke, not enough sleep, and no food induced a sharp edged insanity. Sometimes, alone in the house, I'd hear noises and imagine someone had broken in. Naked, I'd tear through the rooms shouting at the intruder. In one hand I held a kerosene lamp, in the other—raised above my head—a hammer.

  "WHERE ARE YOU? I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE COME OUT!" An hour could go by and I'd still be opening closets, hunting the hiding person I knew was there. "HERE I COME. I’M GOING TO GET YOU!!"

  Feeling like Roy Rogers, I chased shadows and battled the silent, coke-warped air.

  Neal was no less Coke Amuck, and I feared he'd set the house on fire. I'd watch him stagger through the living room with a kerosene lamp, which he'd then balance on the edge of something; and I'd think—one of those lamps is going to fall and set the saris on fire, it's inevitable.

  Fire had been a childhood fear of mine. The image of it torching my skin had terrified me. Now, the sight of Neal with a kerosene lamp in his band aroused the old nightmares.

  So I went to Panjim to buy a fire extinguisher—heavy, bulky, industrial sized. And I slept with it. Neal and I no longer slept in the bedroom, partly because it was too hot up there, but mostly because we slept wherever we ended up nodding out. After days awake and spacey, one of us might say to the other: "Maybe we should sleep. Has it been a longtime?" It was this thing to do. When I felt ready. I'd take my standard sleeping potion—five mandies and twenty Valium (smack too, but that didn't count; that was "normal"). Then I'd do an immense line of coke to last me till the pills worked. Scientific. But what usually happened was that I'd be speeding like mad when the downs finally took effect. So I'd be falling over and stumbling around, yet wide awake. Hours would pass, and with them the effect of the pills. Which meant I'd have to start the process over—more pills to sleep, more coke to amuse me till I slept.

  Neal and I didn't always manage to synchronize our sleep time, either. If by some miracle the pills caught me at a low in coke use. I'd he down, give a last peek to the reeling Neal, wrap my arms around the fire extinguisher, and sleep alone.

  Our screaming fights continued periodically. Too muck coke. Not enough sleep. No food.

  "YOU ARE TRYING TO DESTROY ME!"

  "That's not true," Neal answered. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  With psychoanalytic cocaine clarity, it became clear to me. "YES, YOU ARE. YOU DESTROY EVERYBODY YOU LOVE. LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO EVERYBODY ELSE WHO WAS UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO HAVE YOU LOVE THEM."

  "Shh, come here and do this nice big line." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  "YOU’RE CONSUMED WITH GUILT OVER THAT ROCK MUSICIAN YOU KILLED."

  "I didn’t kill him." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  "You think you did." A few years before, Neal had, as usual, dispensed his smack at a party in the States. One of the recipients, a famous musician, had overdosed and died. "You think it's your fault he died."

  "Well . . . yeah." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  "And you feel guilty about turning the Goa Freaks on to smack.

  "AND YOU’RE TAKING IT OUT ON ME! WELL I WON’T LET YOU."

  One day he told me, "I'm sending Eve back to the States."

  "You are?"

  "I think it's better if she goes back."

  "Great. When?"

  "Soon."

  But Eve's imminent departure only worsened the situation, because Neal spent even more time at his place. It was too hot now to chase him across the paddy field, so I just stayed home. By this late in the season, the majority of Freaks had left Goa. The heat signalled it was time to leave India.

  Sometimes Mushroom Jeffrey visited me. Mushroom Jeffrey had long, reddish-brown hair and a moustache and beard. He'd recently returned from the Rajneesh ashram in Poona, where he'd become a sannyasi—a swami. His new name was Anand Geet, and, like other sannyasis, he wore orange clothes and sported a mala, a necklace of wooden beads with a picture of the guru. I learned that the names Narayan and Ramdas were also Rajneesh-given names, acquired during initiation and signifying transition to the "spiritual" life.

