MAP OF A S I A

Goa Freaks
My Hippie Years in India

Cleo Odzer

Blue Moon Books

New York
All rights reserved. ISBN I-5620I-059-X his is a nonfiction story, hut some names and characters
and exact dates have been changed to protect identities.

Copyright 1995 by Cleo Odzer

Blue Moon Books, Inc. 61 Fourth Avenue

New York, NY 10003

Printed in the United States of America

 Acknowledgement

W ith special thanks to R ichard Franken for his continuing friendship

since these old Goa days and for his help and support with this book and
with Patpong Sisters. I'd also like to acknowledge his photographic talent.
Many of the photos used here are his.
 LISTOFILLUSTRATIONS

Map of India.................................................. Frontispiece

Map of AnjunaBeach..........................................................
Map of Cleo's House............................................................
Cleos B u g .........................................................................

8 pages of photographs
July I979

"BAKSHEESH," MUTTERED the beggar, thrusting his palm at me as I walked through the Colaba section of Bombay. He should have recognized me by now. In that rainy monsoon,
could there have been more than one young foreign woman with blue eyes, blonde hair, and a diamond in her nose? He had not gotten a rupee from me yet, and I'd been down that
street every day the past week. Glaring at him, I swerved to avoid the palm of another barefoot beggar, a boy in tattered shorts. Something told me they'd had more to eat more
than I had.
I waved my arm and yelled, "CELLO," one of the few Hindi words I'd m anaged to pick up during my four years in India. "GO! GET AWAY!"
At the end of the block I turned left to head back to the hotel, which had rusty streaks and the ceiling and jumbo water bugs in its communal shower. The day hadn't seen rain yet,
but dark clouds foretell that it soon would. Yesterday's deluge still flooded the streets, and the bottom of my ankle-length skirt had a muddy line that would probably never wash out.
How would I survive the next two months of this? All my friends had left for the summer. Nobody would deliberately spend a monsoon season in India if they could help it. Only the
losers got stuck in the rain.
"C leo! C leo!" I h ea rd som eone shout, and I tu rn e d to see Birmingham Bobby running toward me. I couldn't believe the scruffy
sight of him. Gone was the thick gold jewellery of two years before and his cocky
poise. Pimples now polka-dotted his once-smooth skin. "Hello, love," he said,
kissing me with enthusiasm and no hint of the former bad feelings between us.
"How're you doing? You look great. Got any smack?"
His hopeful grin shrunk as I shook my head and answered, "Only opium."
He grunted. "I'm sick of opium!" As his eyes searched the street for another
potential source of free drugs, he related his latest failure in the export business.
Then he sighed. "It's not easy here anymore, is it, love?"
"Nothing worked for me this year, either," I told him. "I came to Bombay
to keep from starving in Goa. Bila from Dipti's allows me one mango ice cream
a day on credit, and Yatin from Spaceways Travel lent me rupees for a few
days at the Crown Hotel. I don't know what do when that money runs out."
"Bloody daft how I'm broke," said Bobby, turning around to scan behind
him. "Stiffies Hotel threw me out for not paying the bill. I've been sleeping
on the street ever since."
Holy cow. I'd heard of down-and-outers who slept on the street with the
Indian beggars, but I'd never known one before. Though his was one of the
only friendly faces I'd run into, I had an urge to escape him; but before I could
utter an excuse, he spotted someone else he knew and dashed off without a
goodbye.
To cross an avenue I stepped into a foot of black flood water. Not
bothering to raise my stick, I let its already-stained hem float as I waded across.
Sleeping on the street with the beggars! Could that happen to me? How far
from that was I, anyway? Even with only one ice cream a day, my credit at
Dipti's wouldn't last forever, and I'd run out of people who could lend me
money. Had he still been afive and able to see me, my nice Jewish father, with
his Ritz hotel in Miami Beach, would have med. My nice Jewish mother in New
York still thought I was a successful model, though it had been years since I'd
sent her a magazine clipping. No, I couldn't let myself fall to that beggar level.
Even if it meant leaving India for good.
But I didn't want to leave India. This was my home. Goa was my dream,
my fantasy paradise. I couldn't leave it. Everything would be better in the fall,
when I could return thereto my house; to Bach, the dog I missed so much;
to the nightly beach parties. It was deserted in Goa nowthe houses boarded
up, the restaurants closedbut as soon as the monsoon ended, my friends
would return and it'd be jumping. Goa was my home. I just had to survive the
next two months, then I could get back to it.

Having rejected the thought of Rachid for more than a week, I decided I
had no choice but to involve myself with the slimy Indian. Rachidyuk. The
name "Rancid" would have suited him better.
I detoured to leave messages for Rachid at a juice stand and a shop selling
yogurt-type drinks called lassies, and then continued to the hotel. In my room, I
avoided brushing the walls and their layer of crud. I didn't sit on the chair,
where leatherish filth speckled the upholstery. Touching anything in the room
brought shivers to my skin. Before I lay down, I spread a kimono over the bed
to hide the sheet's circles of yellow and grey. To endore that place, I'd had to
shut a sensor in my brain, the sensor of aesthetics.

On the street the next day, Rachid pulled up beside me in a car

crammed with Indian men. Like wolves and coyotes, Rachid and his men travelled
in packs.
"Hello, darling," he said. "What can I do for you? Want cocaine?"
I told him I needed to make money. "Don't you have people cashing checks
for you or something?" I asked. I'd heard rumours about his underworld
businesses.
"For you, darling, I have something better. Something safer."
The job he had in mind did concern checks, travellers checks to be
specific, and was part of an Operation he ran in several cities. Apparently Rachid
had a network of Indians and foreigners working together. In Step One of the
scam, his Indians hunted tourists. I would enter in Step Two, where the
tourists were conned into parting with their travellers checks. Cashing them
was the last and riskiest step, and Rachid had a separate group of foreigners for
that.
My sensor for compassion must have been numbed also; didn't care what
the job entailed.
"Darling, you go back to the hotel and wait," he told me. "We will call
you when we're ready. Someone will go with you until you learn the routine.
Here is a hundred rupees. Go eat. You need smack? You know you can always
come to me, darling. Rachid will take care of you."
I wasn't at the hotel long before I received the phone call. I'd picked up a
feast of food, and the call came after I'd wolfed down a pepper steak and was
gobbling the third raspberry doughnut. I wasn't sure how the scam worked. I
did know I was to play the role of a tourist, removed
the diamond from my nose and put on my "government dress," the one I
wore to renew my visa. Another crowded car pulled up to the hotel, this time
without Rachid, and I squeezed in between an Indian and a seedy looking
Frenchman who had dirty hair and dandruff.
"We have an American waiting in a cafe," one of the Indians told
"This is your husband." He p o in ted to D andruff, who m anaged a
d roopy-eyed greeting. R achid probably em ployed every ju n k y in
Bombay. The Indian continued, "You are to pretend you made money with
us yesterday and are back today to make more. Here, take these travellers
checks. Do not worry. It is easy."
At that moment, my stomach was so nice and full I couldn't have felt
other than blissfully content. And one more raspberry doughnut awaited my
return.
The car left a block from the caf6' as light rain began. W hen we
walked in. Dandruff recognized another one of Rachid's men, who waved us
to the table where he sat with a crew-cut American.
"Hello, hello," the Indian welcomed us warmly. Then, turning to the
tourist, he said, "Here is the couple I told you about. Yesterday they
earned, what was it, almost two hundred dollars, right?" He looked at us. We
nodded. "You had no problems, did you?"
"No," rephed Dandruff, my dirty, droopy husband. "Piece of cake."
We drank tea, and then Rachid's man purposely stepped away a
minute so the tourist could confer with us and be reassured. "What does he
want us to do exactly?" the American asked me. "Buy travellers checks for
him? That's it?"
"That's all," Dandruff informed him. "He gives us American dollars and
we buy him checks. There's a rule that Indian nationals aren't allowed
to have foreign currency. But they need travellers checks in foreign
currency to leave the country. Typical bureaucratic bullshit. We make a
percentage of the amount we change."
When we left the restaurant, the four of us took a taxi to a less
commercial part of town. The squat buildings looked like factories, and fewer
people walked the streets. By this time it was pouring, and Dandruff, the
tourist, and I huddled under the tourist's umbrella. Rachid's man, standing in
the rain, explained we were to wait there while he went to get the money.
M eanwhile, since he would be trusting us with his cash dollars, we were
to let him hold our travellers checks. The amount of cash we'd be given
would match the amount of our travellers checks he'd be holding.

"The money is in a safe around the comer," he said, hunching forward

to keep the rain out of his eyes. "You give me your checks now and I will put
them in the safe and come back with the money."
Following Dandruff's lead, I handed him the travellers checks I'd
been given in the car. After watching us give the man our Checks, the
tourist didn't hesitate more than a second before handing over his.
Uh-oh. I suddenly realized we'd be left waiting there with the nein
American until he figured out he'd been ripped off.
"Are you sure this is okay?" he asked as we watched the (Irene hed
Indian walk away with his two thousand dollars worth of Am erican
Express. The rain formed a blur around us. D andruff left the refuge of the
umbrella to sit on a concrete wall. Oh, terrificnow I was alone with the
guy. I tried concentrating on my furry Bach back in Goa. Had Bach run
away from the Person I'd left him with? Was somebody feeding him? Did he
miss me?
"Where are you from?" I asked our victim. Water cascaded off the
umbrella, over my elbow, down my leg, and into my left shoe.
"W isconsin. Ever been there?" W ater poured down his back and
ruined the crease in his trousers.
I shook my head. My shoe squished as I shifted my weight. I wondered
how long this would take.
"We certainly picked the wrong time of year to vacation in India,
didn't we?" he stated.
"Um . . . really! My travel agent didn't say anything about a rainy
season. Did yours?"
"This isn't a considerate place to have us wait," he commented next. "Is
this where you waited yesterday?"
I looked at Dandruff on the wall, eyes closed, letting the rain flow
over him. I nodded and tried to recall the taste of the raspberry doughnut.
"What do you do in Wisconsin?" I asked, wishing the guy wasn't so dose. I
could feel the heat o f his hand next to m ine as we held the umbrella.
"I manufacture nuts and bolts in specialized sizes. What do you do?"
"Oh, um . . . uh . . . this and that. You know." I'd have to think up
 better answers.
Fifteen minutes later, our victim started to worry. "W here is that
man? He's Tate. Did it take this long yesterday?"
Again I looked at Dandruff. His eyes were still closed. "No, yesterday
he came right back. I hope nothing went wrong."
 After another twenty minutes our victim groaned. "He's not coming back," he
said. "I think we've been robbed."
At this point. Dandruff joined us and wrinkled his forehead in an effort to look
concerned. "No! You think so?"
"What can he do with our travellers checks?" I asked. "You need identification
to them."
"The bastard!" exclaimed Dandruff forcefully.
"What do we do now?"
"We must report to the police."
"But we can't tail the truth," Dandruff said with feigned dismay. "What we
planned to do is illegal. It will be us who'll be in trouble. We'll have to say the Checks
were lost."
"You're right. Or that they were stolen from the hotel room," I added.
Finally, when the tourist surrendered all hope, we agreed to leave separately to
report the lost checks.
Later, Dandruff and I split three hundred dollars, our fifteen percent of the man's
checks. If the foreigners who cashed them received the same percentage, that still left
Rachid a juicy profit; and who knew how many others like us Rachid had working for

"Listen," I said to Dandruff, "do you think I can ask them not to leave me in
the rain next time? There must be a place with a doorway or an awning or
something."
"Don't do that. The more comfortable it is, the longer you'll have to wait. Believe
me, it goes fastest when you're out and exposed in a torrential downpour."
After devouring the remaining doughnut, I moved to a room that had its own
toilet. What a luxury. Though I wasn't thrilled with my new vocation, the
compensations eased my conscience. I went to the Sheraton to buy French bread,
Camembert cheese, and a bottle of American shampoo. Oh, boyI'd be able to wash
the sticky soap mess from my hair. I just might survive until September after all.
After four more days with Dandruff, I worked alone.
But I hated it. I hated standing there as the tourists realized their checks weren't
coming back. The long wait while hope faded was torture. As they agonized over
what the loss meant, I agonized over being the one who caused it.
"I've been saving for this trip for years," said a German woman during our
second half-hour of waiting. "I always wanted to visit the Ganges
River." She paused to look mournfully in the direction she'd let someone
walk away with her travellers checks.
I felt awful for her, knowing m yself the ordeal of reporting lost checks.
If she came to India for only a two-week excursion, she'd probably never dip
her toes in the Ganges now. I tried not to think of it. I resisted the image of
me as a cretin. I thought of Goa instead. And Bach. And the food I could
now afford.
Though I could tell that speculation about my role flickered through
people's minds while we waited, nobody accused me outright. What worried
me was the possibility of running into somebody at a later date. The tourist
area of Bombay was small, and I knew our victims would learn the details of
the scam as soon as they returned to their hotels. Undoubtedly their desk
clerks had heard of it. It was notorious at American Express, which had
even posted flyers with descriptions of Rachid's people. This was big
business, and I, for one, received the call at least once a day.
After a few weeks, anxiety that I might be spotted grew to fear and then
terror. V isions o f being dragged through the street, kicked and cursed at,
haunted me whenever I went out. So I bought a black wig and a pair of
sunglasses. Now, on top of everything, I felt ridiculous as I slinked down
alleys in disguise. If I glimpsed a W esterner on the street, I'd turn to a store
window to see if I could recognize the person in the glass reflection before
he or she recognized me.
When Rachid suggested I go to Delhi, I was enormous relieved.
"Darling, you will like it better in Delhi," he said. "All my people stay in one
hotel. It will be like a party. See how I try to make you happy, darling?"
Dandruff came, too. Apparently tourism was booming in Delhi. The three of
us flew together, and Rachid took us personally to the hotel. As we entered, the
Indian employees steeped their hands and lowered their heads respectfully to
him. He m ust have owned the place. U pstairs, Dandruff and I were
introdoced to six Westerners, all male, all droop looking, and all sleazy.
A porter showed me to a room. I was impressed: it had its own bedroom.
"Here you are, darling. Is this not cosy?"
During the day, we sat around a central area waiting to be called. The hotel
manager would summon us.
"Your turn." The Indian signalled Dandruff.
"What, again? I already went twice today."
 "Cleo, you're next."
"But Tin in the middle of a Tandoori chicken," I moaned.
Sometimes we were all out at once. Rarely were more than three of us there at one time. In
Delhi I relaxed. With the hotel outside the city centre, I no longer feared running into a victimafter
the feet I still hated thejob, but I was surviving the monsoon. And there was a wonderful
Bengali restaurant down the block Food! Soon soon I would be back in Goa.
One evening Dandruff didn't return. We notified Rachid. Late that night a knock woke
me. Half asleep, I didn't think twice about opening the door until two police officers strode into
the room
Oh, shit.
"You are tourist?" asked a little inspector, looking into comers. "Uh ... yes."
"Please, you Show me your passport."
When I did, he sat on the bed to examine it. The other policeman searched the room at first
poking into empty drawers and then rummaging through the suitcase where all my clothes tangled
into one big knot. "But you are staying in India what eleven months?" the inspector said, trying to
figure out my entry dates. "No, you are making one trip to Bangkok and return. What is your
occupation?"
"Oh, um ... uh "
"Is this correct? It is saying that you are bom in 1950. You are twenty-one?" He looked
closer at me. "No, you are being no more than eighteen." People always mistook me for younger
than my age. He compared me to the passport picture.
Just then the other officer came across a set of travellers checks hidden in a bikini bottom He
brought them to the inspector, and the two of them smiled Humpty Dompy-style.
"So! These are your checks? This is your name?"
They weren't and it wasn't.
The police took me away.
A canvas-coveredjeep waited in front of the hotel, and in the back wrapped to his ears in a
blanket sat Dandruff.
"What happened?" I asked, climbing in and sitting beside him
He waited till the engine blocked his voice from the driver, then answered, "A tourist
recognized me from last year. She called the cops. They beat me. Look, they pulled my earring
out." He motioned to his bloody lobe. "The pigs ruined my ear."
Was that supposed to justify his informing on me? Obviously he'd led the police
to my door. He must not have mentioned anyone else from the hotel just me.
Thank you very much. Dandruff. I'm going to get you for this, I thought, while I
smiled at him. "Are you all right?" I asked. At that moment I needed a fellow sufferer more
than I needed an enemy.
 It was still the middle of the night when thejeep brought us to the police station, and our
arrival woke the servants who'd been, sleeping on the concrete floor of the courtyard. After
depositing Dandruff in an empty cell that said "Lathes," the police escorted me to a narrow
room overwhelmned by yellow folders and smelling of an earlier curried meal.
"We are having no facilities for you," the inspector told me. "You must be spending the
night in this office." He spoke Hindi to a servant who'd scurried in behind us. After
producing blankets of the same type I'd seen wrapped around Dandruff, the servant was
dismissed for the night "Here, you sleep here," the inspector said as he spread blankets on the
floor; one, half under the desk and another, a few feet away. Then came a clanging of chains.
"Come, you are lying down now." I sat on the floor and tried to make a pillow of my
handbag, bunching it into a ball. He approached me. "I am sorry, I must manacle you.
Please, you are lying down." He kneeled near me with a gigantically thick chain that should
not have been used for anything smaller than an elephant. "Here. You are putting your foot
here." I moved as directed until the bottom half of me lay under the desk. He chained my
ankle to its initial leg. Theo he went to the other blanket and turned out the light
The ceiling fan revolved slowly. I could barely feel the stirred air passing through the
top wisps of my hair. Outside in the station courtyard the sounds of activity grew quieter
as the servants settled hack down for the night A door slammed at the end of the corridor, and
I heard a foreign shout in the distance. An answering shout came in more words I couldn't
understand. My shoulder blades dog into the floor, but I couldn't turn to the
side with my foot chained to the desk.
I cried.
Chained under a desk, deep inside a police station somewhere in
New Delhi, in India, in the middle of the nightI didn't want to think. I
wanted desperately to sleep sleep and let all this go away for a while.
I suspected, though, I wouldn't be able to do that just yet.
And there he was. As the last thump and shuffle moved off in the dis
tance, there was the inspector at my side, right up against me. He stroked
my hair and, with a sexual smirk in his voice, said, "You are not having to cry. I
can make everything okay for you. I can take away this manacle even, if you are
wishing."
The scratchy surface of the handbag itched my neck. How had I gotten
myself into this mess? Somewhere along the way I'd lost control of my life.
Something somewhere had escaped me. But it had all been so wonderfulhadn't
it? I'd created the perfect home for myself in Goa. Goa was my dream
community, my fantasy paradise. It represented everything I'd ever wanted.
But I wasn't in Goa at the moment. Goa seemed worlds away. What had
gone wrong?
As the inspector fondled my hair, I remembered my mother's night time
touch when I was a little girl. She'd sit on my bed and caress me until I fell
asleep. Sometimes she'd sing a Song about dolls or a Swiss man who made cheese.
This only happened on Thursdays, though, because that was the government's
day off.

