Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  "Wow! I felt an incredible rush from that," I said. Heat zoomed all the way to my toes as he emptied the syringe.

  "I told you."

  "That's wild. The vitamin B does that?"

  "Yeah."

  "I felt that whoosh throughout my body. That was great."

  Sasha returned his concentration to the coke. I leaned against the wall and urged my muscles to go limp. It felt strange to be away from the house.

  BAM, BAM.

  "Oh, no—he's found me," I whispered and jumped to cover Sasha's mouth with my hand. "Sasha, please don't let him in. Please. Please."

  The pounding continued and made Sasha nervous. "I have to open it," he said. "There's no lock outside the door, so he knows I’m in."

  "Please, no."

  But the banging went on, and eventually Sasha rose to answer the door. I threw my body on the mattress. "Okay, but tell him I'm asleep and to go away." I closed my eyes and played dead. I heard the bolt slide across the door and then squeaky hinges.

  "Sasha, have you seen . . ." It was Serge's voice. "There she is. I've been looking everywhere for her."

  GO AWAY, I thought to myself. I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to see either of them.

  Serge's footsteps came in the room.

  "She's sleeping," said Sasha.

  "I've been worried. How long has she been here?"

  "About an hour. She wanted downs so she could sleep."

  "Well, let her be. As long as I know she's all right."

  Serge tiptoed to my side. I felt the silky material of Chinese pants slide by my arm. Then his silver lingam bumped my chin as he leaned over to kiss my forehead.

  "I'll come by later," he whispered to Sasha on his way out. As soon as the door closed, I sprang to secure the bolt.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you, Sasha. I can't deal with their movie. I just can't."

  "Well, he's gone. Try to relax again."

  It didn't seem more than a minute before the pounding came again. BAM, BAM, BAM.

  "Sasha, don't open it. Please!"

  "I have to."

  Once more I lay down and played dead. This time it was Neal.

  "She's here? There she is!" He giggled.

  I didn't breathe as I heard him approach.

  "She's asleep," said Sasha. "She was flipped out. I gave her downs to help her mellow."

  Neal sat on me. "Hey, cuckoo."

  "Maybe you should let her sleep. She was really out of it."

  I tried to ignore the weight on my hip, but it was difficult when Neal planted his head, nose to nose, against mine. "Hey," he giggled.

  I broke. "I'm sleeping. Leave me alone." I pushed him off me and rolled to my side.

  "I know what you need to make you feel better," Neal said. I heard him rustle his bag and take out his glass block and razor blade . . . SQUEAK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK.

  "I need to SLEEP. Go away."

  "Here you go." SQUEAK. He placed the block in front of my face and inserted the looter in my nose. I moved my head. "NEAL! I have to sleep." The looter followed my nostril as I shifted my head side to side to escape it. "NO!"

  "You really don't want any? That is unusual."

  He squeezed between me and the wall and stretched out beside me, lying half on top of me. "We were worried about you. Serge knocked down the door. I've thought you were still upstairs. How did you get out, anyway? The door is boarded up on the outside."

  He wasn't going to leave me alone. I wanted to scream and scream and scream until I could rid myself of the energy that seemed about to explode from my skin. I rolled over, grabbed the aspirin bottle of coke, stood up, and dashed out the door. Neal followed.

  It was drizzling. I ran but soon tired and could only walk. I could hear Neal a few Feet behind. "Where are you going now?" he asked.

  Suddenly I noticed how green everything was and how much had grown. Leaves burst from bushes I'd never noticed in their naked state. I went deeper into the underbrush, hoping Neal wouldn't follow. The ends of branches scratched my arms. I looked down, amazed at my dirty, bloody, scratched-up skin.

  "Hey, how are you going?" said the voice behind me. "Let's stop a moment for a toot."

  "Leave me alone."

  "Come on, a nice toot of coke will make you feel better."

  "I'm too speedy as it is. I don't need more coke. I need to calm down."

  "Okay, then stop a minute and I'll make you a nice big line of smack."

  I didn't seem to have strength left to get away from him. And the smack sounded good.