  No doubt about it, it was time to involve myself in a business venture. A few months earlier, Junky Robert and Tish had asked me to invest in their scam. They wanted to send two women to Canada. I gave them two thousand dollars before they left Goa but had heard nothing since. I couldn't count on that deal for immediate income. Now was definitely the time for me to leave India and do something. It would probably wise to get away from Neal too. Though I loved him to death, our relationship mostly gave me misery, frustration, and a sore throat from yelling.

  "I need a scam," I told Anand Geet (Mushroom Jeffrey) one afternoon. "Everybody's gone or leaving."

  "What will you do?"

  "I know where to have cases made in Bombay, but I don't know where to buy the hash. Do you have a good connection for hash?"

  "The Birmingham Boys have the best on the beach."

  "Not them. They're scary. I've heard nothing but bad things about them."

  The Birmingham Boys, thirty or so guys from Birmingham, England, operated an extensive export business. They'd known each other before coming to India, and the group's composition continually changed as people arrived from or returned to England. They'd never been hippies, never had long hair, never more than smirked at the sixties notion of "peace and love"; and, living outside Anjuna Beach, they frequented places that sold alcohol. Their business, which consisted of transporting hashish down from Nepal and Afghanistan into India and then to Europe, kept them in Goa—that and the fact that no police disturbed them there. They were more like a street gang than a group of Freaks.

  "Not the Birmingham Boys," I said to Anand Geet. "Besides, I heard they're switching their trade from hash to smack. Anybody else?"

  "Maybe Archimedes in Baga, but his stuff isn't that good. The Birminghams' is really the best. Who'll make the cases for you?"

  "A shop near Crawford Market, but I have to provide the hash."

  "I tell you what—give me the bread and I'll buy the hash and put it in the cases for you."

  "Yeah? How much will you charge?"

  "Let's say five hundred dollars? You must bring me the cases though."

  "We'll have to go to Bombay."

  "Tell me when and I will meet you there."

  "Okay, but listen, do NOT tell anyone about this? Okay? Especially not Neal."

  I planned my trip. I'd heard that Canada was no longer easy to enter. Customs inspectors were on the lookout for people coming from India. The new trick involved stopping somewhere en route and having someone waiting with a clean passport. Norwegian Monica had recently used that strategy through Bermuda.

  I had someone perfectly suited for the journey's second half—Aunt Sathe.

  I wrote her, outlining the scam. I'd take the cases to Bermuda, and Aunt Sathe would meet me there. We'd vacation like tourists, and then she'd carry the cases to Montreal, where I'd be waiting. She wrote back asking for the dates and saying she'd be ready.

  Though being with Neal was at times pure joy, mostly I grew angrier and angrier at him. Spending final moments with his daughter or not, something didn't feel right. The way he kept me forever waiting for him drove me nuts. It appeared so deliberate. He didn't have to tell me he'd be right back if he wasn't going to be right back. It would have been fine for him to say he'd be back in two days. But to keep me waiting two days expecting him to arrive any second was inexcusable.

  In any case, anger prevented my telling him about the scam. Then Neal announced, "I think it's time we leave here. The monsoon will start soon, and there's hardl
y anyone left on the beach. It's time to move to Bombay at least. What do you say?"

  I threw my arms around him. "YahOOOOOO."

  We flew together on the plane: Neal, Eve, the baby, and me. Neal paid for us all. We shared a taxi to the Sheraton, but once there, Neal, Eve, and the baby took a room on the ninth floor, and I had one on the eleventh.

  Out of stubbornness I wouldn't go to Neal's room, hoping it would make him send them back to the States that much sooner. It didn't work, of course.

  At first we met daily in the stairwell on the tenth floor.

  "So how are you?" he asked.

  "Miserable on eleven without you"—which was just what he wanted to hear. "When is Eve leaving?"

  He giggled. "Well, I planned to buy the tickets today," he said giggling some more, "but I got hung up. Know who came by this afternoon? I haven't seen him in year . . ."

  Neal's room on the ninth floor became the hangout of Bombay. There was always a crowd there. I still refused to go but heard about the gaiety from those who remembered to visit me too. They were having a ball down there.

