Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  Sunday soon came to an end, and Brian was about to leave me alone with that bunch.

  "Oh, Brian, I don't know how I'll bear it here by myself. Will you keep in touch with that lawyer and let me know when I can leave for Goa? I’ll go crazy if I'm stuck here too long."

  He thought my predicament very funny. "Maybe you'll see the goddamn light and have a goddamn out-of-body experience," he chuckled. "Wouldn't you like to fly the hell around the ashram by astral projection? Let's hear you chant. HHHHHmmmmmmmm . . . C'mon! HHHHHmmmmmmm . . ."

  I joined in, "HHHHHmmmmmmmmmm ," and we broke out in laughter.

  But then he was gone, and it was just me and those people.

  I moved out of the apartment. At a hotel near the ashram, I took a room in a row of shacks. The other guests all wore orange and kept their doors open while they socialized on the communal porch. Exhibiting that friendly Bhagwan glow, they were pleased to supply me with incense and candles. They wanted to know when I was going to take sannyas and become one of them.

  Early Tuesday afternoon, the thought came to me—why not join? Who knew how long I'd be stuck in Poona? Since I had to be there anyway, why not involve myself in the utopia? It might be fun.

  I rushed to the ashram office—stopping often for the inevitable hug—and informed them I wished to become a sannyasi. They made an appointment for my darshan (audience) with Bhagwan the next night.

  My neighbours at the hotel were overjoyed at having fostered a new recruit and helped me prepare. Bhagwan couldn't tolerate scents, so special shampoos and soaps had to be used. Before I'd be allowed into the hall, I'd have to pass a smell test, and they decided I couldn't wear the one orange outfit I possessed. Someone lent me an orange robe.

  At six I gathered with the selected others by Lao Tzu Gate, and we waited in silence to be let in. When the time came, we filed by two sniffers, who took deep whiffs of our hair and clothes before declaring each person scent-free and granting entrance to the inner sanctum. Sitting on a marble floor, we waited silently for a signal. When it came, everyone sat up straight and brought their hands together in prayer form, the Indian gesture of greeting.

  The guru made his entrance.

  Long grey beard, long white robe, he entered slowly, placed his palms together and pointed them toward us; then he sat in the only chair in the hall. He spoke for a while to those assembled, then dealt with individuals who'd written him a question. Finally, he addressed us newcomers.

  We were called individually to sit at the Master's feet. I was nervous and excited as I pattered forward through the solemn atmosphere, When I sat before Bhagwan, he placed a mala (a beaded wooden necklace with his picture) around my neck and put his thumb over the "third eye" on my forehead. He stared in concentration and then scribbled on a piece of paper.

  "Your name will be Ma Prem Madhumaya," he said. "It means 'love with the sweetness of honey'."

  I was an orange person! Brian would die when he heard!

  In no time, I looked like, sounded like, and acted like a sannyasi. I took a handful of clothes to be dyed orange (Brian was really going to die). Every day at Buddha Hall the non-stop activities began with Dynamic meditation at sunrise. Buddha Hall was an immense raised platform, roofed, but without walls, therefore open to the flowery richness of the tropics. I never made it to the ashram before 1 p.m.—after a meaty lunch outside and just in time for Bhagwan's taped discourse. I'd bring a pillow (orange, of course), sprawl on the cold marble of Buddha Hall, and listen to the soothing voice coming from the speakers. Alas, I often fell asleep midway through—but so did many others, I noticed.

  "It doesn't matter," someone assured me. "Bhagwan's intensity will get through, whether you hear every word or sleep through the whole thing."

  This was true. Bhagwan's presence filled every corner of the ashram. His picture hung everywhere, and his name found its way into every conversation.

  At 3 p.m. Sufi Dance taught us words to songs and simple dance steps. We sang to Allah and Yahweh, to Hindu gods and Christian ones, stomping and clapping, whirling, jumping and running, holding hands and changing partners. Fifty or sixty of us bounded and pranced to Sufi Dance, covering the great distance of the hall. At the end of each frantically energetic segment, the Leader would shout "Stop!" and we'd stop where we were, dose our eyes, and feel joyous energy flood our bodies. In the Bhagwan vocabular, I was "blissed out."