  Resigned, I sat beside him on a rock and let him talk me into smack, and then of course coke, and eventually we went home.

  Not long after that, in one of my normal fits of fury at Neal, I banished him to the upstairs rooms. He was not to come down. I didn't want to see his face. He was either to leave my house completely and never come back or to remain hidden upstairs. He didn't want to leave me, so he moved into the empty rooms.

  Now it was much better. Serge and I were finally alone. We played, and he made me laugh. We went to sleep in each other's arms. Occasionally I saw Neal approach the staircase and Look down on us. I'd make faces at him and gestures, and he'd go back to his room.

  But Serge still left now and then for a few hours. And as soon as his motorbike could be heard pulling away, Neal came down the stairs.

  "NO! GO BACK UP!" He'd be assailed by my screams as soon as he set foot on a step. "GO BACK UPSTAIRS! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU. I HATE YOU."

  Of course he wouldn't go. He'd patiently wait out my tantrum, and after a half hour or so, I'd forget I hated him. Soon we'd be spacing around together in coke joy, planning the next scams we were going to pull off—to Tahiti, Alaska, New Guinea. Only when I'd hear Serge's returning motor would I remember my anger. Then I'd shriek again and push Neal to the steps, and finally Neal would collect his things and go back up. Sometimes, though, I didn't hear Serge's bike and would be surprised to see him come through the front door.

  "Oh, hi," I'd say and run to throw my arms around him. I was always so glad to see him. And THEN I'd remember again that I hated Neal. Sometimes, though, Serge would be gone so long, he'd return to find Neal and I asleep next to each other. Well, I'd TOLD him Neal sneaked down as soon as he rode away!

  One morning I woke up alone in the living room. I guessed Serge had woken early and left.

  Then I stumbled on the note. It protruded from the mouth of the bhong.

  I've left, it said. I've left because it's Neal you love, not me. I can't take it anymore. I love you too much. If I'm wrong, you know where to find me. I always love you. Serge.

  Oh, no!

  Frantically I looked around. Serge's window ledge still held the champagne glass, the ashtray, my bent spoon—yet it felt forsaken. I touched the pillow where he'd so recently laid his head. It was cold, damp but cold. He wasn't coming back. I lunged at a pack of his beedies lying on the carpet. One left. But he wasn't coming back for it. I knew he wasn't coming back.

  How could he?

  I was stunned. Was he crazy? Love me! How could he think that? I reread the note, but its words hadn't changed. He was gone.

  I roamed the room. There were my red Chinese pants he used to wear, discarded on a cushion. I stabbed at them with my toe. How could he leave me?

  If I'm wrong, you know where to find me, the note said. Where? I had no idea. Teheran? We'd discussed travelling there to visit Sima and Bernard. But he knew I considered Iran the toilet of the world. Passing through it on the overland bus to India, it had been the only country where I'd had trouble travelling as a lone female. Fuck him. I wouldn't even consider tracking him down. Iran might be great if you could rid it of Iranian men; until then, it wasn't the place to bunt for a runaway boyfriend. No. Fuck him. Love Neal?

  When Neal came down a little later, I tore into him like a wild woman. It took him time to figure out what had happened. He found it quite funny.

  "IT’S NOT FUNNY. IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT I HATE YOU. GET OUT
OUT OUT." I pounded on him with my hands and feet and words. I couldn't bear to look at him. It was because of him that Serge had left, I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN."

  Before he could think of a way to handle the situation, he was in the rain with his clothes and knickknacks scattered all over.

  "Wait a min . . ."

  I slammed the door with such force, the Goan across the way came to her window. What were the crazy foreigners up to now?

  I could hear Neal's laughing voice. I moved back and covered my ears to make it go away. It still came through the door.

  "What are you going to do alone here?" he asked.

  "JUST GO AWAY."

  "Will you come meet me in Bombay?"

  "GO."

  "Okay. I’m going. But I have to send for a taxi to take me to the bus station. Let leave my bags inside till I get a taxi."

  "NO. I DON’T TRUST YOU. I’LL NEVER LET YOU BACK IN."

  "It won't be fun here by yourself. I wait for you in Bombay. Do you have money?"