The only child of a wealthy family, I grew up in a large New York City
apartment overlooking Central Park. We had a cook and a cleaning lady. I had a
French nanny and went to a French school, driven there in a chauffeured limousine.
Nobody in the family was French; but French was chic and the family was very
chic. We spent the nasty months of the year in a Florida hotel, the Eden Roc, in
which my father had a partnership. I was raised in the good life, destined for
LaHoodthe coddled existence of a Jewish American Princess.
As I approached my teen years my father developed Parkinson's disease.
Stories of his falling in the subway and being helped home by strangers made
my heart ache. During New York's famous blackout, his blank gaze as he sat in
his candlelit wheelchair made me realize he was no longer cognizant.
As I watched his mind and body deteriorate, I was unaware that our finances
were doing the same. By the time I was old enough to appreciate grandeur, we
no longer lived in it. It took my father years to the, years spend as a vegetable.
In the meantime, my mother thought it better to let me run wild than to keep me
home while he wasted away. And run wild I did.
"What's going on here?" she asked once, entering my room.

A group of us lay on the floor, speechless, enraptured by a swirly design

that circled round and round. Marijuana smoke fogged the air, but my mother
couldn't identify the smell. I was fifteen.
"Hey, Momsy. Look at this! Psychedelic!"
The guys had long, straggly hair. My mother stared at one wearing a toga
and makeup. Over the sound of the Rolling Stones she yelled, "Cook said
dinner will be ready at seven."
"We're going for pizza," I answered, my eyes pleading her not to object.
She glanced again at the toga. "Momsy, I can't eat here. Please?" She hesitated
but, as always, she let me go. She knew how it hurt me to watch my father's
spastic body be fed by the nurse, food dribbling from his chin. "And, Momsy,
would you dose the door, please?"
Out every night from the age of fifteen, I became a regular on the disco
scene. No club charged me admission; everybody knew me by the age on my
phoney I.D. At seventeen I wrote a column in Dow ntown, a Greenwich Village
newspaper. "Pop Sounds by Cleo," it was called. I got free concert passes to
interview musicians backstage.
Despite the nocturnal pursuits, I did not drop out of school. In fact, achieved
my highest grades while at my wildest. I'd always hated being told what to do
when Momsy said be home by eleven, I sne2ked out again at midnightand
until my junior year in high school I'd been a terrible student. Three schools had
expelled me, the French one and two o th ers. B ut then I tra n sfe rre d to
Q uin tan o s S chool for Y oung Professionals. For models, actors, and rock
musicians, this school catered to the weirdo. At Quintanos, students weren't
required to learn at all. In this atmosphere I flourished. Rarely would I be
graded less than an A. With no one forcing me to study, I did it because I liked
it.
By my nineteenth birthday, my father had died, the money was gone, and
my mother had to move to a smaller apartment with no room for me. Though it had
been my idea to five alone, I'd wanted privacy, not excommunication, which was
what the Break in standard of living brought me. W ith the cessation of my
weekly allowance, I felt immediately excluded from my previous life. Our old
kitchen had been so big it needed a sink at both ends; now all I had was a toaster
oven on the bed stand of my rented room.
When I visited Momsy, she took me on a sad tour of the apartment she'd
crammed herself intofive huge rooms on the sixteenth Floor of an elegant
building on lower Fifth Avenue.
She wailed forlornly, "I don't know how I'll avoid claustrophobia
here. And I can only afford the cleaning lady three days a week." The
second bedroom had been converted to a library, and she gestured defeatedly,
telling of the books she'd thrown out to accommodate the smaller shelf space.
"Momsy, I have a cavity and need a dentist," I told her.
"Baby, I wish I could help, but I just sent the sable to the furrier to be
shortened and I haven't a cent left. With short skirts in style, I look retarded
in a long coat, and I can't afford a new one."
W ith my m other barely able to m aintain herself. I'd have to make my
own way. There wasn't sufficient insurance money to support us both. But
what was I supposed to do? I'd been raised to be a rich man's daughter. No
one had geared me for the proletariat.
Bootlessly adrift, I felt homeless and even stateless. New York wasn't
hospitable. There was nothing for me there. I tried m odelling, but my
m easly five feet three inches disqualified me from the profession. W hat to
do?
Eventually I decided to go away. My bank account totalled twelve
hundred dollars, a life's worth of birthday presents from relatives. And so, after
closing the account, I left the United States, bought an old car in Paris, and
became a free-spirited traveller.
"Where are you going?" the European border guards would ask as I drove
up in my colourful car. I'd painted a smiling face on the hood; on the roof,
a cracked raw egg ran yellow and white into the bright colours of the car
doors. A purple ghost on the trunk snarled at riders behind me who objected
to my novice driving skills.
"I'm just going," I would answer.
"What happened to your front license plate?" they'd ask next, noticing its
absence.
"It fell off. But the numbers are there see them?" I'd painted the
license number in the smiling mouth. It looked like teeth.
During the two and a half years I travelled around Europe and the
M iddle East, I m odelled. In countries without blue-eyed blondes, I did
well. In Greece you couldn't turn on the TV without seeing me with a tube
of toothpaste or a can of deodorant, and I even perform ed m inor parts in
movies. In other countries, though, such as Holland with its lofty blondes, I was
again too short to model. When winter made it too cold to sleep in the car, I
lived on people's floors or in hippie hideaways in abandoned buildings.
Poverty was okay if you were a traveller; then it made it a statem ent: I'm a
rebel in search of a better world. I'm a flow er child
protesting capitalist values. I'm not part of your system.
"Hi, there. Remember me? Can I sleep on your floor again tonight? I'll
be leaving soon for the Sinai in Israel. Heard there's a scene happening there
in the desert."
Being "on the road" was a great way to meet people and have adventures.
After a while, though, I tired of leaving places. I wanted a home, but I
needed a place with people who had my kind of visions, people free from
societal mores and the restraints of tradition. So far I hadn't found anything
like that.
"Go to India," someone told me. "That's where the Freaks five."
I'd met a few Freaks here and there in my travels. From a variety of
nationalities, they were people who'd given up their m otherlands and their
former lifestyles. They had a creative outlook on life and a collection of
utopian idealsplus an urge to have fun and avoid work.
"Really?" I asked. "Where in India?"
"Goa."
 I975
September

I BOUNCED INTO India on an overland bus I'd boarded in Athens. Specks of dirt and dost hovered in the air and covered everything by the time the other young
passengers and I crossed from Pakistan via an unpaved road. The flies th atd joined us in Lahore were still with us, though their buzzing couldn't be heard over the
blasting rock m usic. We'd been on the road six weeks, and as one of my feet scraped the floor, it gouged a path through a melange of dirt from Greece, Turkey, Iran,
Afghanistan, and Pakistan. A sample of this international sniff could also be found in my ears, in my nasal passages, under my nails, and now a chunk of the Indian variety
was crusting in the comers of my eves. But this was India INDIA! and I was ready and eager to experience the East. Something special awaited me hereI could feel it.
Maybe this was where I'd find a home.
In New Delhi, our first stop, some passengers got off and we picked up new ones. The new people had an indescribable quality about them. You could tell they'd been in
the East a while. Their clothes hung looser, their mannerisms seemed freer, and they had a certain inner tranquillity. One A m erican couple, Paul and Pam, both with w aist-
length, wavy brown hair, told us they'd been living in Goa four years. Paul, in white, flowing pants and a white top, stood in the front of the bus and helped with directions. I
watched Pam to discover what gave her that "devour."
Whatever it was, I wanted it.
In Bombay, we parked overnight to sleep in the bus near the marble
colum ned Taj M ahal H otel where two Germ an wom en and I took a
refreshing sponge bath in the lathes' room of the lobby. On the way back, with
washed underw ear in our hands, we noticed what seemed like oblong
bundles of garbage against the hotel's wall. I froze as a bundle moved, half
expecting a rat to run out.
"What's the matter?" one of the Germans whispered.
The three of us remained still as we realized the oblong shapes lined both
sides of the street.
"Look!" A bit of hair protruded from the far end of one; from the other,
bare feet. I pointed to a baby arm sticking out from a tiny one. "They're
people!"
"B aksheesh," someone said, suddenly taking hold of my elbow. I
turned to see a woman in a ripped sari holding a baby with an oily streak across
its face. "Paisa," she said holding her palm out and then gesturing toward her
mouth. "Paisa."
Another beggar appeared next to us, and two were detached from their
rag bundles and headed in our direction. A child took hold of my ruffled
dress and stuffed the edge of a ruffle in her mouth.
Was this where I wanted to five? "Let's get out of here," I said.
The next afternoon we were to leave for Goa. I spent the morning
looking for a place to leave my enormous suitcase, so full of clothes they'd
called me Hippie Deluxe in Europe. I wanted to bring only the minimum
with me a few outfits packed in a sleeping bag. I also needed a safe place
to leave my portfolio of modelling pictures. If I lost that, I wouldn't be able to
work.
By ten in the m orning, Bombay's heat had baked my bones. Though it
didn't take long to find a hotel storage facility for my luggage, I was at a loss
over what to do with my pictures. A fter hours of unsuccessful inquiry. I
parked myself in six square inches of shade under a traffic signal. Sweaty and
exasperated, I was sure I'd scream if one more beggar touched me.
"Yen are In d ia n m m a s k e d w hen I re m a in e d u n d e r the t r a f
fic signal after everyone else had crossed the street.
I moaned and stamped my foot. "Uii! I don't know where to leave my
portfolio; my feet are killing me; it's too hot here; it's too crowded; my bus
is going to leave any minute; and these beggars are driving me CRAZY

The man smiled tolerantly and gave me his card. "I work for Indian Airlines. You
see thereit is just down the roadway. Would you like for me to show you
around the city?"
"I'm heading for Goa soon," I told him. "Do you know where I could
leave my portfolio? It's my most valuable possession and I don't want to
Lake it with me."
"Why, I will hold it for you if you wish. You can find me in the office
every work day. Perhaps on your return to Bombay you will let inc escort you
to dinner."
I looked him overgrey tie; pointy, polished shoes. Perfect! Where
could I find a safer place than with this nice business man in his nice suit?
"Great!"
I handed over the portfolio. He looked so reliable, I didn't bother to ask
where he'd put it. Hidden behind a picture were two hundred dollars in
travellers checks, half the money I had left in the world. I wanted to set that
aside for an emergency.
That afternoon our bus began the final lap of the journey. It took fifteen
hours from Bombay to the border of Goa and would take another ten to
Calangute, our destination. A colony of Portugal until 1961, Goa revealed
itself to be different from the India we'd seen so far. No desperate poverty,
for one thing. And the countrysidewow! All we'd seen previously had
b een d ry d e se rt land; G oa was green and lu sh w ith vegetation. Giant
leaves hung over the road, periodically skimming the roof of the bus.
"YEOW!" yelled a surprised passenger as a super-leaf slid in the
window and poked her in the cheek. We drove through the oversized
greenery in awed silence. Having travelled, cramped and hurled about, for
six weeks, we'd finally arrived in Goa.
The road lay bare except for the occasional ox cart, a few bicycles,
some cows, and chickenslots of chickens. At a ferry crossing, we had to get
off the bus. From a mound of dirt on the side, we watched the old-timers
Paul and Pam direct the big vehicle onto the small boat.
Apparently the government was in the process of building a bridge
across the river. Steel structures strode a hundred yards into the water
and ended abruptly, looking as if their construction workers head ju st then
for lunch.
"It's been like that for years," said Pam, "and I've never seen anyone
working on it." Nothing happened fast in India.
H alf an hour after reaching the other side, we arrived at the ocean.
Tall palms leaned over the calm water, and pastel Portuguese-style houses could be
seen through bushes. Occasionally, a dog would run out and bark at us for
disturbing the quiet.
In late afternoon we pulled into Calangute. My fellow travellers collected
their gear and dispersed in twos and threes. I'd never noticed beforewas I the
only one travelling alone?
"Bye," I said, waving to the German women as they dragged away a duffel
bag. "Ciao," I said to an Italian couple after lifting a backpack onto a back.
Now what do I do?
The blue Mercedes bus seemed friendly and familiar. I hesitated to leave it.
I looked around. It was parked in a paved square near the sea. The sun was almost
down. Soon the drivers, Tom and Julian, with whom I'd barely spoken during the
voyage, were the only ones left by the bus. Tom, an American, with red hair and
pale skin, leaned against the rear of the vehicle. Julian, an Englishman with
shoulder-length brown curls, stood next to him. I knew they'd been driving Freak
buses back and forth from Athens to Amsterdam, but this was their first trip to
India. Suddenly alone after weeks with fellow trail mates, I began to find Tom
appealing. I looked once more around the empty square and back stepped to where
he stooped over a rear wheel.
"Is it okay?" I asked.
He knocked the tire with his sandaled foot and looked up. "Sure. We're
just, you know, checking that everything's tiptop for the trip to Delhi."
"When are you going?"
"Tomorrow."
"So soon?"
"We'll be back in ten days. We plan to, you know, return here for a vacation
after making a bit more money driving."
I hung around until they locked the bus, and then the three of us went to
an outdoor restaurant. We watched the sky darken pinkish over the beach. I
leaned toward Tom and asked, "Where are you staying tonight?"
"I guess you know, find a room somewhere."
"Can I stay with you?"
The freckles on his cheeks shifted as his face crinkled in delight. "Sure."
After dinner the three of us took a walk to the beach and then back

around the square. Palm leaf shacks, called cliai shops, edged the asphalted area.
 Chai means "tea" in Hindi, and though they probably did have tea, from their
many misspelled signs I gathered that they specialized in milkshakes flavoured
with the fruit of the season, the current one being mango. The chai shops were
full of travellers, barefoot, tanned, with hair that had that bristly, salt-water look.
As we strolled, Julian kicked along a coconut shell. A curl fell in front of his eyes
when he looked down. Cute. Meanwhile, Tom's arm leaned heavily across my
shoulders. Annoyingly, he kept trapping my hair under his arm.
When Julian left us, Tom beamed at me. "I've been, you know, waiting to
sleep in a real bed for six weeks now."
"Me too," I answered, as much aroused at the thought of stretching out as
by Tom's body.
We found a guest house on the sand behind a chai shop. After weeks bent
into a seat, I lolled luxuriously on the narrow bed. Red designs on the
bedspread matched the red freckles on Tom. IndiaI'd made it to India, to
Goa. Wow. Even the ocean air smelled of impending adventure. I couldn't wait
to wake up in this new place. But, disturbingly, as I lay anticipating morning, I
couldn't stop thinking of Julian.