  At 4 p.m. was Kundalini, consisting of fifteen minutes of frenzied shaking, followed by fifteen minutes of dancing, then fifteen minutes sitting in quiet meditation with our eyes closed, and finally with 15 minutes lying flat out. Unfortunately, I never remembered the mosquito repellent until the meditation part. Every mosquito in the state of Maharashtra knew about Kundalini. They massed in a cloud for this banquet of motionless bodies just waiting to be bitten.

  I took more clothes to be dyed orange.

  I also discovered Laxmi Villa, an estate whose mansion had been divided into small rooms where housed sannyasi Freaks. While old-time sannyasis lived at the ashram, and recent arrivals from the West stayed in Poona's hotels and apartments, Laxmi Villa housed the hippies. Freaks, and travellers. There was always a party somewhere in the villa, and once a week it hosted an open-house affair in the garden. Laxmi Villa was the only place with a drug scene; Bhagwan advocated the natural high only, and many villa residents did aspire in that direction, in sharp contrast to Goa.

  Although little smack could be found in Poona, an ex-Goa Freak guided me to its one opium den—a shack in a vacant lot. I waited an hour to taste a lungful of smoke. Though Bhagwan was against drugs, this was still India, and sannyasis packed the little den. Within days I knew the regulars, and we'd talk about Bhagwan while waiting for the baba to clean dross out of the pipe.

  "Did you hear about the assignment Bhagwan gave Sambhava studying the tree behind the bookstore?"

  "Sambhava sits in front of that tree all day."

  "He has to do it for a week."

  "Bhagwan said it will teach him humility."

  "Hey, baba. Eck mas, please. One more pipe."

  Meanwhile, what was happening with my wonderful house? What was the fat lawyer doing? I decided to sneak back to Bombay to find out.

  I went by train, which turned out to be worse than the taxi and took four hours longer. I knocked on Brian's door with a grin on my face.

  "Goddamn!" he said, seeing the mala and the orange clothes. "What the hell? Cleo!"

  "No, no," I giggled. "My name is Prem Madhumaya. It means 'love, sweet as honey.' "

  I hurried to see Fat Lawyer, who did the Indian shake with his head and promised me, "Soon, soon."

  "But my house!" I started, then I stopped and sighed. This was India. Things moved slowly. "At least tell me how soon. If I have time, I can take group sessions at the ashram."

  He waved his ring fingers in the air. "Take them. You have time." That night I dared to dine at the Ambassador Hotel so I could say hello to friends. The crowd of Freaks made room for me at their table. "Hoo, boy—look at you!" exclaimed Norwegian Monica, spotting my orange.

  I ordered a three-course meal and indulged in the cocaine that made its way around the table. By the time my crabmeat arrived, I couldn't eat a thing. Stories of how people spent the monsoon unfolded.

  "We went back to Bali," said Max. "It's ruined. Tourists everywhere, and the police really hassle you for nude bathing. Would you believe Kaiya Waiya is now part of Club Med?"

  "No! How disgusting!"

  We also heard about those of us who'd run into trouble that monsoon.

  "What a bastardly turn of events for Kadir!" said Dayid. "A contretemps!"

  "Did something happen to Kadir?" I asked. "I have silver jewellery of his that I couldn't sell in the West."

  "They busted him in Europe," explained Ashley. The tiara on her head reflected blue beams of light. "He was sentenced to two years."

  "Two years!" I exclaimed. "Poor Kadir. He must be going crazy. Stuck in jail for two years—an
d so far from India. It's terrible in the West. I missed this place like mad when I was in Canada."

  "I can empathize with that pathos. Midway through the monsoon, Ashley and I experienced a puissant fervour to return here."

  "This monsoon I went to my country, Iran," said Sima. "It is a relief to be back in India."

  "Oh, hey, did you see Serge there?" I asked.

  "Yes," answered Bernard. "He was waiting for you."

  "Oh. . ."

  "He told us about your girl who went down. Sorry to hear about it."

  "What girl? Lila? Did she go down?"

  "You don't know about that? She went down in London. They busted her at Heathrow—pulled her out of transit. She's in Flolloway Prison."