  I ran to the back of the house to escape his voice. It was dark. I ran through the dining room and the kitchen and hid in the bathroom. I curled myself into a ball on the rug and pulled some of the clothes lying nearby over my hand.

  I stayed like that a long time. When I grew bored, I sat up and listened. I couldn't hear anything that sounded like Neal slinking around the house. But there was a lot of noise. What was that tack? The surf. Waves slamming against the beach. Hey! I could feel the house shake from the force of them. I could hear the thwack of rain hitting the roof and outer Walls. Water streamed down the window. I could hear that too. It was the quiet of the house. . . The house was now silent—an empty, dead silence. The floor jolted from another Herculean wave. Now it was just me and the monsoon.

  I rose and tiptoed to the living room. Nothing moved. I went to the front door and leaned my cheek against the wood. No sound of Neal. He was gone.

  Good riddance. Who needed them? I was better off by myself. I was always better off by myself. Idiots. Fucking idiots. I climbed on the platform and made myself a fat line of coke. Fuck them both.

  It was late afternoon when I heard Neal at the door.

  "Go away,"

  "I'm leaving," he shouted back. "I have a taxi waiting on the other side of the paddy. Want to come with me?"

  "NO!"

  "What will you do here alone without money?"

  "Don't worry about me. Just go away."

  "Well, I'm going to change money in Mapusa. I send some back to you with the Goan driver. He can take you to the bus station if you change your mind about staying here. I be at the Ritz Hotel in Bombay. Please come. I be waiting for you."

  "I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN."

  I moved farther into the house to get away from his words, but he said no more. Now he was really gone.

  As the room darkened with the onset of night, I took stock of the situation. The loud monsoon noises made the house unbearably quiet. I was bored already. I checked the kerosene. Only one lamp had any left. Its weak slosh when I shook it told me it wouldn't last the night. I had dim flashlight tired batteries would also not survive till morning, was completely out of water, been no ice for weeks, but one Coca-Cola remained in the ice box. Not an encouraging picture. My drug situation looked beak too. I had two grams of smack, a few tolas of dope, and not an awful lot of coke. This would not do at all.

  The longer I sat in the dim light from the one blackened lamp, the bleaker the future looked. Nope. This was not going to work. With my drugs on the verge of running out, as well as the light, I had no other conclusion to draw: I had to leave.

  Slowly, the realization of my plight replaced my anger at the guys. I was alone in the house, with no one on the beach, no light, no water, no dope . . . Oh, shit! I had to go, and fast. No money!

  Money! What was it Neal had said? He would send me money with a Goan. Would be?

  I scurried off the platform and ran to look out the door. Nothing but wet darkness. Has he changed his mind about sending money? What had I answered when he'd said that? I couldn't remember. I hoped I hadn't talked him out of it. I had to go to Bombay, and I needed that money to get there. Oh, no. I really needed it.

  I went back for more coke. A waspy insect flew around my head. Shit. This was a fine mess I'd gotten myself into. Fucking Serge. Did he really think I'd follow him to Iran? Was that where he meant when he said I knew where to find him? I had no idea. I missed him. How could he leave me? I loved him.

  At the brumm sound of a motorcycle, I overflowed with relief. Neal hadn't changed his mind!

  I ran to the door. I recognized the Goan driver as one whom Neal always hired.

  "Oh, hi. I was worried you wouldn't come."

  "This is from Neal," he said, handing me a dripping envelope.

  "I'm going to Bombay," I told him. "But I don't want to take that bus. Can you find a taxi to take me? How long would it take?"

  "Taxi to Bombay? Twenty-six, twenty-seven hours with the rain."

  "Okay. Tomorrow?"

  He shook his head from side to side, the Indian sign for yes.

  Much relieved, I went back inside. I'd have to economize with the kerosene. I didn’t want to be left without any light at all. I decided to go to sleep early. That would help conserve the coke too. I packed my bags and was ready for bed by the time the light went out. The flashlight would just about get me through the rest of the night if I was awakened by an unexplained noise and wanted to investigate.