The next day, after breakfast and a quick look at the wide, empty beach
extending in both directions, Tom and Julian boarded their bus for the trip to
Delhi. Time for me to find my own place to stay. Paul had told us a house in Goa
could be rented for as little as seven dollars a month.
"Hey;" I shouted to the bus window, "I'm going to find m yself a house.
You guys can stay with me when you get back." They smiled and waved and
drove away, leaving a trail of red dost.
Now what?
I made a tour of the chai shops. Actually, the people there seemed touristy.
They reminded me of the backpackers in Europe, vacationers who'd soon
return home with a couple of stories and crates of photographs. Tourists!
Where were the Freaks I'd heard about? This was not what I'd expected. Was this
it? Was this Goa? Where had Pam and Paul gone?
"Try Anjuna Beach," suggested a man with a camera around his neck and
white cream on his nose. "That's where the parties are."
"Its in Goa?"
"Of course. Goa' s a whole state." He took out a guidebook and leafed
through it. "See here, it says Goa has eighty-two miles of coast." "How far is
Anjuna Beach?"
"A few hours. You go down this beach to the end. That's Baga. You cross the
Baga River, then go over the mountain, and on the other side is Anjuna. Can't miss
it."
M ountain? River? Sounded like a real excursion. I made another tour of
the chai shops. No, nothing happening there. I decided to check out Anjuna
Beach. A Frenchman offered to let me stay overnight in his Baga house and I
accepted, enjoying the company for half the journey. I unrolled my sleeping bag
on his floor.
I declined his unwanted midnight passes. "Shh, no! I'm sleeping.
Goodnight."
Early the next morning, I made my way to the Baga River. The tide was out.
Following the Frenchman's instructions, I waded across through shallow water.
On the other side was a hill (not a mountain), which I climbed by following a
rocky, and in some places nonexistent, path. Halfway down the other side, I had
my first view of Anjuna Beach, bordered by another hill about three miles away. I
could see only the tops of palm trees and acres of paddy fields. It was getting
hot, and the ocean to my left looked welcomingly cool.
The first house I encountered was a chai shop called Joe Banana's. Three
steps led to an open porch bordered on either end by cement benches and
wooden tables. Scantily clad Freaks sprawled there passing a chillum of hashish.
Fat clouds of smoke drifted by. Aha! Now these were a different type of people
from those in Calangute. No white-cream noses here. No cameras. No
guidebooks. And they had that elusive quality I couldn't put into words. This
was it. This was for me. Now I had to find a house.
I tapped the shoulder of a guy with a mass of long curls. "Excuse me," I
said, "do you know where I could find a house to rent?"
He gave me a curious smile and stared a second before answering, "You
asked me that question before. On Ios, in Greece, outside of town. Remember?
You stopped me and asked for directions to a cave. You asked in the exact
manner you did now."
Hey! An old friend, almost.
"You're still on the road?" he added, laughing. "I remember thinking you
were just a vacationer."
A vacationer! He called me a vacationer. I was crushed. That was like
calling me a nine-to-fiver, a worker, a peasant. "No!" I protested in a
voice pitched higher than usual. "I've been on the road three and a half
YEARS! Before Greece, I lived in a tree house in the SINAI! Before that I
was on a KIBBUTZ! And before that I drove ALL OVER EUROPE living
in a painted car! It had a big face on the front and an egg on th e r o o f " .
"Okay, okay." He laughed some more. "I'm sorry. That's what I
thought at the time."
"I found that cave on Ios you directed me to," I continued, still
affronted. "Lived there a MONTH. Up on a cliff, with nobody for miles
it wasn't TOURIST season."
"I believe you, I believe you."
"W ell. . . so now I need a house. Know of anything?"
"Not right here," said Greek Robert, as he was called. "All the houses are
occupied. Everyone wants to five on Anjuna Beach."
"Try in back of the rice paddy," someone suggested in a strained
wheeze, holding in a lungful of hash smoke.
I asked Joe Banana, an old, wrinkled Indian wearing grey shorts, but he
said the same thing. Beachfront houses were taken. He let me leave my bag in
his back room, though, and I set out to explore.
A vacationer. Huh! I was NOT a vacationer. Never had a real job in my
life. What kind of drudge did Greek Robert think I was?
Anjuna had no paved roads, only paths created by tramping feat. The
thick cover of paling protected me from the sun as I walked. I passed Goan houses
made of stones and topped with thatched roofs. Few Goans seemed to five there,
thoughonly Freak foreigners. European women, naked above the waist,
lounged in hammocks. They smiled at me as I went by. The men wore a
rectangular piece of material called a lungi. It wrapped around the hips to form a
skirt. They smiled too. I passed three people bathing at a well. One stood
naked and soapy as the other two poured buckets of water over his head.
"Whoa, that's cold," he exclaimed. "Hi there."
"Iii," I answered.
Then reached the beach, I surveyed the scene. Over a hundred people, all
naked, sat together soaking sun. A group of tan, naked guys played volleyball. A
laugh and a yell reached me as someone crashed into the ocean after a Frisbee.
I felt flurries of excitement grow within me. This looked exactly like what
I'd been dreaming ofa community, a Freak community- in par-
advice. This was it. Here was a fellowship I could belong to. Here was
something to be part of. This would be the place, I just knew it. This was where I'd
make my home. I didn't want to five in Calangute or in back of the paddy field,
though. I wasn't a worker on vacation. I wanted to five right there, near the sea.
I turned away and walked toward the hill at the other end of Anjuna Beach. A
mother pig and a bunch of piglets screamed at my footfalls and scampered away. In
a yard, some chickens pecked. A water buffalo lifted its head at me and shivered
an ear. I wanted to find a house so badly. I wanted my own territory in that
wonderful place. I passed people sitting under trees. Everyone smiled and said
hello. I belonged there, I just knew it.
Crossing rocks, I stopped a blonde guy in a lungi coming the other way,
carrying an instrument he plucked unmelodiously.
"Excuse me, do you know where I can find a house?"
His answer came in a German accent. "Good timing you have. My name is
Ramdas, and I am leaving for Poona. You can have mine until I return."
"Oh, really? Where is it?"
"Right on the beach. I will show you. It is a marvellous house."
FIR ST SEA SO N IN GOA
I 9 7 5 - I 9 7 6

YES, IT WAS A MARVELOUS house, and only a ten-minute walk from the
south end of Anjuna Beach, where the crowd gathered. Ramdas left the next
afternoon, and by the day after that I was settled in. As I opened the shutters facing
the sea on my third morning as an Anjuna resident, a crow whizzed by. Its "caw,
caw" mixed with the squeaking sound of someone drawing water from a well.
"Oh', I love this place already," I thought,' as I prepared to step out of my seaside
abode.
I put the lock on the door, opened my purple parasol, lifted the hem of my
ankle-length purple dress, and stepped over the boulders that separated the sand
of my yard from the sand of the beach. Though starting daintily, I had to sprint
the last few yards to the sea to cool the burning soles of my feet. The water
barely pulsated against the shore. Not a wave in sight. I hitched my dress
another inch and proceeded south through the water. Nobody swam in the
middle or at the north end of the beach, partly because of the rocky bottom, but
mostly because the south end was the place to be. As I approached the hill that
marked the southern boundary of Anjuna, I could see tanned, naked bodies
lying in the sun. Aside from a few isolated groups of twos and threes, everyone
collected in one big troupe. Near where the shore met the palm trees, the
volleyball net had been set up. I watched a naked guy serve the ball. His penis
bobbed as he jumped back against the force of his fist. To my right, three people
bounded into the ocean in a chorus of shrieks.
I slowed my steps and desperately scanned faces. Maybe I could find Greek
Robert or one of the people Ramdas had introduced me to. I'd the if I reached
the end of the beach without finding a place to sit. That would brand me a
tourist, new to the scene. I was NOT a vacationer.
"Hi, Cleo!"
Saved! I looked toward the waving arm. It belonged to Saddhu George,
an American I'd met the day before at Joe Banana's. I recognized the blonde,
matted hair reaching to his naked waist. He wasn't really a saddhu, the Indian
term for a holy man. Supposedly, at one time in the past he'd relinquished his
possessions and stopped combing his hair to wander through the hills of India in
search of inner knowledge. He had given up that holy life, though, his matted
strands the only sign left of his spiritual foray. Much relieved, I veered around
sunning bodies and laid a piece of cloth next to him.
"Hi, George. What's new?" As I folded the parasol and took off my dress, I
noticed that the most popular Anjuna faces were nearby. Good. This was an
excellent Spot. Saddhu George's quest and his long stay in India had bestowed
upon him respect and notoriety. I longed to be an insider too.
"Are you going to the party tonight?" he asked.
"Where is it?"
"At Bombay Brian's. On Joe Banana's hill, third house from the sea." THUMP.
A Frisbee slid by. George scooped it up and ran to the shoreline to throw it
back.
"Want a drag?" asked a guy offering me a joint.
Though I'd smoked marijuana during my teens, lately both it and hash
made me confused and paranoid. I accepted the offer but tried to inhale as little
of the smoke as possible.
In the States one takes a drag of a joint and passes it on, but I'd noticed in
India, with hash abundant and legal, one held onto it as long as possible, even if it
meant finishing it off. I took another hit, this time trying to blow out instead of
in. That made the end glow and look like I'd inhaled.
"Do you five around here?" I asked him, looking at the joint that,
unfortunately, was only a third gone.
"At the other end. And you?"
"Just down from here," I answered. "You can see it. That white house
over there. As I turned my face to point, I faked another drag. I
could already feel the effect of the little I'd smoked. I didn't like it. "That's
Ramdas's house. How did you get that? It's almost impossible to rent on
the beach end of Anjuna."
"Ran into him on his way to Poona. Guess that means I was meant to five
 here."
I took another m inipuff and figured I could appropriately hand the joint
hack now. It seemed to take him forever to pry it from my fingers. Then he
said something I couldn't understand. "What?" I asked. It made no more
sense when he repeated it. "Water; swim," I said standing up besides
confusing me, hash affected my ability to form grammatical sentences.
I headed down thenow enormous distance to the sea. I swam out past
the other swimmers, then turned and surveyed the beach. Not a leaf moved on
the palm trees. Only three houses could be seen, one of them mine. I lay on the
water, closed my eyes, and floated.
I m ust have stayed there quite a while. By the time I swam in, the ends
of my fingers were pruny and I could think straight. W hen I returned to
the beach, I found George lying on his lungi.
Adorable. A baby face topped his thin Body, tanned dark bronze. I sprinkled
water on him.
"Oh, feels good," he said. He wet his hand on my leg and patted it over his
chest.
"Like it? Here's more." I leaned over to throw drops on his back.
I le watched me. "Want to go with me to Joe Banana's for a coconut
m ilkshake?" he asked. "Then Show you my house. It's behind those
trees."
"Sure."
He wrapped his lungi around his hips to form a sexy wrapping that hung
halfway to his knees. After putting on my dress, I opened the parasol, lifted
my hem, and followed him toward the trees. Eeh, ah, ohhot sand. I ran
ahead and waited for him in the shade. In that form. I must have looked like the
cartoon Road Runner charging forward, a Tourist with virgin soles. How
long would my feet take to adjust? We headed
Joe Banana's, no more than a glorified shack, formed the centre of
Anjuna Beach activity. The mail went there. Since there were no street
names or house numbers, a mailman couldn't do anything more complicated. I
joined Saddhu George in his letter-by-letter search through a cardboard box
hanging from the roof, though there could be no mail for me yet. There was none
for him either, and we sat at a rickety table on the porch.
 As I sipped a milkshake and waved at the fly trying to Land on my glass,
a continuous flow of people browsed through the letter box. Many stopped by
our table to offer gossip and report the contents of their mail. News of the
party passed from nationality to nationality.
"Who's that?" I asked George as a tall, beautiful blonde with a pink
flower behind her ear mounted the steps for a postal search.
"That's Norwegian M onica. Hi, Monica!"
"Hi, George," she answered in a tuneful accent.
"You just get in from Ibiza?"
"Yup." The beauty found herself an aerogramme.
"There's a party tonight at Bombay Brian's."
"Hoo, boy! I can say hello to everybody I haven't seen since last sea
son. 17
After a while we left for George's place. The soft earth coated my feet
with red powder. The air was hot and dry, and I felt very comfortable as I
swirled my parasol, its wooden handle rotating against my shoulder. I was
ready for George.
He lived in a tiny house above the beach where we'd been sunbathing
and shared it with someone named Amsterdam Dean. I asked for the toilet.
He turned and pointed inland. "Go straight and keep walking. You'll find
it. Here, take the lo ti."
He filled the brass container from a clay tub of water in front of the
house. I took the loti, though I had no intention of using it I had a roll of
toilet paper in my bag. The sewage system of Anjuna Beach consisted of
raised platforms with holes over which one squatted. Disposal came in the
shape of a pig that had its own passage to the underside of the hole. W hatever
went through the hole was to be eaten by the pig. From the day I'd arrived
in Goa, I'd been reminded PIGS DO NOT EAT PAPER. We were supposed
to use water to clean ourselves, not toilet paper. I tried it once. Not for me. I
didn't care if paper was bad for the environment: some vestiges of
civilization I had no intention of giving up. In this regard, let them call me
tourist, barbarian, or JAP. I preferred industrial society's way.
George's toilet was quite a trek away and had only three walls. This left
the front open to every passing eye. I tried to string my piece of material
across it. I looked around. All was empty and still. So I climbed in and lifted
my skirt. Before heading back, I emptied the loti and felt only slightly guilty
about leaving the wad of toilet paper.
I found George sprawled on a bright, satin-covered mattress on the floor.
The room was strictly Anjuna decor walls cloaked in Afghani and Indian
tapestries and Tibetan paintings; mattresses overflowing with satin pillows; and
a floor of straw mats over dong.
"Hi."
"Hi."
I dropped my belongings in a comer and sank into his arms. His skin was
sun-warm and soft. My leg fit perfectly around his. When he turned his head
downward to meet mine in a kiss, a scratchy lock of his matted hair fell over
my shoulder. My fingers felt the flaky residue of salt water as they traced
the inside of his leg. Mmmm
We separated so I could take off my dress, and he removed his lungi
with a twist and a fling. Before he leaned back over me, he took the front
strands o f his hair and tied them in a knot behind his head. Then he
pressed him self against me again, and I heard the sound of his knee
crunch on the straw mat.