  After a week Neal and I met less frequently, and when we did, it was only to argue.

  "Did you buy Eve's ticket home yet?" I'd ask.

  "Tomorrow, I promise."

  Anand Geet arrived one day and moved into my room. I took him to the bag place in Crawford Market, and he started work on the cases. I'd show that Neal! I wasn't sitting around waiting for him to grace me with his presence.

  At night Anand Geet sometimes didn't show up till Tate. I'd be enraged—not because I wanted to be with him, but because I knew he was on nine, having a great time at the party chez Neal and Eve.

  Two weeks passed, and Eve was still in India, and baby Mahara was still in India, and I was still on the eleventh floor while the parties continued on nine. I hated Neal.

  "Meet me?" he asked over the phone one day.

  Furious at myself for being excited at the thought of seeing him, I then became furious at him as I sat on the steps a long, long time waiting for his appearance.

  "Sorry I'm late," he said, bursting through the stairwell door with a happy, bouncing face. I'd been waiting an hour and twenty minutes and could only growl in response. When he leaned over to kiss me, I didn't kiss back. "What's the matter?" he said, laughing. "Aren't you glad to see me?" I gave him a dirty look. "I have news for you," he continued. "Want to hear it? Don't be mad at me." He kneeled on the step below me. "Want to hear the news? Yoo hoo. Hello, hello. Well, I'll tell you anyway. Eve's leaving tomorrow."

  And then, she was gone.

  Neal and I moved in together.

  But really, it was too late. I hated him too much by that time. Too much rage lurked beneath my moments of passion, and too much mistrust overlay whatever love was left. The morning after we moved, I noticed the chance during our room-service breakfast. As I waited for him to scoop mango jam from a plastic container, it hit me. I couldn't reach a positive feeling for him. I no longer smiled inside when I looked at him. I no longer wanted to touch his face or rub my toe across his foot. In fact, he turned me off.

  I stared at him and concentrated on the feeling. What was it? Revulsion? No, not that strong. It was nothing. I felt nothing. Nothing, tinged with a bit of resentment. A bit of impatience. And yes, perhaps a dash of revulsion after all.

  I loved it!

  How absolutely wonderful! I felt so free. I revelled in no longer being in love with him. Great. Great.

  "Don't touch me." "Leave me alone." "I don't love you anymore."

  I had a terrific time rejecting him. Neal didn't seem to take me seriously, though.

  I counted the days till my scam would be ready and I could leave. I kept in contact with Aunt Sathe, and she awaited the signal to depart for Bermuda.

  Anand Geet had moved to another hotel with the suitcases, and little by little I transferred clothes to his room and packed them. Soon, I was sure. I'd have a new supply of finances.

  The day was at hand. I sent the confirming telegram to Aunt Sathe, told Neal I was going shopping, and checked into the Horizon Hotel near the airport. That night, Anand Geet delivered the cases. Everything was set to go down the next afternoon. I had the ticket—British Airways to London, trans Heathrow, on to Bermuda. I was leaving India, the heat, the monsoon, and Neal. Hallelujah.

  The next morning, I searched for a beauty parlour to coif my hair into the straight look.

  I couldn't find one!

  Oh, shit!

  All those hotels by the airport and no hairdresser? Not possible! I phoned everywhere. Nothing open, or at least nobody answered. What to do? I couldn't go with my straight, stringy hair. No matter what I wore, I'd look like a hippie. I HAD to find a beauty parlour. Hours went by as I waited for the bell captain to call me back with information. Nothing.

  By the time I resigned myself to the fact I'd have to trek back into town to the salon at the Taj Mahal Hotel, I was thoroughly discouraged. I probably could have made the flight, but it no longer felt right.

  I didn't go.

  It was wrong. All wrong. I called Anand Geet. "I didn't go."

  "What happened?"

  "I couldn't find a hairdresser. Nothing went right. It wouldn't have worked."

  I thought I was deranged.

  And so I returned to Neal.

  After dropping the cases at Anand Geet's, I picked up the room key in the Lobby and entered our room.