  "OH, NO!"

  "They got everybody going that route," said Monica. "I was the last one to make it through. Everyone passing through London after me got caught. They know about Goa. Don't ever transit in England. Heathrow's hot."

  "I can't believe it! Lila's been in jail all this time? I thought she stranded my Aunt Sathe in Bermuda and ran away with my money."

  "Nope. They arrested her."

  "That was my trip. I should have been the one in the transit lounge. Yippy! if I'd gone, they'd have ME! Oh!"

  "They stopped everyone coming from the East."

  The thought of Lila in jail stayed with me as my dinner companions exchanged tips regarding borders, airlines, and transit Lounges: "Switzerland has the best transit. You can rent rooms in the woman's nursing area and do your dope in private. They wake you up in time for your connecting flight . . ."

  "Do you think I should get Lila a lawyer?" I asked Monica.

  "Too late now. You should've done that when she was arrested. Once someone is sentenced, that's it."

  "I feel so bad. I should have bailed her out so she could have left the country before the trial. I should have done something. If I'd only known!"

  "You can write her and let her know how you feel. So she doesn't think she's been forgotten."

  "Do you think they interrogated her?"

  "Sure. They wanted to know who sent her."

  "Do you think she told them?"

  "No. Don't worry about that. Goa Freaks never inform on each other. She didn't tell."

  "So what happens when she gets out?" I asked. "What are we supposed to do when this happens? I guess I should still pay her something."

  "That's fair. Goa Freaks must take care of each other."

  "I'll give her what she would have made on the trip—five thousand dollars." I liked the thought of paying Lila the money though the scam fell through. Goa Freaks belonged to a special community, and providing for each other was an important aspect of it.

  After taking a snoot, Monica passed me the turquoise box of smack that was circulating the table. "I must kick this soon," she said. "They don't call me Norwegian Monica anymore. Now they call me Smack Monica."

  "I'm never quitting," I told her. Over the summer in Canada, I'd come to a decision about smack. I loved it. I didn't want to stop using. This was my way of life now—I was a Goa Freak and I used smack. I would not torture myself again by trying to stop or letting myself run low. Why would I want to be straight, anyway? "I love this life," I said. "I never want to quit. I love being different from the boring nine-to-five robots. Did I tell you about Mental in the health-food store . . . ?"

  I knew I had to beware of the coke, though. I could not let myself go Coke Amuck like I did in the house with Neal and Serge. I'd have to be careful. I'd eat. I'd sleep. No more coked-out sleepless weeks. I'd take vitamins and remember to brush my hair. Drugs and Goa generated a wonderful way of life as long as you took care of yourself and exerted control. I could do that.

  For the trip back to Poona I hired a taxi for myself alone. Much better that way. This time I could stretch out, sleep, and dose the windows to sniff my dope without it blowing away.

  Back at the ashram, I signed up for three groups Bhagwan suggested I take. The first one was called "Centering," which, in the evenings, involved chanting for hours, our voices blending together and echoing through the ashram. "HHHHHmmmmm . . ." Next came "Tantra"— three days of sex, from morning to night. The last group was "Kio," geared to learning shiatsu massage.

  When Kio ended, I called Brian.

  "Go the hell to Goa," he said.

  "What about the police?"

  "There are no charges against you. Go meet your goddamn lawyer in Calangute."

  Ah, yes—Fat Lawyer, who was now vacationing in Goa at my expense. No charges? So what had it been? All rumour?

  I piled my belongings into a taxi and, nine hours later, was searching Calangute for my lawyer. He was staying at the Tourist Hotel, where I was informed "they" were on the beach.

  They? I wondered who "they" were that I was treating to this holiday.

  I encountered him on the sand with a woman he didn't introduce as his wife. "It is over," he said. "You may go back to your house now."

  "What about the police?"

  "They only want to speak with you. You must pay a small fine. It is nothing."

  "Did they break into my house? What's the fine for?"

  "A pornographic movie. Pornography is not allowed in this country. You go. They will explain."

  Third Season In Goa

  1977 – 1978

  JOY WELLED UP IN ME at the thought of seeing my house. Not even the lawyer's preposterous bill could mar my happiness.