W e'd only been lying, locked and still, a few m om ents w hen
Amsterdam Dean came through the open doorway.
"Pharaoh got in last night. You should see the speakers he brought.
Man! New tapes too. Hello."
"I-Ii," I answered, lifting a leg off George's back to wig my foot at him.
George disentangled from me and went outside. I could hear him scoop
water from the clay tub and wash.
"Want coffee?" Dean offered, kneeling in the comer over a kerosene
burner.
"No, thanks." I dressed and told George I'd see him later at the party.
I returned to the beach to find that most of the group had left. I met an
American named Richard sitting cross-legged and nude, concentrating deeply
on a Chinese game called Go, and a slinky French-V ietnam ese named
Georgette.
I felt glorious as I ran into the sea to wash the sticky m ess from
betw een my legs. W hat an existence. This was the life I'd been bred for
relaxed and self-indulgent. I could do this forever. Back on the shore, my
new friends tried to talk me out of going home to change.
"No, stay for the sunset," said Richard.
 "Yes, you must stay for the sunset," added Georgette.
I stayed.
In groups and one by one, the beach refilled with Freaks. Their long hair
flying loose, the men came in lungis. The women wore long flowing skirts, and
many were bare-chested. Both males and females were loaded with antique
Indian silver jewellery on ankles, arms, necks, and waists. They lounged on the
sand and focused on where the sun turned red as it touched the water.
Pink snaked across the sky. Purple. Orange. People gossiped in lowered tones,
almost whispers. A hint of reverence glinted in their eyes as they looked at the
colours rather than at each other. From a variety of mostly Western countries,
the Goa Freaks were young people who'd rejected their home fives and
homelands and had come to India to create a new way of life. The communal
sunset was a ritualistic part of it.
None of the Goa Freaks spoke about their families or countries of origin.
As if their fives began the day they'd hit the road, reasons for their expatriotism
remained private. The past belonged to the straight world they'd renounced.
From their speech and mannerisms, though, you could tell they came from
comfortable middle-class backgrounds, with well-balanced meals and well-
rounded educations. They looked beautiful and healthy, and rich too,
covered as they were in silver. They seemed to have it all.
I wanted it too.
I wanted desperately to be one of them. How could I support m yself to
five in Goa? Would I be able to model in Bombay? I didn't want to five in
Bombay, though; I wanted to five on Anjuna Beach. How did the Goa Freaks
make their money?
As the sun disappeared, people made plans for dinner. "Come with us
to Gregory's restaurant," said Richard.
Great. T hrilled to be part of the gang, I put aside functional w orries.

W aving to dark shapes, we left the beach to a litany of "See you at the
party" and headed inland. I turned on the flashlight I'd learned to carry at
all tim es. R ichard w axed a candle to h alf a coconut shell. Surprisingly,
his contraption produced more light than my modern one, and it didn't
extinguish as we walked. To reach the restaurant, we had to cross a corner of
the paddy field, jump a ravine, and pussyfoot through a min.
 Gregory's restaurant attracted custom ers by having the only delicious
food in Anjuna. Gregory, another wrinkly Indian, had been a cook at the
French embassy in Delhi, which accounted for his gourm et fare. Set in a
garden of tropical flowers, the outdoor restaurant consisted of four wobbly
wooden tables with benches and one small, wobbly plastic one with plastic
chairs. The m iracle of electricity had not yet graced Anjuna Beach, so
petrolkerosene pump-lampshung strategically from trees. A lopsided
blackboard leaned against a wall misspelling the day's specials: carrot soup,
prawns in wine sauce, and apricots and cream.
We entered the kitchen to order and then joined a table. At the head sat
Alehandro, big and bare-chested. According to rumour, Alehandro
belonged to an aristocratic fam ily in Spain but had been banished from the
country. No one knew anything else of his past, and no one would ask.
"Ob," he exclaimed loudly to me before pounding Richard on the back.
"Ola, hombre, you want smoke chillum? You have hash?" Richard offered
him a dusky, halvah-textured rectangle, which he took and smelled.
"What's this?" He sniffed again. "Afghani?" A deeper sniff. "Afghani, no?"
Alehandro moved aside an empty soup bowl and began the chillum
making ritual, a ritual to be seen repeatedly throughout Anjuna. He em ptied a
cigarette's tobacco onto the table and, holding a match under the hash,
broke the hash into bits that he sprinkled over the tobacco. Then he filled
a six-inch chillum with the mixture. Next came a nicotine-stained rag that he
wrapped around the clay pipe's base. Richard lit three long matches and held
them to the top of the pipe.
"BOMBOLAI!" yelled Alehandro at the top of his voice before puffing
out clouds of smoke. A loud and resounding "BOMBOLAI!" or "BOM
SHANKAR!" was a blessing recited over hash whenever a chillum was lit.
The louder it was said, the better.
Inevitably, the chillum was passed to me. I'd recently learned how to
hold the awkward device and was eager to show off my style. I wrapped the
rag, held the base ju st so, and cupped my other hand around it to block
unwanted air holes. I took a little hit, again trying less to inhale and more to
blow out so the top would light up. Luckily, this was a pass-it deal, and the
business with the rag and the com plex hand positions required such deft
m anoeuvres that, by the time the pipe came around again, the food had
arrived. I declined. Uh! The tobacco had made me dizzy, and my fork now
weighed a ton. I really had to stop smoking that stuff.
The tables filled up; greetings and news echoed back and forth. I heard
again about Pharaoh's new speakers, which were compared exhaus-
tively to the ones someone else had brought the year before. Everyone planned to
go to the party.
After dinner I headed back to the beach with Richard. I dropped him off and
walked alone by the sea. A piece of moon had appeared in the sky, so I shut off
the flashlight. The sand shone bright and white against the pointy outline of
palms. Occasionally a wave surrounded my feet with warm water. I raised my
arms to embrace the night with the rapture I felt. Hello, stars. I stopped. I spun
around. I sank to the sand, rolled in it, and tossed a handful in the air. I felt more
satisfied than ever in my life. I'd found a home.

Nine days after I arrived in Anjuna, Tom and Julian were scheduled to
return. I spent the morning on the beach with my growing assortment of friends
and then, after a final dip in the ocean, prepared for the hike to Calangute. I wasn't
sure I wanted to be with Tom again. Did I really want to share my wonderful
house with those two guys? Would they hamper my efforts to assimilate as a Goa
Freak? On the other hand, I sizzled with excitement to show them how I'd settled
into the Anjuna Beach scene.
"Had enough sun?" asked Norwegian Monica as I tugged a white dress
over my head. Her blue eyes squinted as she raised herself on an elbow.
Perspiration speckled the tattoo of a butterfly on her naked left breast.
"I'm going to Calangute to meet some friends," I told her. "You
should have left earher. Hoo, boyit's hot now."
"Oops, I hadn't thought of that. Oh, well." On my head, I draped the headdress
given to me by a Bedouin in the Sinai. To hold it in place, I used a necklace
with a metal teardrop I let hang over my forehead. "Maybe see you later at
G regory's."
"Okay.
I stopped at Joe Banana's to check for mail. Nothing, of course. It was still
too early. Old friends back home and the new ones I'd met on the road would
only now be receiving postcards with the new address, but I enjoyed
rummaging through the box anyway. It made me feel like an inhabitant. I
nodded and said hello to familiar and unfamiliar faces hanging out on the porch.
Joe Banana gave me a missing-tooth smile before I entered the bushes behind
his chai shop and began the ascent.
As soon as I entered the Calangute square I saw the bus. I found
Tom and Julian after a round of the chai shops.
 "Well, hi," said Tom. "We were just wondering, you know, how to find
you."
I told them about Anjuna Beach and the house.
"How many rooms?" Tom asked.
"Two little ones, a big one facing the sea, a big halt, a big kitchen." Tom
was crinkling at me again. I noticed the exposed ears under his short hair. He
looked so straight. "Calangute is boring, but wait till you see Anjuna
Beach," I continued. "That's where the Freaks five. Hundreds and hundreds of
them. Nobody wears clothes. We throw all the parties. Are you ready to go?
It's a long walk."
"How long?"
"Oh, across the river and over a mountain."
"Mountain? Why don't we, you know, take the bus?"
"No, NO! Anjuna Beach doesn't have roads!" I said indignantly. "It's not
for TOURISTS! You'll have to get used to a lot of walking. It's the only
way to get around. Come on, come on. Let's go."
Shouldering canvas bags, they locked the bus, and we set out in the sun.
Exhilarated, I m arched ahead while Tom and Julian dragged their feet
heavily through the sand. I could have zigzagged through the shade, but I
didn't.
"I have a friend here in Baga," I announced an hour later, turning
backwards to face them. Tom's nose and cheeks glistened red, and a glow of
sweat hung from his chin. He wasn't enjoying the hike one little bit. "Hey,
did you know Goa has eighty-tw o m iles o f coast?" I added. "There's the
Baga River!"
Uh-oh. The tide was in. We couldn't wade across now.
"Do you expect us to, you know, swim?" Tom grum bled \ when he saw
it.
U ndaunted, I turned my crew inland and hoped I'd run into the ferry
I'd heard was upriver somewhere. After a detour through what looked like
a swamp, I did. A canoe. An old, shabby canoe on the other side of the river.
We waved and shouted, but the ancient man in the stern didn't notice. Tom
cursed and gave me a displeased look. Finally, the Goan saw us and pushed
a pole to drift the canoe over to our side.
"Are you sure this is, you know, safe?" Tom asked, appraising the
beat-up boat. "I still think we should have, you know, taken the bus."
"Of course it's safe," I answered, not totally convinced.
I sank my bare feet in m ud to clim b into the decrepit raft.
oozed into Tom's sandals and stained the bottom of his jeans. As we took
seats one in front of the other, we watched the bottom of the boat fill
with water.
"If we tip over, my passport will get, you know, ruined. There must be
a better way to get there," Tom said, still complaining. What a whiner.
The man poled us across. Barefoot, Julian sat in the front and trailed
his arm over the side. At least HE wasn't objecting to this adventure.
When we reached the other side, Tom looked relieved.
"Now we go up," I announced.
By the time we arrived at the top of the hill, Tom was badied in
sweat. He threw me more nasty looks.
"There it is!" I said, jumping excitedly. "That's Anjuna. Isn't it beautiful?
I five halfw ay to the far hill. About there is Norwegian M onica's house.
Oh, and see that roof sticking out of the trees? That's Bombay Brian's
house. He had a great party the other night. Must have been two hundred
people squeezed inside. Over there is Kurt's Tree. Kurt's been living under
that tree for years, and over that way is Eight-Finger Eddy's Porch. It's
actually a ruin, but a zillion people are always hanging out there, and
sometimes Eddy hosts a flea market. Hey, where did Tom go?"
I found him in the shade sitting on a boulder. "Is there a place nearby
where we can, you know, get a drink?" he asked.
"Sure. We'll stop at Joe's. Here, let me carry that."
I brought them to Joe Banana's, where we collapsed on a bench. As we
drank our milkshakes, I couldn't help comparing him to the Anjuna people.
Look at that watch! At least Julian had removed his.
"What's that?" Tom asked someone, nodding at a rolled, vegetable
looking thing.
"It's a beedie. Indian tobacco wrapped in a leaf. Want one?"
"No, I don't smoke. I was just, you know, curious."
"Can I try one?" asked Julian.
Oh, no! How em barrassing. Now everybody would think we were
three tourists. "Come on," I said. "Let's go. W e're almost there."
I led them along paths I now knew by heart. I stopped and pointed
out houses, wells, bushes, rock, buffalo. " . . . And that's the Monkey chai
shop, there's really a monkey there. . . . Oh, and beware of those thorny
plants. One took a bite of my velvet dress the other night. Look, look!
You can still see a piece of material on it! That's my dress!"
We were all half-dead by the time we reached the house, but I forced
them on a tour. "This is the kitchen. Please notice the hanging basket.
You must bang your food from the ceiling or within minutes an ant will zero
in on it."
"Where's the bathroom?"
I slid open the wooden bolt and swung wide the kitchen door as if
unveiling the Mona Lisa. "Ta-daaa," I chanted. "There it is. Down in the well."
"Where's the, you know, door?" asked Tom.
"No door. Many toilets are like that, only closed on th ree sid es. You'll
get used to it. Wait till you see the pig rooting around under you, waiting to be
fed. That's the taxing part. The pig's so disappointed when you only pee."
Julian placed his bag in a small room, while Tom brought his to the big
one. For a while the three of us chatted as the sun dipped and coloured the sky
outside the window. Tom turned me off. I didn't want to be with him . I didn't
like his voice. I didn't like his smile. I didn't like his shoulders. His every move
grated on my nerves. But Julian, smaller and thinner, charmed me. Curls fell
over his face as he lay sideways on his elbow and chased a dying bug around
the candle. I liked his English accent.
We went to bed early. "No," I told Tom. "I'm not in the mood."
The next m orning Tom took the bus to the town o f Panjim for repairs.
He'd be gone overnight. Glad to see him go, I brought Julian to the south end
beach.
"Hi, M onica. This is Ju lian ." I in tro d u ced him around and w atched
him undress. Mmmmmm. Very nice. How do I accomplish this? I smiled at
him.
Around noon, the hot sun urged the sun bathers into the sea. I followed
Julian in and threw seaweed at him. It clung to his neck, a slim y strand of it
sticking on his cheek. Laughing, he threw it back.
That night Julian and I sat in my room and talked. He sm oked a beedie.
I watched his hand pick at lumps of wax around a candle. He stuck a finger in
the m elted liquid and let it harden on his nail. The curl hung over his eyes. He
wants to go to A m ste rd a m in th e sp rin g , he w as sa y in g . I leaned into a
cushion and stared at him. He was only inches aw ay. "I dont have an
apartment in Amsterdam, since I spend most of the time on the m otorw ay," he
continued. "I stay w ith friends or sleep in the Sunshine Bus office."
I grinned at the cute way he said "office," the "o" like a balloon shaped
object popping out his mouth. He looked at me.
 "Why don't you sleep in here tonight?" I suggested.
He fetched his sleeping bag and zipped it to mine. We clim bed in and
faced each other. The oversized shadow of a moth bounced across the wall
in the candlelight. Tom's presence grew in the space between us. I crossed
the ghost and touched Julian. His arm was soft with light hairs. Our heads
moved together, and our bodies met.
W hen Tom returned the next day, it didn't take him long to figure out
what happened. He moved his bag into the other room. Julian stayed with me.

One day, news came of a party at Dayid and Ashley's house on the
northern end of Anjuna. I'd seen Dayid and Ashley on the beach and at a flea
market. They were Super Couple. Dayid, an Australian, sported a drooping
m oustache and very long hair in brown and silver streaks. He wore silver
belts around his waist and turquoise jewellery on his wrists and neck. I
especially remembered Ashley from the flea market. Canadian, blonde, and
sleekly beautiful, she'd paraded topless in a wispy skirt and floppy hat.
People raved about the interior decoration of D ayid and Ashley's house,
and I'd heard stories about the party they'd had the year before. Everyone
expected this year's bash to be no less spectacular. News of the gala event
travelled the beaches of Goa.
That night, I took care dressing. W ith im ported food colouring, I
dyed the bottom h alf of my hair blue, something I hadn't done since
Amsterdam. My eyes sparkled with red glitter. Tom, Julian, and I set out.
Unfamiliar with the northern end of the beach, we stumbled through the
paddy fields. Mounds bordered each family's field and had to be clambered
over. The m oon hadn't come out yet, and our flashlights and coconut
lamps lit only slivers of the dry, cracked earth. After climbing up and over a
countless number of mounds, we were no longer sure in which direction we were
headed. When we finally dragged ourselves out of the fields, we were lost.
Which way's north? Where had that path gone?
Who knows how long we'd have blundered through the underbrush if
we hadn't run into other people headed for the party. M ore fam iliar with
the terrain, they led us to a paved road. A road?
"I thought you said there were no, you know, roads in Anjuna,"
remarked Tom in a mocking tone.
 I ignored him.