  "Well, hi cutie," said Neal. "Nice to see you again."

  I told him about the scam.

  "You're crazy for going yourself," he said. "You should have sent a runner." He didn't mention my walking out on him.

  "But I trust myself better than anyone else," I told him. "Unless you act right and say the right thing to the Customs man, hell be suspicious. I know I can get through."

  "It's still taking a chance. We'll find someone to go instead. Where are the cases now?"

  "At Geet's. I planned to try again next week."

  "No, you don't want to carry them yourself. There are plenty of people in need of money who can do that."

  "It’s MY scam!"

  It was no longer my scam. It became OUR scam. Within a week Neal found us a runner named Lila and bought her a ticket. She was all set to go to Bermuda with MY cases, to meet MY aunt. I cabled Aunt Sathe about the change.

  Now we just had to wait for Aunt Sathe's telegram.

  "NO telegram," I told Neal two days later, after returning from American Express.

  "No? There should be something by now."

  When a week went by with no news, we became anxious.

  After two weeks, depressed.

  "Something must have happened."

  "Her telegram might be lost. You know how bad American Express mail."

  "Did you send your Aunt those cables?"

  "Either Lila arrived or she didn't. We should have heard something either way. There has to be a message for us someplace."

  "There has to be, but there isn't. I hope nothing happened to Aunt Sathe."

  "Well, we can't do anything till we get an answer. Meanwhile, if the didn't go down, we can't afford Bombay. I think we should go back to Goa till we hear something."

  "We MUST receive some kind of news. They couldn't both have shed. And we know Aunt Sathe wouldn't run off with our cargo."

  We waited another week and then, reluctantly boarded one of the Bombay-Goa flights. Air India discontinued the service during the monsoon, and the rains began as we landed.

  Hardly a soul remained in Anjuna. Only the failures who couldn't get themselves together stayed in during the monsoon. Everything in the house had been packed by maid and her father after I'd left, as per my instructions. The weather destroyed anything not protected. I dragged a couple of mattresses down where they'd been stacked atop the platform and laid out carpets for da« living room.

  That night, Apolon told me his daughter couldn't clean every day as she had during the, season. During, the monsoon, the paddy f
ields needed the Goans to plant rice.

  "The chai shop is closed," he also told us. "Now and then, maybe my wife will roast you a chicken, but you must cook for yourself otherwise."

  Cook? Us? We'd starve first. No, things wouldn't be easy. I hoped we'd hear from Aunt Sathe soon.

  Neal and I climbed onto the pile of mattresses and snorted coke. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  "Oh, no," I exclaimed. "I just thought of something."

  "What?"

  "The lamps. Without the maid, who'll fill the lamps? I don't even know where the kerosene is. And water. We'll need water."

  "And Coca-Cola."

  "I don't think I've ever drawn my own water from the well."

  "It's not hard."

  "You know how many trips up and down the ladder it takes to fill the tank for the toilet? Then there's the plastic buckets in the dining room and kitchen. It would take all day."

  "We won't be here that long. The tanks are full now, aren't they?"

  "Yeah. "We have everything now—water, kerosene, Coca-Cola. Apolon even brought a piece of ice for the ice box."

  "There you are. We have everything."

  We also had drugs. Neal had the smack. Neal always has smack. Both of us had a stash of coke. Since the air was humid I decided to put mine in the safe behind the painting. After dropping crystals into the powder to absorb moisture, I unlocked the safe. Stored in its cool depths were eleven tolas (one tola = ten grams) of opium; six tabs of acid; a gram of morphine bought from Paradise Pharmacy in Mapusa sold legally over-the-counter), which I found unusable doe to its disgusting taste (besides, only junkies used morphine); and a kilo of bad border hash that, not knowing any better. I'd stupidly bought to offer guests. It was comforting to survey the cellophane mountain of my hoard. I placed the coke on its summit. Next, I checked the pill cabinet. I had thirty-four packets of Valium (ten to a packet), seven packets of Mandrax, three bottles of Dexedrine, and a year's worth of birth-control pills.