Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

by Cleo Odzer

  When they body-searched me, they found nothing. They couldn't search that other compartment. Next I was given ugly, horrible clothes. Pants, of all things! I never wore pants—ugh! And underwear! They wanted me to wear underwear! They put a hospital-type bracelet on and deposit in the detention hall.

  Barred cells with their doors open lined two sides of the long room. Some of the fifty or so women watched television; some played cards; some just sat around.

  Within minutes mealtime came, and the women took seats around centre tables. The food was wheeled in. It hadn't been long since I'd left India, and so Western food still impressed me enormously. "WOW!" I exclaimed to those at my table. "This is dinner? Hey, this is fantastic. Oh, yum. Mmmm . . . delicious! Oh, boy!"

  My enthusiasm for dinner stunned my fellow prisoners, to say the least. A few snickered. Friends looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "YUM! Oh, yowee."

  Someone at the next table craned her head and stared. The woman across from me scooped her corn and dumped it on my plate.

  "Oo," I chirped. "Are you sure you don't want this? I haven't had corn in years. Wow, thank you so much! Oh, YUM!"

  An older woman let her fork clatter to her plate as she stopped eating to watch me. Smiling in wonder, she shook her head.

  "And is that a Twinkie? Oh, wow, this is a banquet!"

  They were greatly amused. I also noticed that a ferocious-looking Hack woman no longer had malice on her face as she looked at Inc. It had softened to pity for the nut case.

  "What are you?" one woman asked. "Federal or state?"

  I had no idea what she was talking about. It gave them final proof that I was a lost cause. "What's that?" I inquired.

  "Are you a federal prisoner or a state prisoner?"

  "I don't know. I'm here. What does that make me?"

  Someone made an impatient noise.

  "Your crime. Was it federal or state?"

  My face went blank. Either they were from Mars, or I was. They decided it was me.

  "Look at her bracelet," one said in exasperation.

  They looked.

  "She’s federal."

  I could tell they were impressed.

  "What are you?" I asked the least-intimidating one.

  "I'm state."

  "Oh."

  I’d heard stories about women criminals, and I now wondered if me might have a rough time locked up with these serious convict-types.

  But as I started to realize that they had decided I was loony-tunes, I felt safer. Somehow going spaced-out was a good defence. It inspired toleration.

  Meal over, I explored the room, looking prepared to fight off an enemy attack. Now they might give me trouble, I thought. As I walked by they whistled and made comments. One took hold of my arm.

  "Hey, sugar. You gonna be my ole Lady or what?" she asked. The others laughed.

  I remembered advice someone had given me about what to do when caught in an undertow—don't fight it; swim with it; let it carry you its short distance and then you will be free.

  "Sure," I answered her, lifting my hand to my hair so she could read my bracelet and be impressed by my "federal" status, whatever that was. She was young, petite, and nice looking. Here was a new adventure—a prison story, this one. I also had the Feeling she didn't really view me as a sex object.

  She and I did spend a lot of time together after that. If she didn't come to me, I sought her out. I figured it wasn't a bad idea to let myself be adopted by his woman and her tough-looking friends. We'd sit together in front of the TV. Sometimes she had her arm around me, but at due time did make sexual advances. She never tried to kiss me. It was more a game we played to entertain the others. I liked her, and her black friends turned out to be the most fun group in that place. One time I even turned her on to a little of my stash.

  I'd been arrested on a Friday, and that same day I called a friend and told him to contact John. On Monday I was informed I had a visitor. They brought me to a linen closet.

  Inside the tiny space, surrounded by folded towels and boxes of Mr. Clean, was a young guy who was apparently still trying to convince the guards that he was alright. "It's okay. I'm her lawyer," he said. "Just give us a few minutes. Really, it's okay." Unbelievably, they left me in the closet with this character, who sat perched on a stack of towels. "Hi, I'm Henry," he said when we were alone. "Actually, I'm not your lawyer. I'm a tax lawyer and friend of John's. We have many people in common. You know my wife from Goa—Madeline. Happy Madeline?"