"That way goes to Vagator," explained one of our guides. "O ver
there's the bus stop. The bus will take you to Mapusa. Or you could h ire a
motorcycle and driver."
W ithout asking questions I found out M apusa was the c lo se st tow n. It
had a Post office, marketplace, pharmacies
Down the road, we heard music. We passed a wooden fence and saw
lights flicker through the trees. We entered a gate and wended dow n a
gravel path. "BOMBOLAI!" came loudly from various directions as
chillums flared. Clusters of people sat grouped around candles planted in the
sand. "BOMBOLAI!" Music blared. Soon we had to shift and sidestep through
wildly moving dancers. Dressed in glitter, silks, and tassels, hundreds of
Freaks swayed to the Beat. "BOM SHANKAR!" A fieldstone house came into
view. On its circular porch, a band played, wiggling, wagging, bobbing up
and down.
"Let's find somewhere, you know, to sit," Tom yelled.
"Over here," shouted Julian. "Did we remember to bring a candle?"
I surveyed the colourful dancing figures, the band; the porch cluttered
with amplifiers, the woman in the doorway tapping a tam bourine on her
hip, the guy leaning out the window. I didn't want to sit; I wanted to roam.
"Ill be back," I said and headed toward the house.
Rhythmically I meandered through the dancers, recognizing no one. As
I edged closer to the hand, I noticed again the people leaning, out the
windows. Inside the house that's where the Anjuna people would be;
outside was for tourists and people from other beaches. I belonged with the
Goa Freaks. But the band prevented access to the front door. How to enter?
Dancing round the side, I found the kitchen blocked by a feathered and
bedecked crowd. I squeezed by a woman with purple paint on her face and
purple sparkles in her hair and entered the kitchen. Through a hallw ay of
g yrating form s, I inched to a front room and spotted Norwegian
Monica. I joined her. W hat a room! Brightly coloured saris climbed the
walls to the rafters. More saris were draped from the roof, giving a tent
effect. Sm all, round m irrors sewn into an in tricate Rajasthani artwork
over the doorway reflected candlelight. The room was packed with people
sitting and lying on satin cushions. Across from me sat Dayid and Ashley,
holding court. Dayid wore burgundy velvet pants and a full-length
burgundy velvet cape over his bare chest. Embroidered in gold on the back of
the cape was a crab. Ashleyin a silk Jean Harlow
dress- held a gilded mirrar an her lap. She was chopping cocaine.
Though I'd gone through a speed-freak phase in my teen years, I'd never tried cocaine
before coming to Goa Lately I'd been doing a lot of it, though since it was the centre of Anjuna
parties and get-togethers. I loved the stuff.
"Shambo, man. Want a line?" Shambo was an Indian greeting, and I turned to find a dark
guy next to Monica proffering a mirrar with lines of coke. I took it and the rolled-up hundred-
rupee note in his other hand. "My name is Kabir," he said. "Nice party, man, don't you think?"
I leaned over and snorted a line through the ML "Great" I snorted a second line. "This house is
fantastic. Where are you from?"
"I'm from Algeria, man, and this is my house." He wiped the end of his nose, checking
that no white powder dangled from it
"I thought this was Dayid and Ashley's house."
"It is. Dayid and I are partners, man. This is their room, mine is on the other side. Want to
see? Come."
I was dying to ask what kind of business he and Dayid were in. The Goa Freaks seemed so
wealthy. Besides the oodles ofjewellery they wore, they continually mentioned exotic places
they'djustreturned from.And the enormous amount of drugs they gave out! That alone must
have cost a fortune. But I didn't ask I didn't want to seem a naive tourist
Fewer people partied in the other room "Shampo, man," Kadir said to someone as they
exchanged a slap-slap, over-and-under double handshake.
As we sat on a floor mattress, he took out a silver vial. With a silver spoon, he presented my
nostril with more coke.
"Hi, Kadir," shouted someone excitedly, seeing what we were doing. "Cool party." He sat
with us just in time for a snort
"Kadir, mon cheri, let me have some of that" said Georgette, who had green stars
glued to her cheeks. She and her friend also joined us. The room soon filled with eager noses.
Now it was as crowded as the other had been.
After a while I wandered back to Dayid and Ashley's and squeezed into a spot in time to
be passed the mirro r again. After two more lines I handed it on. Nearby, a guy leaned over a
folded piece of paper from which he scooped white powder into someone's nose with his long
fingernail He scooped some into the next person's nose and then came to me.
"Want some MDA?" he asked, holding his powder-covered nail in front of my face.
"Sure." I inhaled. Although hash and marijuana male me paranoid and confused,
I'd never had trouble with LSD or other hallucinogens like MDA.
The next thing I knew, I floated out the' door and over the music.
Sand swashed through my bare toes. The hair of a twirling dancer broke
off and sailed past me like a rocket ship. Whoa! I met Tom and Julian. "Hi,
where've you been?" one of them asked.
"W ant some M DA?" asked a guy holding another packet of the
powder.
"No, thanks," answered Tom.
"Just a tiny bit," said Julian.
"Sure," I said when the guy aimed the spoon at me. I inhaled and swirled
away.
The candles in the sand rainbowed beams of colour. So did the stars. I
didn't think. I ju st felt. I didn't have to think. There was nothing in the world
I had to do. I could just be. Just feel. Feel the air brush my skin as I moved
through it. Feel the thud of bass drums in my bones. Forms, colours, sound. I
didn't know what anything was. Nothing had a nam e. I3ut everything was safe,
and I knew that if I really wanted to, I could identify that colour and texture as a
"tree." But I didn't have to, so I didn't.
Suddenly, something horrible entered my consciousness. A noise. A
horrible, loud noise. I focused. I had danced behind the house and up the hill
to where the generator was. The big m achine supplied pow er to the m usical
instrum ents. My nails vibrated from the excruciating sound of it. I danced
away.
Over the next few hours I returned to Dayid and Ashley's room periodically
to wait for the coke to come around. It was never long b efo re it did.
Even with coke energy, it cost a supreme effort to move an arm, leg, or
hand: My body felt as if it belonged to a gargantuan prehistoric animal. But I
felt cosy and joyous and completely entranced by the friendly, shimmering
sights. Sometimes I com m unicated with someone near
With everyone equally stoned on MDA, mostly we only grunted at each other.
At one point I noticed my image in the coke mirror.
"Oh, shit, what's that?"
"Don't get hung up looking in the mirror," a voice from somewhere advised me.
It seemed like good counsel. I passed the mirror on. For a w hile I watched the
movements of skin cells in my finger tips. The sun came up.
 Alas, things began to identify themselves. That was the sky out there.
Those were palms trees. This was a day.
Around noon I decided to go home. The band still played for the
colourful people dancing outside, now in sunlight. I navigated through the
gate and onto the road. Not a thing on it. However, it was a road, and I
assigned a piece of my mind the job of keeping alert for something on
wheels. I let the rest o f me trail behind. W hen I reached the house, I found
the front door open and Tom and Julian sitting inside.
"Hi, there," one of them said.
'Tm -really-stoned-I'm -very-tired-I'm -going-to-sleep-good-night."
I dragged my sleeping bag to another room and melted on it. As I
slipped into sleep I heard the chunking sound of someone chopping
coconuts. The smell of roasting chapatti blew over me on a sea breeze.
Yes, this had to be the best place on the planet. A bird screeched,
" O o o k . O o o k , O o o n ."

W hat a life in Anjuna Beach! Warm, salty, sandy, swimming, surfing,

dancing, lazy, and stoned. Weeks went by like one long day. No one possessed a
clock. The only schedule was that of the moon sometimes there was no
moon, and at night you needed something to light your way to the toilet; and
sometimes the parties on the beach were specifically in celebration of the full
moon. No day had a name, though once I accidentally discovered it was
Sunday by going into Mapusa. With Goa predominantly Christian, the market
was closed.
D ecem b er was the m ost cro w d ed tim e o f the year, and as it
approached, more and more parties took place, until there was one on the beach
every night. Not far from my house, the music seeped through the walls.
Tom and Julian left periodically for trips to Delhi and back. In the
meantime I fell into the Anjuna routinedays in the sun; the communal
sunset; Gregory's restaurant for dinner; visiting; and parties. Endless parties. I
became a regular at Dayid and Ashley's, where a crowd always gathered. I
didn't know the people they told stories about, nor could I relate to their
tales of riding camel caravans through the desert, joining buskazi games in
Afghanistan, or touring opal mines in central Australia. (But, hey. I'd lived in
a cave in Greece, and I'd passed through Kabul on the bus!) For the most
part I sat and listened, terribly im pressed. And snorted the coke that came
around. The coke at Dayid and Ashley's flowed freely and continually.
Before leaving for a party, Dayid would till a silver vial to last him and
Ashley and their entourage through the night. How did these people make
their money?
The Anjuna Beach hierarchy sorted itself out to methose with a lot of
coke, those with some, and those with none. The people with quantity formed
the focal points o f social situations, and we others fluttered between
them. As soon as someone pulled out a stash, five or six people materialized
out of nowhere. "Ho, man. What's happening?"
The ritual was to coke out every night, for the whole night, and not to
stay too long with any particular group. The coke made the parties wildly
energetic. Two snorts and I'd dance ecstatically for twenty minutes or so,
until the effects wore off, at which point it took only a quick gaze around to
see who was digging into a stash. I'd pop over, extend my nostril, and be set
for another round.
W hen Ju lian was in Goa, I'd drag him w ith me as I hunted the
spoon. W e'd be dancing in the sand and I'd get the urge: time for more
coke. I'd pull him along as I searched the crowd. When I'd find a turn-on in
progress, I'd yank him into the circle as I chose a good spot to be next in
line for an offering.
One night, after accepting the usual free LSD that circulated the
beach parties, I had a revelation. Julian and I were sitting atop a deal
palm trunk that had fallen on its side. Though it was night, brightness
reflected off the sand. Air molecules floated by.
"OH! W hat have I been doing?" I exclaim ed all o f a sudden.
"Hustling coke! I've been hustling coke and dragging you around with me.
Oh, how ugly. Isn't that ugly?" Julian looked surprised. I continued, "How
can you stand me? I run around sticking my nose in people's faces. Isn't that
what I've been doing?"
He smiled. "That seems to be the way here."
"It's horrible. I'm sorry. Am I horrible?"
"Don't worry about it, everybody's doing the same thing."
"But I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be a grubber. A hustler.
A parasite. I want to be the one giving out the drugs."
When we left the tree stump, we joined German Jerry and German
M onica on the rocks overlooking the crowd. On top of another rock
danced Norwegian Monica in a long white dress with sparkly gold cords
streaming from her hair. There seemed to be a rule that when two people
had the same name, a qualifying adjective was given to both. Hence there
was German M onica and Norwegian M onica, German Jerry and Jerry
Schultz, Greek Robert and Junky Robert, Eight-Finger Eddy and Big Eddy
Soon, German Jerry offered me some of the coke that, of course. I'd
known he had and that, of course, I accepted.

In January Tom and Julian were scheduled to journey overland back to

Amsterdam. When Ramdas, the guy whose house I lived in, returned from
Poona, I decided to go with Julian to Delhi to say goodbye to him there.
Arriving in Bombay, Tom again parked the bus by the Taj M ahal
Hotel. We were to be in town a few days while they bought spare parts
needed for the trip to Europe. As soon as they left to investigate garages, I
went to the T aj's lathes' room to wash off the Goan red dirt. Then, after buying
a paperback in the bookstore, I adjoined to the fancy coffee shop for a
dream ed-of hamburger. Beneath the m irrored Rajasthani tapestry hanging
from the walls, a turbaned w aiter bowed me into a seat. The ends of the
silverware were shaped like elephants.
"May I join you?" came a smooth, accented voice. I glanced above the
tasselled menu to see a prim Indian in a business suit. He introduced himself
and sat opposite me, pushing aside the starched napkin forming a tower before
him.
"You are staying here at the Taj?" Prim Indian asked.
"Oh, no. I can't afford this place. I'm living in a bus."
"A bus! No. Not really?"
Beneath carved ivory elephants and tigers, we sat in the coffee shop all
afternoon talking over the gin and tonics he bought me. "But you cannot
sleep in a bus," he stated later. "You are a visitor to my country. I want
that you have a good impression." Prim Indian insisted I let him get me a
room in the hotel.
"Oh, no. I couldn't accept that," I said, probing to see if I could actually
get away with it. A room at the Taj. Wow.
"You have nothing to worry. My friend is the m anager here. I will not
disturb you. I merely want that you have a pleasant memory of your holiday"
How could I refuse a room at the Taj M ahal H otel? He did say
"nothing to worry."
As the costumed bellboy took hold of the dusty sleeping bag packed Full
of my clothes, I said goodbye to Prim Indian and arranged to m eet him for
dinner. The elevator was as tasselled and tapestried as the coffee shop.
In the room the thick rug tickled the bottoms of my feet, calloused
from barefoot Anjuna walking. An arched balcony overlooked the bay, but
the three-foot tassel that hung between a curve in the curtain blocked the
view. Wow. I couldn't wait to tell Julian.
Late that afternoon, I stood by the bus dodging the outstretched hands
of beggars. I ran to meet Julian as he came down the street. "Guess what? We
have a room at the T aj!"
"What? At the TAJ?"
I ignored the Look Tom gave the sky as if searching for my spaceship. "I
met a nice Indian man. I'm going to dinner with him, but meet you
afterward. About ten? How's that?"
"Who is this man?"
"Oh, a man. I've got to go get ready." I kissed his neck and bit his
shoulder. "We have a room at the Taj!" I did a little dance, kissed him again,
and hurried off.
At six o'clock I m et Prim Indian in the hotel bar, w here a sign
declared, PERMIT HOLDERS ONLY. Indians needed a special license to
drink in the state of M aharastra, a "dry" state. Goa, on the other hand, was a
"wet" state anyone could drink there. We had a few gin and tonics and then
joined his friends in the dining room. After dinner and a tour of the lobby
shops, I announced I was tired and going to bed.
"At so early an hour?" said Prim Indian.
"I've been on a bus two whole days. Thanks for dinner."
W ith the hotel key in hand, I headed for the elevator. Before it came,
though, I made sure Prim Indian had returned to the bar; then I snuck out the
back door of the lobby. Prim Indian will probably call the room soon with
an urgent reason for me to let him in for a moment. Too bad. I wouldn't be
there.
I met the boys by the bus.
"How was your, you know, dinner?" asked Tom sarcastically. "Oh,
yum. Steak with m ushroom gravy. W hat are we doing?" "We thought
we'd go to Sukalatchi Street to see the girls in cages,"
Julian told me. "It was Tom's idea."
 "W hat's cag es'?"
"Sukalatchi Street is the red light district of Bombay. We heard the
prostitutes are kept in cages. There's supposed to be an opium den there too.
W hat do you think?"
 "An Opium den! Sure. Let's go. But is opium anything like hash? I'm trying
not to smoke that anymore. What's it like?"
"We've never tried it. This will be a new experience for us all."
We took a taxi to the tiny, crowded street. It was so filled with people,
pushcarts, ox carts, cows, and bicycles that the taxi couldn't drive into it, and
we had to get out and walk. Oh, horrors! Creepy people pressed against me.
Beggars followed us, motioning to their mouths and clutching our sleeves. It
was loud and noisy, and everyone seemed to be yelling something at me.
"I can't stand this," I complained. "Where are we going?"
W hile Julian stopped for directions, Tom pulled me along, grinning at
my unease. A woman beggar grabbed the back of my skirt and walked with
us. A filthy child massaged my wrist with a sticky hand and recited, "No
mamma, no pappa, one rupee."
"This is horrible. How do we get out of here?" I said. Something had
its fingers in my hair, and now a little girl wrapped herself around my thigh,
making it difficult to walk.
"Over this way."
Finally leaving four people on the doorstep calling us we entered a
dim hallway and mounted steps that slanted at a forty-five-degree angle. I
could hardly see, but at least it was quiet. Too quiet, actuallybordering on
spooky.
An awful stink greeted us on the second floor as we turned a comer onto
a balcony. A door stood open, revealing an old Lady on a stool. "Opium?
Smoke, you know, opium?" tried Tom.
"Eh? Chando?" She pointed us farther down the balcony.
We weren't sure we were in the right building. We kept going and came
to another open door, this one covered by a dirty cloth. We looked in on old
men lying on the floor. They waved at us and m otioned we were to leave
our shoes by the door.
"I think this is it."
We were ushered to a comer. A stained towel was laid for each of us with
a wooden block positioned for our heads. Three brass cups brimming with
brown liquid were placed nearby.
"I guess we're supposed to, you know, he down."
Tom smoked first. The opium baba (spiritual leader) stretched out next
to him and fiddled with the wick of a kerosene lamp, after which followed a
com plicated procedure. The baba dipped a rod into the opium and held the
tip over the flame. It bubbled. He rolled it over the bowl of the pipe, dipped
again, and cooked it some more.
I went after Tom. I was worrier opium would confuse me the way hash
did. Putting the end o f the tw o-foot-long pipe in my m outh, I inhaled as
the baba held the bowl over the flame. My lungs filled to bursting with smoke.
The second lungful made me cough. The baba laughed. I laughed. My body
relaxed into the grimy floor. As I liquefied, the hard floor turned mushy
and yielding. The wooden block beneath my head became a goose-down
pillow. I'd never felt so comfortable. When I finished a cup it was Julian's
turn. I couldn't wait to smoke another. We each had one more cup and then
left.
It was hard to keep my eyes open. I leaned heavily against Julian as we
exited onto the street. It didn't seem so bad out there anym ore. Nobody
reality bothered me. The beggars, hustlers, and shifty characters holding my
sleeve didn't annoy me one bit. No problem. I smiled at a raggedy urchin
under my feet. Forgetting about the girls in cages, we bungled into a taxi,
and, after dropping Tom at the bus, Julian came to the hotel with me.
The doorman and the bell captain looked aghast as Julian, the dirty
hippie, strode into the elevator. We giggled hysterically as we stumbled
down the corridor to the room, brushing against som eone's doorknob and
knocking o ff the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
"Let's take a bath," Julian suggested when I showed him the marble
bathroom.
The giant tub easily accommodated both of us, and we placed two
m onstrous pillow s on opposite ends o f the tub. In an instant, we fell
asleep in the hot water. By the time we woke, the water was cold and the
pillow s soaked. We laughed ourselves out of the bathroom , one pulling up
the other as we took turns falling on the floor, and barely making it to the
bed. I started to feel sick.
"Uh-oh, I think I'm nauseous," I moaned.
"So am I."
Pretty soon I felt sicker than I had in all my life. The rest of the
night consisted of our taking turns vomiting. The marble floor was no
longer appreciated when, head in the toilet, we had to kneel on it. I wanted to
the.
I felt the same the next day. Tom phoned. He was sick too, but
because so much had to be done, he persuaded Julian to crawl out of bed and
m eet him. I stayed in bed. That night I was still sick. W e ordered room
service but couldn't look at the food when it came. W hen Prim
 Indian called, I told him, honestly, that I was deathly ill. We were to leave the
next day. "I'll call you when I come back to Bombay," I promised with no
intention of doing so.
The next morning, I felt no better and, in desperation, went to the hotel
pharmacy. "Please," I begged the grey-haired pharmacist, "I visited one of your
opium dens the other day, and I think I'm going to the."
His stern face almost smiled as he handed me a packet of pills. Within
an hour, I felt fine.

