by Cleo Odzer
That year brought a death to the beach. Pharaoh's girlfriend, Shere, died while giving birth. The Indian government insisted that her body be shipped to her country of origin.
Burying a Goa Freak away from her Goa home dismayed the Freak world.
"Has anyone heard more about Shere?" Jacques asked me and the visiting others sitting around his bhong.
"They mustn't send her back!" I said, letting out a lungful of smack smoke. "I'd hate for that to happen to me. I can't think of a worse fate than a traditional funeral in New York. No, no, no. This was her home. She belongs him. With the Goa Freaks."
"To be buried in the West. What a horrible thought," added Jacques. "That's not when: I belong. I never belonged there. I want no part of it. Not even in death."
"Yeah, man."
"Me either."
"Right on."
Catholic Goa forbade cremation, but that seemed the only way to prevent Shere from being dispatched to the world she'd rejected.
The next afternoon, Shere's body was laid out and covered from neck to toe in yellow flowers. Incense and sitar music filled the room as Goa Freaks paraded past to say goodbye.
"Hoo, boy—this is so sad."
"Doesn't she Look beautiful?"
"Robert, wake up!"
Then we dispersed to comb the area for kindling.
Returning with armloads of driftwood and coconut husks, Jacques and I ran into others carrying similar burdens. "Tee hee, I found this on the beach, but it's wet," said Mental, smiling at me. I smiled back. Goa Freaks didn't hold grudges long. We belonged to a intimate community, and communal feelings overcame petty resentments.
"Then it's not going to burn, Mental," said Jacques, "but add it to the pile anyway. The important thing is that there's a piece from each of us.
Near sunset, Pharaoh placed Shere on a wooden platform. He applied light; the fire caught. Since his house was situated on Joe Banana's hill, the smoke and flames could be seen throughout Anjuna Beach.
The Goa Freaks were satisfied. We'd prevented the government from shipping her back. Later Pharaoh threw Shere's ashes in the air, letting them blow over the beach she had called home. He kept the baby and took responsibility for Shere's two sons.
A few days later, while shopping at Paradise Pharmacy, I noticed a stock of plastic glucose bags, used in hospitals for intravenous drips. A brilliant idea zapped me.
"Jacques, Jacques," I said, excitedly pulling on his velvet sleeve. "How about a glucose party?" He shot me a French (French-Canadian) frown. "No, really," I continued. "Everybody looks so skinny lately and so droopy. This is just what they need!" I paused and added, "I don't want to go to another cremation."
I bought fifteen bags of the stuff—as many as Jacques and I could carry. I also bought the long needles and other paraphernalia, such as the cotton and alcohol. This would be a grand event. Maybe I couldn't afford a cocaine party, but I could still do something spectacular. Though glucose wouldn't make us stoned, it might improve our health. I’d amuse friends with the novelty of growing healthy together.
Back at the house I planned the party for the bedroom because, though the roof slanted to a point high above, horizontal beams crossed only seven feet from the floor.
Jacques didn't share my enthusiasm for the project. "You're serious about this glucose party? I don't know. I don't think anybody will show up."
"Sure they will. You'll see; this will be fantabulous."
Despite his lack of faith, Jacques helped me hang the glucose bags from a beam, placing them between the Laotian mobiles and the Laotian wedding canopy. We arranged fifteen pillows beneath the bags. I invited my guests—only those with intravenous experience. Let's see, who used needles? Junky Robert, yes, but Tish, no, so I didn't invite them. Eve, yes, but Neal was against needles, so I didn't invite them either. Norwegian Monica, no. Sasha, yes. Mental, of course. Jacques never used them, but he'd help host; and as hostess, I wouldn't participate either.
Jacques shook his head. "A glucose party! Nobody will come," he repeated.
But they did. Not one Person turned me down. A glucose party—an Anjuna Bach first. The affair was to last the three hours it took to drip a bag of glucose into one's vein. I moved the stereo upstairs. I had snacks catered from the chai shop.
Small problem—unlike a syringe, the L.V. setup was not structured to register a vein was hit (or maybe we just didn't know how it worked). You couldn't pull back a plunger to see if the needle had reached blood; the liquid went in one direction only—OUT. To make matters worse, since the bags hung seven feet overhead, by the time the glucose reached the needle, it was travelling fast. Very fast.