  "Yes! She gave out wonderful acid at a beach party. She's your wife?" I piled a handful of towels on the floor next to him. When I sat, they wobbled, and as I flung an arm out for balance, I knocked over a stack of slices. We laughed. "Where's John?"

  "He's in town. He doesn't want to come to this place. You have a lawyer, He should he here soon. I just wanted to check if you needed anything."

  "I have a stash, thanks. When can I get out?"

  "As soon as they lower the bin it’s at fifty thousand now."

  I moaned. "I don't understand how this happened. Do you? What went wrong?"

  "I heard that an official became suspicious when you initially appeared for the passport, so he investigated the name. You were crying or something."

  "My eye! I had a tissue over my eye. I wasn't crying. Shit!"

  "Well, he thought you were crying, and it made him suspicious."

  Henry didn't stay long, but it was long enough for us to turn the linen closet into a shambles. Every time we made a gesture, something fell off a shelf. By the time he left we were up to our ankles in towels and laughing aloud.

  Later that day the real lawyer came, and we met in a more official looking, lawyer-client room. This guy was no fun at all.

  "I don't think you realize how serious this is," he said, not smiling. "The amount of cash you had, in your possession . . . They're curious as to how you acquired it."

  "How much do they have? They won't keep it, will they?"

  "Over five thousand." He looked at a paper in his folder. "Five thousand, three hundred, and fifty-seven dollars. Isn't that how much you had on you?"

  "Oh, good. I got worried for a moment."

  "There's more?"

  "Yeah, at the hotel. I left about fifteen thousand in a safety deposit box. I'm glad they didn't find that."

  "IN CASH?" When I nodded he sighed. "Well, we'll see what we can do."

  "Please, get me out of here soon."

  Finally, not that week, but the week after, my boring lawyer succeeded in reducing the bail to ten thousand, of which I had to pay only ten percent.

  The courtroom scene was a riot. I was my more-spacey self. I had to be. The judge asked questions I couldn't answer rationally if I didn't want to spend the next twenty years in jail. Why had I appealed for a passport under an assumed name? Oh, I just thought it'd be fun a while. Why had I registered at the hotel in yet another name? Same reason, just to be someone different. How many names did I use? Oh, oodles.

  The courtroom was packed with people. They had a wonderful time. Their laughter grew louder at each question I answered. There I stood with straggly blond hair, one high-heeled shoe painted red and white, the other painted blue, two-foot-long fringes swinging to my movements, eyes wide and trying to look innocent.

  "What were you doing with five thousand dollars in cash?" the judge asked.

  I made a face and groaned. "Argh! American Express. Phooey! I lost my traveller’s checks once and never got the money back. What a hassle they put me through. I HATE American Express!"

  I stamped my foot. The court guffawed.

  "UGH!" I continued. "All those forms! How was I supposed to remember the numbers on the checks? I had the numbers! But I didn't know which checks I'd already spent! How was I supposed to know that? I'd sent the receipts to Momsy for safe keeping! They'd SAID to keep the receipts in a safe place! They'd SAID to keep them separate from the checks! How could I keep track of the numbers if they were on the other side of the pla
net? I'll NEVER use American Express again!"

  I pounded my fist on the rail. The court roared.

  "And American Express doesn't hold mail very long, either. They send it back. Or throw it out. Now Thomas Cook is good."

  Time to pay the bail; Henry came forward with the money. Cash. All in tens and twenties. He started counting and then forgot how much he'd counted and had to start over. Though the attention of the court had by now turned elsewhere, it soon focused the commotion created by Henry's counting and recounting and the exasperated look of the court official. Eventually the official tried to help him court, but he too lost track amid the ruckus of the spectators and had to start again.

  The bail paid, I had to return to the detention hall to be officially checked out. This meant another trip in the unmarked car, handcuffed and chained. Again I cloaked the metal with fringe. I don't know how I'd have coped without that fringe.

  When I finally left I found John out front hiding behind a pillar. "APPLECROC!" We hugged—alter John inched me behind his pillar. The front stoop of detention hall was not the coolest place to conduct a romance.

  "Oh, Applecroc, I missed you!"

  I dug my face in his neck and thought, "Don't look at such a failure." John never got himself arrested. He was too smart.