  Now what would I do in Bombay? I bad little money Left, I’d have to do a run for somebody, since I no longer had the capital to finance my own. There should be someone in Bombay who needed a runner. There always was. For sure I'd find something. I’d go West, make money, make myself healthy, maybe quit the dope. I'd show those guys. Who needed them any way? Jerks. I'd be better off alone. Didn't need anybody. Got myself around the world on my own. Didn't need anybody now either. The assholes!

  By the time the taxi arrived in the early afternoon, I was more than ready to leave the house. Yes, the time had come to pull myself together. As I settled in for the ride, escaping the empty beach turned to hopeful anticipation of the future. I was heading West. I'd scrub the dirt off my skin, untangle the knots in my hair, and make money.

  The long hours to the city brought another thought: I didn't have enough rupees to pay for the taxi all the way there! Damn! And I'd arrive too late for the bank. Shit! I'd have to see Neal after all. Just for one minute. I'd stop by his hotel, collect money for the cab, and leave. One minute, that was all. Where did he say he'd be? The Ritz? I hoped he'd found a room.

  It wasn't raining nearly as hard in Bombay as it had been in Goa. Streets were flooded, but city life went on. I had the taxi stop in front of the Ritz and rushed in to see if Neal was registered. He was.

  One minute. I'd only spend one minute with him.

  He answered my knock with a grin. "Well, hi, cutie. I knew you'd show up soon. No fun in the monsoon by yourself, huh?"

  "I need money to pay the taxi."

  "You took a taxi from Goa?"

  "Just give me the money and let me go."

  "Don't go. Stay here. Where are you going, anyway?"

  "To the Rex Hotel. I'm going to find a run and put my life in order."

  "Yes? Well, that's nice. But don't go to the Rex. Stay here until you leave. It's cheaper than paying for your own room. Be good. I promise."

  "I don't trust you. Come on. Give me two hundred rupees."

  "I'll give you the money, but stay a while. Have a few lines before you go."

  "No. I just want to go."

  It took him so long to give me the rupees that my resolve broke. My coke had run out. I would have loved a snoot before setting off on my quest.

  "Okay. I'll pay the driver and come up for a while. But only a little while."

  I didn't bring my bags to his room but left them in the Lobby.

  We sat around all day coking out and, as usual whil
e in coke heaven, I eventually forgot I hated him. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.

  "Oh, my shot!" I said suddenly. "And I didn't have one yesterday."

  Since the time with Sasha, we'd been taking the vitamin B intravenously. It gave such a sweet rush, what a shame to waste it in a muscle. To spice it up even more, we'd been adding a pinch of coke. So, every other day we'd fixed one hit of coke mixed with vitamin B. Sometimes we did two days in a row of vitamin B.

  Neal gave me the shot and then noted, "We should sterilize these needles. Why don't we ask room service for boiling water?"

  Good idea, but the Indian waiter couldn't understand what we wanted. He came up with a cooking pot brimming with water.

  "It's cold," I said, dipping in a finger. "I want the water hot. For cleaning."

  When Neal showed him the works and the vitamin B ampoules, the Indian seemed to get the picture. He smiled and nodded and motioned for Neal to deposit the works in the pot.

  "Acha. Boil," he said. "I boil."

  He put the lid on the pot and left for the kitchen.

  Did he really understand? we wondered.

  A while later, the waiter returned with the pot and lifted the cover to reveal steam wafting from our floating works. Amazing! Bombay must he the only city in the world where one can send a syringe to be sterilized by room service.

  We laughed heartily. Inevitably, Neal convinced me to stay in his room.

  *

  It turned out Bombay still had scores of Goa Freaks. The Italians were at the Nataraj Hotel, the Birmingham Boys at the Sea View, Mental at Bentley's, Kadir at the Rex; nobody had seen Serge. Though everyone had left Goa with the good intentions of a speedy departure from India, many had succumbed to Bombay Syndrome. The continuous party went from one hotel room to another, into the Opium dens, the Ambassador Hotel restaurant, the Colaba movie house.

  One afternoon, something strange happened as Neal and I taxied to Bompti Road to score coke. I watched him lean over to speak to the driver, and a warm feeling washed over me.