Arriving in Delhi, we headed for the seedy section of Old Delhi, looking
for a cheap hotel. None of us had much money left. Julian and I found a
minuscule, windowless room on a balcony surrounding a courtyard. Beds lined
the balcony itself, and a napping Indian raised the handkerchief covering his face
to watch us pass. That night, when we returned from dinner, we had a crisis.
Julian was missing a five-pound note.
"Did you take it?" he asked, looking at me suspiciously.
"No! I did not take it." How could he ask such a question? He thought
I stole his money? I crossed my arms and moved to a comer of the room.
"Are you sure?"
"Search me." I tossed my purse on the bed.
"It's okay if you took it. Just tell me."
He poked through my things. How could he! I grabbed my bag and dumped
it inside out. A hairbrush slid across the floor. I kicked away a chair to retrieve
it.
"I did not take your money," I stated again and hurled the brush at him. It
clanged against the metal bedpost.
"I know I had it yesterday, and it's gone. Where could it go?"
He finished looking through everything, but his face was not convinced.
"Well, do you believe me?" I asked.
"Then what happened to it?"
He didn't believe me! I slammed my possessions back in my purse and
rolled up the sleeping bag.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
I didn't answer as I wrenched my belongings past him furiously. "What
are they doing? Don't go."
The door crashed against the wall as I marched out. Julian followed me to the
balcony and down the stair
 "Listen, it's okay," he said. "You can tell me if you took it. I won't be angry."
I kept walking. Through the lobby'. Past a fish tank. Out to the street.
"Look, forget it. Let's forget the whole thing. You don't have to go."
I threw myself into a three-wheeled rickshaw and sat in the middle of the seat so
there'd be no room for Julian. "GO!" I yelled to the driver. He kick-started the motorcycle
engine.
Julian leaned into the open side of the little vehicle. Hanging fringes draped over his
forehead. "Don't go," he said. "Come back. Talk."
"CELLO! CELLO! JELDI!" (GO! GO! HURRY!) I screamed at the driver, gesturing
wildly. We drove off, leaving Julian behind. The driver looked back expectantly for
directions.
The passenger part of the rickshaw consisted of a narrow main seat. Every pothole
heaved me inches into the air. I had to hold my arms over my chest since I didn't wear a
bra. How could Julian accuse me of such a thing? Five pounds! What do I do now? "You
know cheap hotel?" I asked the driver. "Cheap, cheap?"
"Hotel?"
"Cheap hotel. No money."
"Okay. I take."
A few minutes later we jolted into a flowered compound. At a desk on the porch sat a
lady with a kind face. She smiled at me. "You alone, honey?"
T hat did it. H er friendly face unleashed my tears. "I had a ... (sob) . . . fight
with my boyfriend. Do you have a cheap room?"
"There, there. D on't cry. W e'll take care of you." She stood and came around the
desk. "Is that your rickshaw?" She ordered a young Indian sitting on the floor to collect
my bag. "Hush, don't cry."
I paid the driver and followed the lady to a room with six beds. Young Western
travellers jum ped up at my entrance.
"What's the matter? Are you alright?" somebody asked.
"Shell be fine," said the motherly proprietor, who then left us.
Two women sat on my bed; one put her arm around my shoulder. A guy came over,
and everyone introduced themselves. People waved at me from across the room.
"My boyfriend accused me of stealing his money," I managed to tell them between
crying, sobbing, gulping for air, and sniffling.
 "The creep. Forget him. You don't need him."
"How could he . . . (sob)... think I stole . . . (gulp). . . his money?"
"Forget him. You're with us now. We were just going outwant to come?"
I nodded.
"Hey, want some opium?"
"Oh, yes!"
One of the women went to a nearby bed and unearthed brown putty
in crinkly paper. She broke o ff a greasy ball and handed it to me.
Someone else brought me water, and I swallowed it.
"I hope I d o n 't. . . (sniff) . . . get nauseous." I started to hiccough.
"Last time I took opium . . . (hie) . . . I wanted to the." To be on the safe side, I
took one of the pills I still had from the Taj pharmacist in Bombay.
I soon felt peachy. We left to explore Delhi, and by the time we returned I
was giggling along with them.
In the morning, Julian appeared.
"How did you find me?" I asked.
"I've been to every guest house in Delhi."
"Go away."
"Listen, I'm sorry. Please come back. I found the money."
"You found it? Where?"
"In my wallet, behind a flap. I thought I'd looked there. Please for
give me. Please?"
I forgave him. I said goodbye to everybody, thanked the kind lady,
paid the bill, and Julian and I went back to Old Delhi.

The morning of the day Tom and Julian were to begin their trip back to
Europe, Julian accompanied me to the train station. Close to my last rupee, I
bought the cheapest ticket, and we went in search of the Bombay train. The
platform was jammed with people, suitcases, babies, coolies,
and vendors selling vegetable patties and Coca-Cola.
"Well, I guess this is it," I said, docking a fast-moving coolie whose
forehead veins bulged from the weight of a suitcase.
"Yeah, I guess so."
I stepped around a basket of bananas and closed the space between us.
My hand grasped the front of Julian's T-shirt. "I'm going to miss you."
His eyes were round and sad and moist. "Will I ever see you again?"
Quickly he threw his arms around me and dog his chin into my neck. "You
never know. Write me?"
 "Oh, yes. Will you write me back?"
"Yes."
There was a shout, and we broke apart in time to avoid being run over by a speeding
pushcart loaded with baggage. I tripped over a street dog and stepped on someone's mat.
The woman sitting on it muttered at me and pressed her sleeping child closer to her breast.
"I'd better get on the train."
"I guess so."
"Have a nice trip back to Amsterdam."
"You be careful."
"Goodbye."
I took my sleeping bag from him and boarded the train. "Bye." He kissed into
the air.
After one last look I entered the car. Oh, my god. A nightmare. The wooden benches were
packed tight with bodies. More people squatted on the floor, with not a speck of space left
anywhere.
"This is not possible. W here am I supposed to sit?" I grumbled aloud, trudging
through the Indians on the floor. My bulky bag banged into shoulders, but I didn't care.
"Oh, excuse me. Shit! EXCUSE me."
"I here. Missy. You can sit here." A fat man squeezed clo ser to his neighbour,
making six inches of room for me. I eased backwards onto the hard wood. Squashed.
This would never do. I would never survive the twenty-five hours to Bombay like this.
"This is unbearable," I complained. "This is for animals. I can't take this."
"You ask conductor. M aybe he find you room in the L ath e s Compartment. You
ask."
I tripped back over people, swatting them again with my sleeping bag, and found
the conductor. For a little baksheesh (free money) and the extra fare, he ushered me to the
ladies' compartment.
Consisting of two benches facing each other, it was chock-full o f women and
children. Two women and one toddler sat on the flo o r. A teenager moved her leg and
offered me a triangle of space on the seat. Another one wiped snot from her baby's nose with
the end of her sari and tittered at me. Well, it was better, but still not good. With hand
gestures, they explained that the seats became beds and that two more beds-unfold-
ed from the wall at night. Near the ceiling hung luggage racks. I
had an idea.
Stepping on a seat, my other foot on the window ledge, I moved
baggage from one rack to the other and then climbed into the empty one. It
was suffocating hot up there, and I didn't have room to sit up; but I could he
in peace without touching another human being, and after what I'd just
experienced, it was heaven.
Through the open window, I bought a Fanta orange drink and swallowed
a bit of the opium I'd bought when Tom, Julian, and I made a visit to a
D elhi den. Still afraid of throwing up, I took another nausea pill. Stoned
and sing in the luggage rack, eighteen inches from the ceiling, I slept most
of the trip.
In Bombay I went to the Rex Hotel, a Freak place I'd heard about. I was
shown to an airless back room after promising I'd pay the money in advance
within a few hours. Then I checked the card of the man who had my
portfolio. Indian Airlines, it said, near Churchgate Station. W ith my last
five-rupee bill, I taxied to his office.
I'd com pletely forgotten what he looked like, but he rem em bered me.
D ressed in suit and tie, sweating in the airless room, he beamed at me and
shook my hand. "How was your holiday in Goa?" he asked.
"Great. I'm going right back, I ju st came to get money. Can I have my
portfolio?"
W hen he fetched it from an inner office, I opened it and looked for my
remaining two hundred dollars in travellers checks hidden behind a picture.
I couldn't find them!
"I can't find my travellers checks!"
"Travellers checks? You did not tell me there were travellers checks
inside." He frowned.
"Oh. No. They're gone! I have absolutely no m oney. W hat am I
going to do?"
The com ers o f his m outh w rinkled dow nw ard. "I know nothing
about travellers checks. You said only pictures. I would not have taken
your case with money inside. Are you sure they were indeed there?"
I searched again from cover to cover, looking behind every photo.
"Oh, no. I'm dead. I have only three rupees left. W hat am I going to
do?"
 "I am sorry. I know nothing of travellers checks. The briefcase has been
in my locker all the time." He stood up, now looking as if he couldn't w ait to
get rid of me. There was no m ention of the tour of Bom bay

he'd hoped to take me on. My money was gone. My life was ruined.
"Well, ... anyway thanks for keeping my pictures, I guess."
Slowly, I stood and walked out to the street. W hat to do now? I had no
money. The hotel would evict me if I didn't pay in advance for the room. I
knew nobody in Bombay. I couldn't go to American Express to report my
loss because I didn't have the receipt num bers I'd said them to Momsy for
safekeeping. I'd been told to keep the receipt numbers separate from the
travellers checks. So how was I to report lost checks? I'd never recorded the
checks I'd cashed, so the receipts would probably be useless anyway.
I had no idea which way I was walking. I plodded through the streets,
past thin women in saris with braids hanging down their backs, past men in
light-coloured pyjamas, past beggars who followed me, calling, "Paisa, p a is a ."
I came to a w aterfront. W hat to do? No brainstorm descended on me.
Eventually, I asked for directions to the hotel and plodded back.
"Cleo, man. Shambo."
The voice startled me as I climbed, dejectedly, up the front steps of the
Rex. And there he was, standing in the doorway I couldn't believe it a
friend! It was Kadir, the A lgerian I'd m et at Dayid and Ashley's party.
"KADIR!" I yelled. He kissed my cheek. "Oh, Kadir. I've just lost my
travellers checks. I have three rupees to my name. The hotel is going to
throw me out. I don't know a soul in Bombay. I'm so glad to see a friendly
face. I d o n 't know w hat to d o
"Don't worry about it, man. Come to my room. Know whos here?
Ashley and Norwegian Monica."
I followed him to an elevator that clunked and clanked us upstairs.
"But, Kadir, I have no money. The hotel is not going to let me stay."
"I told you, man, don't worry. You're with friends now. I might even
have a job for you. Tell you later."
His room was bigger and sunnier than mine. A lovely terrace overlooked
the street. Outside, their blonde hair glimmering in the sunlight, sat
Norwegian Monica and Ashley. Friends!
"Hey, man, look who I found."
"Hoo, boy! Cleo!"
 They greeted me with big smiles. Maybe my life wasn't over after all.
As usual, Ashley wore a slinky silk gown, this one yellow and covered to
its flouncy hem in pearls. Around one ankle hung a pearl-skidded gold
chain. She rearranged her pearly fringe shawl and handed me a mirror
covered with coke. Monica brought me a chair. I snorted a few lines and told
them my sad tale.
"Have another line," said Ashley, her pearl bracelet tinkling as she
offered the m irror again. "It'll make you feel better. Are you hungry?
Kadir, let's order lunch. Where's the menu?"
We ordered strawberry juice and a tray of snacks. Coked-out as we were,
nobody ate much, but we nibbled, and I felt safe, saved from catastrophe.
Tinkling, Ashley handed me four hundred rupees.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't know when I'll be able to pay you back."
She gave me another two hundred.
"She can work for me, man," said Kadir. "I can use another girl."
"Really? D oing what?" I asked, overw helm ed w ith gratitude and relief.
Kadir took me inside the room for privacy from the other terraces. We
settled on the bed, and, chopping cocaine, he explained. "You will go to
Canada. I have suitcases." He snorted the fly-away coke off his fingers.
"Expertly made, man, wait till you see them. They're excellent, and this is a
new scam, so nobody's used this type yet. Two matching cases that hold eight
kilos of hash built into the leather."
Eight kilos of hash?
He wanted me to smuggle hash?
Aha! That's how the Goa Freaks made their money! So here was the
chance to become a real Goa Freak. But smuggling? Could I do that? Part
of me was terribly excited, and part a little scared. I had to think about

"You think it over, man, there's time," he said. "I'm sending someone else
first. She'll be here tonight, you can meet her."
I snorted another line. I hadn't been to America in three years. I'd be able
to see my old friends. "How much would I make?" I asked.
"Eight thousand dollars. Canadian."
Eight thousand dollars! I'd existed on practically nothing since I'd left
the States sleeping in my car in Switzerland, panhandling on the Hedseplein
in Amsterdam, living on people's floors in Denmark. Yes, I'd modelled in
southern Europe, but the money I made went into the car or supported me to
the next country or the next adventure. I couldn't remember the last time
I'd bought a new dress. Wow with eight thousand dollars I could have new
clothes, find a house in Anjuna and fix it up, buy my own coke. .

"You'll stay at the best hotel in M ontreal, man, the Hilton," Kadir
continued. "Dayid is there now. You know Dayid, my partner. He will take
the suitcases and pay you."
Dayid! M agnificent Dayid. Yes, I rem em bered him. My thoughts went
back to a beach party. I wasn't sure how it had come a b o u t-if he'd been there
that night without Ashley or whatbut somehow, Dayid and I strolled down
the beach, and in the moonlight, with the sound of waves mingling with the
distant rock beat, we fucked on the sand. Quick, sandy, and satisfying.
Mmmmm, Dayid.
"I have to go now and do things," Kadir said, breaking my reverie.
"You can stay here with M onica and Ashley. Or else come back tonight and
meet the other girl. Alright, man?"
Later, alone in my tiny room, staring at the cracked plaster on the
wall, I thought of what I could do with eight thousand Canadian dollars. My
own permanent house in Anjuna Beach. Like Dayid and Ashley's. No m ore
sleeping on people's floors, or eating the cheapest item on the menu, or
scrounging drugs o ff friends. The scene in Goa differed from the hippie
one in Europe. The Goa Freaks were money oriented. All that coke and
jew ellery and parties. I wanted to settle there, didn't I? Goa was to be my
hom e, right? W ell, this was the way to becom e a rich Goa Freak.
The gritty bedspread beneath me smelled old and cruddy. I'd he able to
stay in a better hotel room, like Kadir's. Hallelujah!