  As usual, on the first trip of the year into Anjuna, I was overcome by the wonder of such a Freak haven, and I burst with emotion at my good fortune in being part of it. I whooped out the window, "HELLO, ANJUNA BEACH. I'M BACK!"

  Then anxiety grew as I crossed the paddy fields. What would I find at the house? The walls torn down? Everything gone? I ran the last few yards to the front door and darted around the sides. No holes. Every wall stood as I'd left it! Not a scratch.

  However, if the police had found the porno film, that meant they'd entered not only the house but also the safe. I rushed to unlock the door and dashed through the front room, the living room, the dining room. I stopped short in the kitchen. The picture was off the wall and lying on the floor, but the safe itself seemed otherwise intact—as securely closed as when I'd left. I explored the surrounding wall, turning the corner into the bathroom—everything looked normal—and then the kitchen. What's this? I peeped through the half-opened closet door. Argh! Oh, tortured metal! Unable to get in the safe from the front, the police had blowtorched their way through its corner, which protruded into the closet. Thick steel, bent grotesquely out of shape, curved in abstract directions, as if a bomb had exploded inside my precious strongbox.

  MY MOVIES!!

  The movies were gone! They hadn't just taken the old, dumb porno; they'd taken them all. Oh, no!

  They'd left everything else, though. The Opium rested undisturbed next to expired passports and special letters. They even left the hash, the morphine, and the acid.

  Lino came by for the rent and explained why he'd let the police in the house.

  "I'm glad you did," I told him. "You've no idea how relieved I am you had a key."

  The tiles of the floor were cool under my bare feet. I felt like kissing the sari-covered walls, the platform, the four-foot-high pile of mattresses. I climbed to the top and hugged a musty cushion to my breast. Home.

  The maid and her family helped me unpack, and by the next day we had the house set up. Once again the bhong occupied a revered spot in the living room.

  Sooner or later. I'd have to go to the police station, but for the moment I just wanted to bask in the feeling of being back on Anjuna Beach. I picked up four months of mail at Joe Banana's, ate a plate of Gregory's buffalo steak, and watched the sunset. Then I had to fly to Bombay for more money. I took three thousand dollars from my safety deposit box, doubled it by changing it on the black market, and flew back.

  Determined to stay healthy that season, I went to Paradise Pharmacy in Mapusa and asked
for suggestions. They told me about a substance called electrolytes used by pregnant women, anaemic, and people with dysentery. I bought a supply, along with calcium pills and one-a-day vitamin supplements.

  Back on the beach, I bought dope and coke-for myself and to spare with others.

  During the day, after hours in the sun or a tour of the flea market. I'd join the house-to-house visiting and communal turn ons. Goa life centred on visiting. Nobody (except me) kept their doors locked, and friends just walked in and sat down. Alehandro's house by Joe Banana's always had a crowd and was the standard place to stop on the way to check for mail "BOMBOLAII" Eight to fifteen people would lounge on his thick Afghani rug, in the centre of which reigned Alehandro and the bhong.

  "Ola, Cleo," would come his loud voice. "Que pasa? Come have a bhong."

  If you had a stash, it was customary to take it out—once the initial welcome bhong had been passed and smoked—and to make the next round of bhongs for everyone. On the carpet would be at least one mirror for making lines of coke. Big-shots made lines for everybody, but it was okay to offer a turn-on only to Alehandro and those close by. I made bhongs and lines for the whole company. I loved feeling like a successful Goa resident. With monsoon business over, party time awaited us.

  Alehandro had an entourage of followers who lived with him and ran his errands. This group consisted of those who were interested in partaking of the free flow of drugs and frequent feasts. This season I noticed it was Hollywood Peter who sat at Alehandro's elbow and who scurried to Joe Banana's when Alehandro yelled, "Juice. What, we have no more juice?"

  "Peter, wait," I called, holding up the mirror. "Here, have a line to get you there and back."

  I resumed bhong-making. I loved watching the eyes of those sitting nearby as they anticipated who'd be passed the next one. I poured more coke on the mirror. "You should see the red Buddha bhong I bought in Canada," I announced. "Why don't you all come by later. . ."