"Hey, Pin getting a bump!" said a guest as liquid surged into his arm, missed the vein, and collected under his skin.
"Tee hee, me too."
"How can you tell when you're in the vein?"
"I don't know WHERE this glucose is going, but it's definitely NOT going in my vein."
"Hey, this bump is growing really big!"
"Shit, man!"
"How do you stop this thing?"
Only Alehandro bit his vein. The rest of my party went home.
Later that night Jacques asked me, "So what will you do with all this glucose hanging from your rafters?" He could barely restrain the smile on his face.
I fervently wished I could afford coke.
And then the miracle of electricity happened. Workers brought power lines across the paddy fields to my little village. Though they'd already installed lines on Joe Banana's hill and the inland area, I didn't think they'd reach my secluded patch of sand, which held only eight houses and two chai shops. But they did. Lino, the landlord, supervised as a wire was attached directly to myhouse. Graham, my English neighbour, and the Goans across the way assembled to watch the event. Jacques and I held hands.
When the man climbed down the ladder, we clapped.
The next day, Lino sent an electrician to hook up the inside of the house. Since ours was the last area to receive power lines, the current came on shortly after. Graham came by to inform me.
"Have you tried it yet?" he asked.
"The electricity? It's on? Yippee!" I skipped to the switch in the two story-high living room and flicked it on, but nothing happened. Graham, Jacques, and I stared at the bulb, as if encouraging it. "It doesn't work," I said finally in disappointment.
"Mine does," said Graham, gazing up with his neck craned back. "Your lights are so far away."
"It's the ceiling that's far away."
"I think it IS on," argued Jacques, who'd climbed the stairs to check the bulb from a closer spot. Graham and I joined him on the second floor landing. "See?"
"See what? I don't see anything."
"Look closely. See the orange line? That's the filament glowing."
"Yay! It works. I have electricity!"
I whooped and danced down the stairs. Graham made us bhongs in celebration.
When my elation had subsided, I noted, "Not terribly useful, though, is it? It doesn't do what it's supposed to—provide light."
"Well, there's only a tiny power plant, and everyone on the beach probably has their lights on. It might be better at night."
I rushed to Mapusa for new bulbs. I replaced the thirty-watt bulbs they'd installed with two-hundred-watters. It didn't make a difference. From nightfall till midnight, the electricity was useless. Only the slight orange glow in the centre of the bulb verified the presence of current. It gave no light whatsoever. After midnight, though, it grew stronger and stronger, and in the wee hours of morning the house radiated. Before midnight I needed kerosene lamps, but after midnight I had electricity. Immediately I converted the boudoir to a theatre. I painted a white rectangle in the centre of a blue wall to act as a screen and added more blue and green jungle-print mattresses. I placed the projector on a blue table. So far I'd only shown the movies in Bombay.
Since I'd stopped distributing coke to every visitor, the multitude of eager noses had stopped visitin
g. I missed the attention. Why not have a Movie Night?
I invited everyone—even Narayan. With Narayan and I living on the same beat. It, I decided to treat him as a friend—or pseudofriend at least. Besides, this way I could show him the house.
"Hi, Narayan. Welcome to Movie Night," I said as I opened the door for him.
"Friend?" he asked hesitantly.
"Friend." I took his hand. "Come see my flush toilet." I pulled him through the crowd and took him on a tour. I showed him the toilet and the safe behind the painting. "This is where I keep my drugs. Protected and cool, out of harm's way." I didn't open the closet door that exposed the blowtorched hole in the safe; I whisked Narayan upstairs to point out the linoleum. I struck a Momsy pose. "Isn't it beautiful?" I asked. "What kind of floor do you have?"
"Old Fashion-style—dong."
"Aw." I made a pitying face.
The doorbell rang continually—the new doorbell; the old one had rusted in the monsoon.
"Yo, the sheriff is HERE!"
There was Black Jimmy, star still pinned to his best. "Jimmy!" I exclaimed. "Come in."
"Hello, Miss Cleo," said the next guest.