  I had no excuse for the dim-witted way I landed in jail, especially after the warning. Plain stupidity. And since I was convinced that my old self would never have missed such a warning, it meant only one thing-I was losing it. My alertness, caution, logical thinking—my faithful old brain was going. Maybe it was time I found a new occupation.

  Meanwhile, my ordeal was far from over. I faced a hearing in six weeks' time. John and I found a studio at Trinity Apartments, a luxury complex that rented by the month. It had a pool, a gym, a sauna, plush red carpeting down its corridors—hey, this was great.

  San Francisco abounded with Goa Freaks, most of them living outside the city in Marin County. The first time the phone rang in our new apartment—the day we moved in—I heard a familiar French accent. "Hello, Cleo? It's Cecile. Can we come over?"

  Our apartment became the hangout for friends in town and friends passing through. Cecile and Texas Jack came every day. Richard popped in. Trumpet Steve dropped by with his son, Anjuna, who'd grown into a little boy. And, of course, Little Lisa. Lisa was a permanent fixture in the apartment. She'd arrive early in the morning and left I-don't-know-when. Since I was usually asleep by then. And there was Henry the lawyer. Henry wasn't into smack, but he sure liked coke.

  Unlike John and me, Lisa preferred to fix her drugs, coke and smack. She usually didn't do it around us, though, since John sneered when he saw needle marks on her arms.

  As soon as we had established ourselves at Trinity Apartments, John found a coke connection and started free-basing—smoking a purified form of cocaine. He had a base pipe and specialized gadgets, including a lighter that spurted flames like a blowtorch. I tried basing a few times but thought it a waste. It used more coke and, in my uncertain legal position. I worried about expenditures. No, thank you, I'll smoke my dope and snort my coke, if you don't mind. As John became swept up in his toys, Lisa fixed more openly. In a half-hearted attempt to hide her activities from John, she did it in the bathroom. Then came Henry—every day after work, in his neat suit and tie. Henry also liked to fix coke, so he joined Lisa in the bathroom. For hours. Hit after hit—the two of them stayed in there hour upon hour.

  Knock, knock. "Hey, you guys. I have to go to the bathroom. Do you mind?" I'd ask.

  "One fucking minute," would be Lisa's reply.

  I'd stand patiently by the door. From the other side would come the sound of conversation. Something would drop on the bathroom tarn. Knock, knock. "Are you coming out?" I would say, reminding them of my presence. "I've really got to go."

  "Just one fucking more hit. We'll be right the fuck out after this one."

  The conversation would continue in the same unhurried tone. Water would run in the sink. There was a rumbling sound as toilet paper unrolled. Knock, knock. "Liiiiiaaaaaa," I'd sing. No answer this time. Same conversation. Something else dropped on the floor. A match struck. KNOCK, KNOCK!! "LISA! Come on! only be a minute, then you can have the bathroom back. Henry?" I'd rattle the doorknob and kick the locked door until I had covered its bottom in footprints. BAM, BAM, BAM. "WILL YOU LET ME IN! I HAVE TO PEE!" BAM, BAM, BAM.

  The tone of their conversation didn't change. Water running again. A shoe dragging across the tiles.

  So I'd go back to the table, where John reigned over the base pipe, and console myself with a line of coke. When Lisa and Henry would finally come out, they'd stand outside the bathroom door impatiently, waiting to get back in. Tie and jacket removed, Henry's once-crisp shirt had lost its freshness after a few hours in there with Lisa. When I'd hurry out, they'd give me a dirty look and rush back inside before the water in the toilet had stopped flushing.

  "Oh, come ON!" I said. "I was only in there thirty seconds!" SLAM! "Hey, is that guy really a lawyer?"

  There was always a crowd in the apartment. I'd have to climb over someone and step around two others to move from one side of it to the other. With his business complete, John felt free to indulge himself in playing the boss. He and I sat on the convertible bed, the others sprawling on the floor within reach of the bhong and base pipe.

  I was annoyed. We never had privacy. I wanted to be with John alone! When people were around I wasn't with John; I was at a party. But Lisa was the worst. Aside from the fact that I had to plead and bargain every time I wanted to go the bathroom, she was ALWAYS there. If I was sleeping, it would be her morning arrival that would wake me up. If I was about to go to sleep, her voice or the sound of her running water in the bathroom would be the last thing I heard.