That night I told Kadir I was eager for the trip. He introduced me to the
other woman. Also a newcomer to India, this would be her first trip too.
She'd leave at the end of the week, and I'd go two weeks later, as soon as a
set of new cases were made. We sniffed coke and discussed details.
"Let me see your passport," said Kadir. He flipped through it briefly and
shook his head. "This is no good, man. You'll have to get a new one."
"What do you mean no good?" I asked. "What's wrong with it?"
"Too many stamps. Look at this, it's filled up. Iran. Afghanistan. No,
man, it won't do. They'll get suspicious. The Im m igration people see
you've been travelling to these countries, and they'll wonder what you do for
money. They'll ask questions, man."
 "So what do I do?"
"You must go to the consulate and apply for a fresh one."
"Won't immigration question me anyway?"
"No, man. Canada is easy," Kadir assured me. "I promise you'll have no
problem. You won't even have to go through Customs. When you get to the
Immigration desk, they'll give you a coloured card. There are two kinds. One
says you pass throughjust pick up your bags and walk out. If you get the
other card, you must stop at the Customs counter."
"I thought everyone had to go through Customs."
"No, man, only Canadians. Since you're a U.S. citizen, you won't
have to unless the immigration man gets suspicious, in which case he'll give
you the Customs card. But you'll be spiffy. You must buy a classy dress, a
handbagI'll give you money fix your hair. You'll look straight, so he'll let
you pass. Anyway, man, even if they did check you, they'd find nothing.
Tom orrow take you to see the cases. They are excellent. No one will
suspect a thing."
"What about dogs? Don't they train dogs to smell hash and marijuana?"
He shook his arm dism issively. "That's nothing. They have one or two
dogs that can only work two or three hours a week. The animals go back
and forth from M ontreal to the Toronto airport. Forget the dogs, man.
They only use them for cargo, anyway, not luggage."
N ext m orning, I went to the B reach Candy section o f Bombay,
where the consulates were located. I'd been to so many countries my
passport had been com pletely filled with visa stamps, and in Athens I'd had
to get new pages glued to the back cover. They folded like an accordion.
Before I left the hotel, I tore them. At the consulate, I asked for a new
passport.
"We could just glue this back, doll," said the consulate women as she
looked over her glasses at me.
"I'd rather have a new one, please."
"It'll cost you twenty bucks."
"Fine,"
The passport would he ready at the end of the week, and I left the
building charged with excitement. I felt daring and mysterious, like a spy on
special assignment. As I passed people on the street, I had a secret sin inside me. I
looked like your average blonde foreigner on vacation, one more holiday
hippie, a vacationer, hut I was really this bold, brazen adventurer embarking
on a dangerous mission.
 I stopped in a store to buy a Five Star candy bar and spotted astrology
books in English. I bought the Aries volume for 1976 and looked the
predictions for the end of February. Don't take chances, it said. Don't do
anything out of the ordinary. Don't travel.
I shrugged my shoulders and threw the book in a garbage can. If it had
said something positive, I would have believed it.
That afternoon, I went with Kadir to a shop near Crawford M arket, a
typical Indian storeminuscule, things piled to the ce ilin g , one on top of
the other. An Indian greeted K adir's" Shambo, man" with a sneaky grin and
took us to the back room.

True to Kadir's description, the cases were excellent. A larg e one and a
smaller one, both made of expensive, light-coloured leather.
"You see, man," said Kadir. "They are soft cases." He ta p p e d the
sides. "Nobody can get suspicious because there's no place to hide anything.
The hash is in here." He pointed to the top, narrow sides, and bottom. "Now
you know where the shop is, man. Maybe one day you'll do your own run."
Before returning to the hotel, we stopped at an opium den on a roof
across the street from the store. Over a few pipes, Kadir handed me a wad of
hundred rupee notes to buy clothes.
"You must have standard things to pack," he said. "In case they look
inside, man, you can't have hippie stuff."
Feeling super gutsy, this time I smoked the Opium without taking a
nausea pill. I get sick.
T hree days later, K adir gave me the news: "The other girl isn't
going, man. There's a problem with her passport. You leave Sunday
night."
"Yippy! So soon?"
He handed me the m irror of coke. "Are you ready? You have the
passport?"
"Tomorrow I pick it up."
"Sharp clothes?"
"Fmhaving a dress made attheM j. It's d is g u s tin g ly c o n v e n tio n a l.
U hlili! W ith a k n e e - le n g th s k ir t in th e most boring shade of beige."
"What will you do with your hair?"
"I'll make an appointment at the Taj salon for Sunday. I'll get it teased
into a chignon. I bought a pair of nylons. Nylons! I h av en 't worn nylons since
ju n io r high. I have dumb little shoes . . . I even bought a
creepy pair of clip-on earrings. Red nail polishcan you imagine me without
blue nails? A hideous leather handbag ..."
"Good, man, good. Saturday you'll move to the Grand Hotel. No Freaks
ever stay there."
Sunday night at eleven, I was ready when Kadir came to take me to the
airport.
"All packed?"
"Yup."
"MAN! Look at you! What a hairdo!" he exclaimed. Wearing the dumb
dress, the earrings, the nylons, the dumb shoes, I had hair piled four inches
above my head and eyes lined with black in a style I remembered from an old
Annette Funicello movie. "I can't believe it, man. You don't look like the same
girl!"
"Look at this handbag, it's worn over the arm. Do people really dress like
this?"
We snorted a humungous amount of cocaine and hurried out of the hotel. In
the taxi Kadir gave me three hundred dollars cash. "They might ask to see money
before letting you into Canada," he explained. He gave me three hundred rupees.
"You might have to pay overweight." He dropped me at Bombay International
and kissed me goodbye and good luck.

The coke had been a serious mistake. I would have been nervous enough
without it, but with it I was a wreck. As an added precaution, Kadir had timed
it so I'd arrive at the airport just in time to board the plane. This strategy, he
figured, wouldn't give anyone a chance to search my luggage. Another mistake.
Since the hash weighed eight kilos by itself, I was way, way over the baggage
allowance of ten kilos. After weighing my luggage, the airline personnel
presented me with an enormous bill in overweight charges. Not only did the bill
have to be paid at another counter, it had to be paid in rupees, of which I did
not have enough. To change dollars into rupees I had to wait in a line that snaked
the length of four airline counters and threatened to last all night.
Close to take-off time, I was still in line at the bank. The woman in front of
me had a daughter who had nothing better to do than play with the dumb bow on
my dumb shoes. I would kill myself if the kid put a nun in the horrible nylons.
The coke was wearing off, and I sweated with anxiety and post-cocaine
depression. I grumbled and swore at the bank; ran to the line to pay the overweight
 charge and grumbled some more there; ran back to show the receipt and collect
the boarding pass. By the time I reached Indian Immigration, I was a disaster.
After Immigration, and a frisking for weapons, I still had to go to a baggage
area to identify my luggage, answer questions ("Do you have any m useum
p ieces?"), and watch as a man chalk-marked my bags. Finally, finally, I
boarded the plane that had, by now, been waiting just for me.

In the seat at last, heart pounding away, I worried that the man had not
put my bags on the plane after he'd marked them, and I swore quietly to myself,
that I would never, NEVER do coke again in tense situations.

I only m anaged to sleep two hours during the flight. I arrived in

M ontreal exhausted and too excited about being in Am erica to worry
about anything. The nice Im m igration officer gave me a smile, a wink, and
a card in the colour that said "pass through." After watching, luggage circle
the baggage wheel for ten m inutes, I saw m ine come down the chute. I
collected my bags in a cart, walked smugly past the sign that said "Customs,"
handed over my card, and proceeded straight out the door.
I could not stop smiling in the taxi to downtown M ontreal. I'd made it!
I was a successful sm uggler! Toying with the im age of dollars and what
they could buy, I checked into the Hilton.

The first thing I did on entering my luxurious room was turn on the TV
Oh, joy. Television! It had been years since I'd seen a program. To not
miss a word, I turned the volume to m aximum and swivelled the set until it
reflected in the m irror on the bathroom door, so I could watch from the
tub. I couldn't wait to wash the hair spray out of my hair.
After the bath, I waited for a commercial break and ran to the loch to
buy twelve dollars' worth of candy. Five Star was the only brand in India,
and I craved a Chunky, a Twizzler, some Red Hots. Back in the room, I
sank into fluffy pillows in front of the Four-Thirty M ovie and spread out
the cache of sweets. This must be Wonderland.
Within an hour, the phone rang. A familiar Australian accent came
through the line, "Hi, Cleo. It's Dayid. Everything go propitiously?"
 Dayid had once spent time in jail, time he used for self-education. By the
end of his incarceration, he'd acquired an impressive vocabulary that matched
well the majestic way he carried himself.
"No problem," I answered.
"Beatific! Tonight we'll convene with Junky Robert and Tish for
conviviality. Do you concur?"
"Yes!"
I dressed in my favourite outfit, a see-through crepe in different patterns.
At eight, Dayid came.
"How winsome to see you!" he said, kissing both my cheeks. "You look
resplendent!" He wore a purple velvet suit and had his silver
streaked hair tied behind his head. I thought he looked delicious.
"How'd you like the trip?" he asked. "A chef d'oeuvre, hmm?"
"I loved it."
"Tomorrow you can bring these cases to my hotel and I'll defray you your
money. Consider this the exordium of a new career." He opened a silver
bottle in the shape of a swan. W ith a matching silver spoon he aimed coke
at my nose. "We're to converge soon with Junky Robert and Tish. Let's
egress."
Brrrr, still winter in Canada. I shivered in a flimsy cape. At a nightclub,
we were shown to a table near the dance floor, where the other couple sat
waiting for us. I'd never met Junky Robert and Tish, though I'd heard their
names m entioned. They greeted me warmly, as if I were an old-time Goa
Freak. Tish, a Canadian, had brown, curly hair and bright, lively eyes.
Robert, from Queens, New York, was lively one moment and fast asleep the
next. Twice during dinner, he nodded off, his forkful of Hungarian goulash
landing on the carpet.
"Robert, my good fellow," Dayid commented once when, with eyes
closed, Robert and his glass of champagne teetered dangerously to the left,
"the people at the next table are speculating you have Tbipanosoma
gambiense. Which, by the way, is transmitted by the tsetse fly and is common
in tropical Africa. It is a.k.a.also known as sleeping sickness."
Along with the vocabulary, Dayid had cultivated a brainful of trivia
during his stay in jail.
"Oh, yeah?" commented Tish.
I liked Tish. She was smart, and with her stash of coke, we made
numerous trips to the lathes' room to giggle for long periods of time.
At the table, the four o f us ordered everything expensive on the
menu and laughed at the straight people who had to work in the morning.
Now this was the life I was born for. When Dayid and I danced, he kissed my
neck.
Next we went to a discotheque where we ran into E sth e r, one o f three
C anadian sisters whom everyone knew from Goa, though they hadn't been
there that year. W hile we snorted coke in the L a th e s' ro o m , Esther told
me she could sell hash for me if I ever brought my own into the country.
"Really?" I said my coked-out neurotransmitter's making quick con
nections. "You could? How long would it take?"
"How much would you bring?"
"How about eight kilos?"
"A few days. At fifteen hundred dollars a pound."
"Wow. M aybe do that. I know where to get suitcases tra d e ."
W hen the sun rose, I went with Dayid to his hotel room. This time it
was slower than the night on the beach, and the m attress was m ore
comfortable than the sand had been though not as exotic.
"How would you like to peregrinate with me in the Caribbean for a
week's vacation?" he asked. "My business here will be terminated soon."
I was terribly flattered. But I hesitated to answer. Did I want to
involve m yself rom antically with D ayid? F irst of all, he was a bit too
macho for me. Then there was Ashley. The two of them seemed the classic
couple, she playing the ancient female role to his ancient one. In India
she'd had servants and seam stresses, and so was not expected to cook and
clean, but she nonetheless played the role of the little woman who took
care of details while Dayid engaged in commerce or played poker. I didn't
w ant to break them up, but even less did I want to her slot. I didn't want to
be Dayid's shadow. I could go out with him as a colleague, but as a girlfriend
. . . I didn't think so. And now, perhaps, I had an opportunity to do
business for m yself with Esther. Rushing back to India in pursuit of
enterprise enticed me m ore than diving in the Caribbean with Dayid. I
liked the idea of having money. Flying in planes suited me better than third-
class lathes' compartment train riding. The Hilton beat the Rex.
"W ell . . . p la n n in g to v is it m y m o th e r in N ew Y o rk ," I told
Dayid. "Why don't you call me there before you go?"
"Do you know," he said, "there actually were people called the
Caribs who inhabited the southw est Indies and the northern coast of
South America?"
 "Oh yeah?"
I left him in bed and went to the Hilton to change. In the Lobby I bought a
new set of luggage and repacked my clothes. I took the hash filled cases to
Dayid, collected my eight thousand dollars, and kissed him goodbye. Mission
complete.
I called Momsy.
"Baby! Where are you?"
"In Canada. I'm coming to visit."
"I'm so glad to hear from you. You didn't answer my last two letters." "I
didn't get them. I left Goa a while ago. I tell you about it when I
get there."
Of course I didn't tell her ALL about it such as how I'd gotten the money to
come back to America. But she didn't ask anyway. Momsy wasn't interested in
my tales of the East, and whenever possible, she steered the conversation away
from things Indian and into her closet.
"How do you like my new filch coat?" she asked, parading in her ankle-
length fur. "Don't look at the collar; the furrier is fixing it this
week." 97
"We have buffaloes in our paddy fields," I said, stroking her sleeve as she passed.
"Really skinny. Bones poke through their hides."
"Tell me honestly. Do there pelts match?"
I shrugged. "As far as I can tell. Momsy, you should see the sunset on Anjuna
Beach."
"But this collar isn't nice, is it?"
It was nice to spend a few days in Momsy's Fifth Avenue apartment
sleeping on the floor of the librarybut by the weekend, I couldn't wait to return
to Goa and my friends and to make more money. Dayid called.
No, I told him. I would not be meeting him in St. 'Thomas. I already had a
ticket for the flight to Bombay. Knowing I'd made the right decision, I
nevertheless hung up the phone with regret.
Landing in Bombay, I felt like a victor back from battle. I felt bigger and
stronger and awfully courageous. I was also a lot richer. I went to meet Kadir
at Dipti's, a fruit juice place across the street from the Rex Hotel. Dipti's offered
ice cream and the luscious fruits of the season and was the nerve centre of the
Bombay Freak world. Everyone reported there on arrival. If you wanted to
know who was in town and what was going down, you could find out from Bila,
the Indian manager.
"Hi, Bila," I said, climbing the step into the shop, feeling like an insider. I slid
into a booth opposite Kadir and handed him the six bottles of vitamins he'd asked
me to buy for him in Canada. India didn't sell them. Vitamin E was especially
important for coke sniffers. The healing oil applied to the inner nostril assured a
perpetually useful nose.
"How'd it go, man?" he asked.
"Great. Oh, Kadir, this is so much fun. I love this life. But, listen, I want to
do my own trip. Will you help me?" I knew Kadir wouldn't mind losing me as an
employee. I was now one of the Goa kindred, and India abounded in
impoverished travellers awaiting financial inspiration.
"Of course, man. You already know where the shop is."
"I don't know where to get the hash, though. Or how much to pay ... " "Dayid
and I are planning another trip soon. I can have extra cases made for you.
How's that? I will sell you a full set."
"Wonderful. How much?"
"For you, man, because you're my special friend, you can have them for
two thousand."
"Great. Great. Here, I can give you the money now."
"No, wait, man. Pay me when they're ready."
"Oh, Kadir. Everything's so wonderful. Do you think I should get a new
passport?"
"If you want, man. But you have plenty of time to prepare. Why don't you go
back to Goa? I'll be coming down myself as soon as Dayid returns."
Perfect! Now I was a real Goa Freak home-based in Anjuna Beach.

Several methods of transportation existed for travelling to Goa. It was rare to

find a Freak bus like Tom and Julian's. The public buses, I'd heard, were
torturous. I wasn't yet comfortable with having money to spend, so I decided
against flying. Another waythe one I took was by boat. A thirty-hour trip.