Serge!
"This is Miss Mireille."
And his Frenchie! Oh, shit!
Since I had no coke of my own, I positioned myself next to people who had some. I accepted Sima's offer, then sat by Alehandro for a snort of his; then I joined Amsterdam Dean. I indulged in everyone's stash while I savoured playing the Grande dame.
When the lights had grown bright announcing that there was sufficient electricity, I showed the movies. A mob crowded into the "theatre" to watch. I loved showing my films with Narayan present; in forty minutes of footage from Bali, be star in a single shot!
"Look, Anjuna was just a baby then," said Laura as we watched. "Those castles we had at Kaiya Waiya were, like, far out," said Trumpet Steve.
"Yo, dorn’t you have shots of the sheriff?"
"Not in Bali," I told Jimmy. "You left the country before I started filming. I have you in Bangkok."
"Do you have the movies of our wedding?" asked Gigi, who was sitting on Marco's lap with her arms around his neck.
"Not yet. They're sent out of the country for developing. Takes forever."
"Show the poker game again," someone requested.
"Look at that—Serge demonstrating how to use a pig toilet!"
Everyone cheered as they watched Serge lower his pants and squat. The roar woke up Junky Robert. ". . . DID NOT!" he exclaimed indignantly.
"There's the poker game. Hey, Dayid, looks like you were losing."
"Yes, I confess to impecuniousness at the game's termination," Dayid answered. Ashley perched near him on a window ledge, her jade cigarette holder slanting daintily in the air.
"Hoo, boy—look at Mental snort that line."
"Where is Mental, anyway?" I asked, noticing his absence for the first time.
"Last time I saw him he was hiding under the bed."
"Under the bed? Uh-oh." I remembered his tendency to create havoc. "I'd better go check on him."
I entered the bedroom to see a huge lump in the centre of the room. In Coke Amuck paranoia Mental had crawled under the bed—but not just under the mattress; he'd burrowed under the carpet too. What terror had made him slink underground, turning tables upside down? The mountain, trailing pink and purple satin sheets, trembled. On the summit, velvet cushions wavered.
"Mental? Mental, is that you? What are you doing?"
I could barely hear the muffled voice under sheets, pillows, mattress, and carpet. "I'm alright. Tee hee, don't worry about me. Tee hee, tee hee."
Remembering what happened the last time he freaked out at house, I didn't trust him. I petitioned Alehandro for help.
"Ola, Mental. Que pasa?"
We strained to interpret the answer: "mmfdm nmmd, tee hee . . . mmdt tee hee, tee hee . . . dmsmsm alright."
Alehandro planted himself in a rocking chair and told me not to worry, he'd watch Mental and make sure he didn't destroy anything. I shrugged my shoulders and returned to the party, leaving the rocking Spaniard with the lump.
When everyone left, I surveyed the mess the maid would have to face. The refreshments had come from her family's chai shop and would be added to my bill. Would they let me wait till next season to pay it? I wouldn't ask, though, until alter she had cleaned up.
"Where is my brass tobacco holder?" I asked Jacques. "The one with the skulls. It was right here. Do you see it somewhere?"
"That's where Eve and Neal were sitting," answered Jacques. "SHIT! Eve stole my bowl. I loved that bowl. Petra gave it to me."
By February the last of my cash had dwindled to nothing. I bought dope only when absolutely necessary, usually managing to scrounge from friends. As I apportioned the scrounging, I spent less time with Jacques. I didn't want him thinking I liked him only for his drugs, and socializing for a tum-on elsewhere took time.
Neal, usually my best source, was in worse shape than I. Nothing had worked for him, and he survived on the return of favours. By now, though, most debts had been repaid, and some people were even dodging him. Having a keep to at his side did not help his waning popularity. Pretty soon his landlord wanted to get rid of them, saying he had relatives who needed the room.
"Keo! Keo!" Neal's baby shouted in delight as I entered their home. The baby loved me. I didn't know why—I certainly wasn't a baby person. My appearance brought shouts of glee and a chorus of Keo! Keo! When I left, the baby cried.
"Hello, Ha," I said, patting her on the head.