  "Hey, JOHN! Where're the fucking cigarettes?" she would demand.

  "The biggest problem we have, as I can see it," he told me, "is the judge who's been assigned your case."

  "Bad one?"

  "Severe. Very severe. He has a reputation for giving maximum sentences. Especially in cases involving drug smuggling."

  "Smuggling! What smuggling? They busted me for a passport!"

  Unsmiley scowled.

  I sighed and reclined on his crunchy leather armchair "Okay," I said. "So now what? Should I leave the country?"

  That shook him up, and he jumped. "What? No! You don't want to do that. Then you'd be in real trouble. Have patience and I'll see if I can't reduce the charges and arrange for you to go before another judge."

  "Please, please. I can't go to jail. I can't do probation, either. I don't five in San Francisco. My home is in Goa, so I can't stay here for a probation period. They wouldn't make me do that, would they?"

  He closed his eyes and massaged the space between them. "I'll see what I can do. In any event we'll have to set your court date back."

  "No! I must return to India. I can't stay here longer."

  He continued rubbing. "I'm telling you, you want to avoid this judge."

  John was no comfort either. "Oh, Applecroc . . ." I'd begin, kneeling on the bed and clasping a pigtail. John would smile and put an arm around me, moving the base pipe out of the way.

  "How'd it go with the lawyer?" he'd ask.

  "He said the judge . . ."

  Then Lisa would stick her head out the bathroom. "HEY, JOHN! Throw me that goddamn bag over there, will you?"

  "I've been assigned a really bad judge . . ."

  "HEY, JOHN! ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF? Throw me that goddamn fucking bag."

  John would ignore her. Texas Jack would ask John if he was finished with the pipe. John would begin to pass it, then decide to smoke one more bowl before relinquishing it to the crowd. His pigtail would slip from my grasp as he leaned over for the spoon.

  ". . . apparently he gives maximum sentences and . . ."

  By now Lisa would have made her way out of the bathroom and would be standing over us. She'd nudge John with her foot, smile, and in a sof
ter voice demand, "Hey, fuckface. Give me that."

  "What?" he'd ask in an aggravated tone.

  "That goddamn bag right next to you."

  "The lawyer’s trying to reduce it to a lesser charge so I can get another judge, but . . ."

  "What the fuck are you watching?" Lisa would ask, looking at the TV, which remained on twenty-four hours a day.

  John would hand her the bag and answer excitedly, "Oh, man. This is a fab movie. It's about a train robbery . . ."

  "You can't get away with those robberies anymore," Cecile chimed in.

  Richard: "Back then you could stop a train in the middle of nowhere . . ."

  John: "Rob a payroll . . ."

  Texas Jack: "Cool out in a mountain hideout . . ."

  Cecile: "The good old days . . ."

  Lisa: "Now they have fucking computers . . ."

  Trumpet Steve: "Who's got the bhong?"

  A voice from behind the sofa: "It's over here. Just a minute."

  A voice from the refrigerator: "Anybody mind if I drink this Dr. Pepper? It's the last one."

  Finally, my court date arrived. Unsmiley had succeeded in placing me before another judge, this one known to be easy. The charge against me had been reduced to a misdemeanour—theft of government property under fifty dollars. Unsmiley was optimistic about the outcome.

  He accompanied me to the courthouse, where we had to wait in the hall before entering. I wore my boring, beige airplane outfit, with shoes that matched. As I paced before the double doors of the courtroom, a posted piece of paper caught my attention.

  Oh my goodness! Look at that! Wide letters proclaimed: The United States of America versus . . . ME? I chortled out loud then clapped a hand to my mouth. I ran to where Unsmiley gazed out a window. I grabbed the sleeve of his neat, navy sell hurried him back to the door. "Look at this. I can't believe it. Look, look. Here—me! Against the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Isn’t that absurd?"

  He frowned at the disbelieving grin on my face, shook his head, and ONE OF CLEO'S INSECTS said, "That's what happens when you commit a crime. What did you expect?"