"Yes, Keo's here," whispered Eve, none too happily.
When Neal told me of his housing plight, I invited him to stay with me. "I'll sleep on the waterbed in the front room and let you have the upstairs," I offered.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I know you don't like people around all the time."
What could I do? Neal was my closest friend. I also felt guilty about a package I'd sent for him. He'd asked me to mail an envelope with dope to the States. I took it to the Panjim post office (again stopping to say hello to Inspector Navelcar). Not till my taxi was halfway back to Mapusa did I realize I'd forgotten to ask for a receipt. When they didn't have to give a receipt, Indian postal workers pocketed postage and threw away packages. I remembered this fact of Indian life but felt too lazy to go back and hassle with them. Maybe they'd send it anyway.
They didn't. The package never reached its destination. I hadn't told Neal about forgetting the receipt. After the reports about my ripping off Mental and Giuliano, I feared Neal would think I had never sent the envelope and had kept the dope for myself. By inviting Neal and his crew to five in my home, I hoped to make up for ruining his scam. Besides, I couldn't leave a friend in distress to battle the elements on his own. I wasn't looking forward to having Eve underfoot, though. There went my belongings. Even less appealing was the thought of a baby in the house. Ugh! I hated kids.
I divided the house in two, giving Neal, Eve, and Ha the second floor, which could be entered from outside. Ideally, with the door shut at the top of the stairs, it would make two separate apartments.
Not to be. The connecting doors remained opened, and first thing every morning, the baby woke up and descended the stairs with the sole purpose of irritating me. The bracelet of bells Ha wore on one ankle aggravated the situation. In the midst of a peaceful sleep I'd hear TLING! step TLING! step TLING! step as the horrid creature came down the stairs. Half asleep and fuming, I'd think, "Don't come in here, you. Don't you dare bother me." But the little beast considered me her Aunt Keo and thought I was just wonderful.
TLING! step TLING! step. The sound would grow louder, and I could tell when Ha was in the living room. TLING! step. Oh, Fuck! Don't come near me. A pause. I'd hold myself still so she wouldn't hear a rustle and remember me. Maybe she'd go away. TLING! step. Oh, no. I'd hold my breath as she peeped in the doorway near where I had been sleeping. My eyes would he shut tight. A pause. And then, "KEO!" would
be shouted deafeningly in my ear, followed by annoying, childish laughter.
I really hated kids.
Fortunately Neal had a jar of liquid Opium that almost made their presence worthwhile. The amount I consumed daily shocked him.
"What happened to this jar!" he said once. "It's half empty. You're not eating that much Opium by yourself, are you? It's not possible for one person to consume that much. You do more than both Eve and I together. I'm quitting soon. Maybe next month."
I was changing physically. I perceived a shift in my energy level. I wanted only to sit around. I didn't want to sunbathe on the beach. I didn't want to tour the flea market. I didn't want to chat with the crowd at Joe Banana's. I didn't want to answer the door and receive visitors. I didn't want to do much of anything. I wanted to stay in one place with a good book. True, I could no longer afford the stimulation of coke, but I didn't think that lack of coke was the only reason for my sluggishness. Maybe the smack caused it? My low energy level seemed characteristic of many Anjuna Beach residents.
Fewer and fewer Anjuna people made appearances at beach parties. Or they came and left fast, preferring the private parties where one's stash didn't have to be shared with so many others.
"Where is everybody?" I asked Sasha one night on the beach as I climbed on stage and found a bunch of strangers.
"Well, there's the usual crowd smoking bhongs at Alehandro's," he answered. "The Italians are smoking bhongs at Gigi and Marco's, and the French at Bernard and Sima's. Who are you looking for?"
"I don't know. Anybody. Familiar faces." I watched the gyrations of the unknown horde. "Who are these people, anyway?"
"Newcomers living on other beaches. I don't know them either," said Sasha. "I guess I haven't been out much lately."
I looked at the people clustered around candles and said, "I remember when I knew everyone here." A spinning stranger brushed my forehead with fringes. I could no longer dance for hours the way I used to. Neither could Norwegian Monica, I noticed. In the past Monica had been a conspicuous figure, dancing wildly till dawn at every party.