Standing in a crowded hall at the dock, I was approached by numerous

barefoot coolies in rags. Before I could pick one, one picked me and shooed
the others with gestures, growls, and a proprietary grasp on my bag. He
pointed to a sw atch o f cloth pinned to his tattered jack et. Number II. He
looked at my ticket and asked, "Blanket? Blanket?"
W as I s u p p o s e d to g iv e h im a b la n k e t? I sh o o k m y h e a d and
shrugged.
 "Blanket," he repeated. "No blanket?"
"Sleeping bag?" I tried and pointed to the roll I'd collected from
storage at the Rex.
He looked at it a moment, then nodded.
I had no idea what was going on. All of a sudden, the crowd moved.
Number II vanished, and with him went my worldly belongings. Oh, no. I
had a flash of panic, imagining everything I owned had just been stolen. I
moved with the m asses I had no choice. Out a gate, I had my first glimpse
of the boat over the turbaned head of a Sikh. The crowd herded me up a
wooden plank. On deck, the fury grew as women in saris pushed past me,
dragging two handfuls of children. A fat Indian in a white suit stepped on my
foot, and I flattened against a rail as a pack of people rushed by. Why was
everyone running? I looked around the deck. No chairs! Family groups sat
together on the floor on pieces of cloth. Spread out here and there were
cloths with nobody on them. Over one of the unoccupied cloths stood a
coohe. Aha! That's why Number II had
a blanketto reserve me a spot. As I looked around, someone banged into me
with an elbow. I must have looked confused, standing there in the rushing
mob, because a man with a beard asked if I needed help. He looked at my
ticket and pointed me toward B deck, one flight up. At the end of a slippery,
metal stairway, I found Number II standing over my sleeping bag, which he'd
unrolled, unzipped, and spread in a prime spot against a wall. My hero! I gave
him a generous tip. He deserved it.
The voyage down was curious and boring. I should have brought a book.
Lone travellers sprawled on the hard wood, covered their faces with
handkerchiefs, and slept. I took a walk to the stern. The roofless rear of the
boat contained benches fall of people, baggage, and chickenslots of chickens
roam ing and pecking free. I spotted a fam iliar Goa face. "Richard!"
"Cleo, hi. Going to Anjuna?"
"Yeah, just came back from Canada. I can't wait to hit the beach." "Canada,
huh? I ju st returned from Thailand."
We exchanged knowing smiles. Now I knew how the Goa Freaks made
the money to splurge on so much coke. Now I knew, because I'd been
initiated. I was really one of them.
M ore foreigners appeared, and we gathered in a group. Inevitably, the
chillum came out.
"BOMBOLAI!" yelled Richard, applying flame to the pipe. "BOM SHANKAR!" yelled
someone else. I m arvelled at their unconcerned attitude toward smoking hash in
public. Anjuna was a Freak beach where the police never went, but this was a
public place! Natives sat an arm's length away. I sneaked a look around and
noticed no one seemed disturbed. Richard offered the pipe to two Indians across
from us. With a nod and a smile, they accepted.
India!
When the chillum came to me, I declined and felt proud of myself for doing so.
The boat docked in Panjim, a major city of Goa, and a few of us shared a
taxi to Anjuna Beach. After asking around for a place to stay, I found room in a
house on the north end. U nlike the south end, which had relatively few
houses, the north end crow ded one house next to another. Each had a walled-
in plot of overgrown land. A lumpy, rock', dirt road, walled on both sides,
divided the area into rectangles.
A week later Michael, an American with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes,
threw a party. Michael lived in a large room in the house of a Goan family. Having
his own entrance, he'd built a fence of palm fronds around the area, creating a
private compound.
"Fatima is something else, man," Kadir told me as we sat outside on the sand.
"Who?"
"Michael's girlfriend. Over there with the platinum hair. She was arrested in
Germany, man. She played crazy and got herself transferred to the psycho ward.
Then she escaped and hitchhiked all the way back to India. W ithout a passport,
man!"
"I heard she once married a Kuchi chieftain in Afghanistan," Richard added.
"James M ichener based his novel Caravans on her."
Wow, I thought. I just loved the Goa Freaks. How exhilarating to be part of
them.
And what a party! Dayid and Ashley turned up and secretly spiked the
punch with LSD. I became suspicious when my limbs grew heavy and the
reflections from candles spread out and touched. When coloured light hung from
my eyelashes, I knew somebody had spiked something. I hadn't even known
Dayid and Ashley were in Goa until they stopped by my spot near a wall of the
compound, from which I hadn't been able to move since the acid hit. I barely
managed to raise my head in salute.
"You look like you're enjoying yourself," said Ashley. The train of her
slinky, black dress trailed three feet behind her. I could only answer with a pleasurable
noise. My body wouldn't move and my words wouldn't connect.
 "He'll leave you to your apparent jollification," said Dayid, and they moved
on, grinning at the evidence of their good deed.
Not till midmorning did I manage to break loose from spacing out on sand
specks. Light blazed off the palms in the yard. I zigzagged across the sand into
the house. An Oriental carpet filled the room.
"Oh, boy," said a guy I recognized as the Neal who frequently dispensed
liquid acid from a straw at parties. An American, he had shoulder length brown
hair with long bangs that he shook continually out of his eyes. "You look like
you could use some of this." His hand held a glass block w ith an engraved
lion on the underside. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK
went the razor blade on the glass as he divided white powder into lines. He
passed me the block and a gold straw. Sniff. The efficient gold instrument shot
the powder up my nose like a vacuum cleaner.
"What was that?" I asked when the unfamiliar taste of it drained down
my throat.
"You thought it was coke?" he said, shaking his bangs and giggling. "It's
smack."
As the heroin seeped into, my bloodstream, my spaced-out body relaxed.
Ooo, exactly what I needed. It eased the sharp edges of the acid aftermath. "That's
wonderful," I said. I closed my eyes and sank deeper into a cushion. "Just right."
"I thought it would help," answered Neal with a grin. He passed a finger
through his beard and stashed me through his bangs. "Who are you?"
"Cleo."
"I've seen you around, but we've never met."
"I had your acid one night."
He giggled and embarked on a discourse about the purity of his acid; how
there was little of it left because the C.I.A. had destroyed the formula, thinking it
subverted America's youth; how the C.I.A. initiated the "bad trip" propaganda;
how it was all a he, etc., etc.
Neal loved to talk, and he babbled on into the afternoon. I listened, often
with my head down and eyes closed. I felt so comfortable, and everything
looked so acidy beautiful, I could have stayed like that for eternity.
 As we eased into spring, people left Goa. The weather grew hot with the
approach of the monsoon. Goa enjoyed clear, delightful warmth all year
except for summer, when the tem perature rose to unbearable heights,
followed by incessant rain. That was when the Freak citizens of Goa left beach
life to do businessdrug business. The monsoon routine called for a quick
scam to make a bundle of cash, then sojourning in another utopian spot, like
Ibiza or Bali, until the next Goa season.
One day, Kadir informed me that he and Dayid were putting their scam in
motion and we were to move to Bombay.
I flew up with Ashley, Dayid, Norwegian Monica, and other Goa Freaks
we ran into at the airport. Though the flight itself took twenty minutes, the taxi
ride to Diabolim Airport took three hours. The wait for the ferry I'd crossed
with Tom and Julian's bus consum ed m ost of the time. The steel structures
extending into the water hadn't grown an inch since then.
In Bombay we checked into the Astoria Hotel, and I shared a room
with Norwegian M onica. M onica planned to run for Kadir and Dayid,
carrying cases into Canada like I'd done. Depending on the amount of
capital left at the season's end, the Goa Freaks either created their own
scams or ran in someone else's.
As Goa emptied, the Bombay Freak hotels filled, and we arrived in
town to find a tw enty-four-hour-a-day party scene. Friends occupied every
room at the Astoria, and Neal checked in right across the hall.
"Hi there, neighbour," he said, leaning against his open doorway,
ch o p p in g p o w d er on his glass blo ck . C LIC K , C LIC K , SCR A PE,
SQUEAK, AND SQUEAK. "Feel free to stop by for a toot w henever
you want."
"Oh, M onica. This is so great," I said to my room m ate. "I don't
know whose room to visit first."
We stayed in Bombay a long time. Everyone, it seemed, got caught in
Bombay Syndrome scams and plans were delayed as parties carried on
w eek a fte r w eek. D a y id and A sh ley h ad a su ite w here a horde of
people always overran the bed, the chairs, and every inch of floor space. The
coke flowed non-stop.
"Anybody want victuals? I have room service on the phone," Dayid
w ould an n ounce p e rio d ic a lly . "A shley d esires a piece o f p eric arp .
Pericarp, a.k.a. also known as fruit. Fruit is the mature ovary of a
flowering plant, did you know?"
Monica and I made daily trips to smack up at Neal's. Heroin cures
cocaine frazzle. After days of coke snorting, one's nerves tended to feel like
yesterday's spaghetti stuck to the pot. A sniff of smack brought tranquillity to
the fried brain. Often Neal provided us with a packet for morning too.
After three weeks, I began to wake up with diarrhoea and cramps in
my stom ach. Sometim es Neal came by with a restorative spoonful of
sm ack that made the ills go away. I w ondered what I had. M onica was also
sick, and we couldn't figure it out.
"Hoo, boy! There goes my stomach again. What's wrong with me?"
We made frequent trips to the "0" den for pipes of opium. It eased the
symptoms. We didn't worry much over what ailed us, tiny trouble being a
frequent companion to the traveller.
After a six-week-long party. Kadir told me the cases were ready. " Did you
get the new passport, man", he asked when he delivered them.
"No. I decided to stop in Europe and get it there so no one in
Canada will know I've been to the East," I answered. "How does this
sound PII report it stolen and then use the new passport for travelling in the
West, while keeping the old passport for the East. Think it'll work?"
"Yeah, man, sounds like a good idea."
"I have to figure out how to work the visa stamps, though. Some
countries don't stamp you in, and when they do, the stamps are never in
chronological order anyway."
I counted out two thousand Canadian dollars for Kadir. I was all set for
my big number.
I chose Belgium as my destination; it seemed an innocent little place. The
morning of departure day, I woke up feeling dreadful. I had no energy, and
my stomach was killing me again. "Oh, Monica, I can't move," I said.
"Hoo, boy. I'm not hunky dory myself. Let's go to the "0" den."
After a few pipes, we felt rejuvenated. I bought a ball of eating opium to
take with me. Feeling great, I had my hair done and took care of last minute
details. Just before I left for the airport, Neal handed me a good luck packet
of smack. "Have a nice trip, cutie," he said. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE,
SQUEAK, AND SQUEAK.
This tim e I was better prepared. I had enough rupees to pay the
overweight charge, and I 'was early enough not to he tilled with anxiety during
the inevitable complications of Indian bureaucracy. Am! No coke. Everything
was OK as I boarded the flight to Brussels, a stash of dope and opium hidden
in the hem of my dress.

I had no problem leaving Bom bay nor entering B russels. After

checking into a fancy hotel, I went to the American embassy to report my
stolen passport. They said they'd have a new one for me the next day.
Peachy.
W hen the time came to leave for Canada, though, I was very nervous.
I gobbled a pile of Neal's smack up my nose. This trip was the real thing, I
thought, as I buckled into the Boeing 747. I wasn't going for someone else
this time. This trip was mine. I would make twenty-five thousand dollars
for myself. Gould I pull it off? Was I really going to m ake th at am ount
o f m oney? S om ething had to go w rong. N ever went this smoothly.
I couldn't concentrate on the in- flight movie.
As the plane banked its final approach to M ontreal, I went to the
bathroom and snorted m ore sm ack. I looked in the m irror. Oh, shit!
Look at my eyes! They were so pinned! You could hardly see black in the
m iddle at all. The Customs man would look at my eyes and know right
away I had smack in my blood. Usually, I loved the way smack made my
pupils so small. They showed that much more blue. But as I looked at
reflection, my eyes seemed to announce to the whole world that I was
smacked out.
Well, too late to back out now.

U pon lan d in g , I sh u ffle d w ith the o th er p asse n g ers to the

Im m igration area. W hat if they searched me and found the passport
reported stolen? Did my eyes look like those in Children o f the Damned?
POOM! A man pounded an entry stamp in my passport and handed
me the pass-through card.
I made it! My own trip!
I checked into the Sheraton to a green-and-white room that reminded
me of spring. Full of glee, I called Esther. "I'm here!" I announced. I jabbed
at the numbers on the push-button phone to create celebration music.
She came over immediately. She loved the cases. "No one would ever
 suspect them," she stated. Then she asked, "How do you get the hash out?"
I deflated. "Uh-oh. Good question. How do I get the hash out? Oh, shit."
I'd forgotten to ask about that little detail. "Hmmm, I guess we need a scissor
or something." We also needed a scale and Baggies. Esther left, to return shortly
with supphes.
Clueless about correct procedure, we set to work cutting the leather as best
we could. With knives and razors, we stabbed, tore, and clawed. Scraps of
leather fell to the floor as the hash came out in blocks. We divided it into one-
pound piles, which we packaged in Baggies. Within an hour, we'd parcelled
seventeen and a half pounds. Esther took three and said she'd be back. I went to
the lobby, bought ten dollars worth of candy, and retired to the room and the
colour TV
A few hours later she returned with a friend.
"This is Toad," Esther said. "He's going to help sell." Toad was another
Canadian Goa person. She counted out forty-five hundred dollars in small
denominations and gave it to me.
I was ecstatic. "I'll have to hit every bank in Montreal to change these
tens and twenties into large bills," I noted, amused at the problem. "Sorry. That's
what they paid me."
Esther and Toad took three pounds each and left. It was working. I was
really doing it. An entrepreneurial drug smuggler! I felt like Genghis Khan
conquering land. I snorted the last of my powder and chomped a Mars bar.
When Esther returned, she cascaded Canadian dollars over the bed. We
counted them giggling. She left again with more weighed-out Baggies, and
then Toad appeared. I counted his money, and he too took more and left. I went
to the lobby and crammed the cash into a safety deposit box, where it barely
managed to squeeze in next to the money belt stuffed from the last trip.
By night time, all the hash had been sold, and I was $26,250 richer! I couldn't
believe it.
"Wow, That went so fast!"
"I told you it would," said Esther, surveying the traces of our day's labour.
"What are you going to do with the suitcases?"
I glanced at the slashed-up wrecks. They looked like they'd been attacked
by Norman Bates from the movie Psycho. Oh, shit. What to do with the cases?
Another little detail I hadn't asked about.
"Oh, god!" I wailed. "I never thought about that what do I do with them?"

She chuckled. "You could throw them out the window."

We went and looked out the window, which faced an inner courtyard.
fourteen floors down. We laughed.
"Should I do it?" I asked, laughing at the thought. "Nobody would know
where they came from."
"Can you im agine the people in their rooms seeing the eases fall
by?"
We laughed louder and held the window sill to prevent ourselves from
collapsing.
"How about the elevator?" I suggested. "I could wait till the middle of the
night and put them in the elevator. Then send the elevator to the lobby."
We could no longer hold an and fell to the floor in a giggling heap. "I still
think you should throw them out the window," Esther advised when she could
get enough air to talk.
Amid the guffaws, though, I realized I had a problem. "I can't do that," I
said. "These cases are a new scam. The narcs don't know about them yet. If I
left them someplace, Narcotics would find out and know to look for that type of
suitcase. The airports would be alerted. I'd ruin it for everybody; nobody could
use them again." I groaned. "I MUST dispose of them where they won't be
found."

"So what will you do?"

I hadn't the faintest idea. It seemed I wasn't yet the hot-shot professional. I
said, "I'll ask Dayid. He should be arriving tomorrow. Oh, no! I can't let the maid
in till I get rid of the cases. We really made a mess, didn't we?"
The next day, Dayid and Ashley called, and we arranged to, meet for dinner
that night. I spotted Ashley as soon as she floated through the lobby's
revolving door. She wore a floor-length red fox coat, with a red fox hood
framing her blonde hair and a red fox muff encasing her hands. I was feeling
sick again.
"I can't go to dinner with you," I told them. "I'm freezing and sweating. My
legs hurt and I have no energy."
They looked at each other and smiled. "Don't you know Ni hat your malady
is?" Dayid asked.
"No. Do you? What's wrong with me?"
"You're withdrawing," said Ashley. "You have a habit."
Addicted? Me? No. Not possible. "I can't be!" I said. "I haven't been doing
that much smack."
 But I knew immediately they were right. How come Monica and I
had never figured that out? Especially since we knew enough to go to
Neal's for a little taste whenever we felt too bad.
Dayid agreed to dispose of the cases for me, and I watched Ashley
g o t o u t th e d o o r w ith him as I sh am b led b ac k to the room .
Goose pimples crawled over my body. I swallowed some over-the-counter
Valiums I'd bought in India and took hot baths to ease the ache in my
calves. After two days of that, I was fine.
Planes full of Goa Freaks arrived, and Montreal soon turned into a
continuation of the party begun in Bombay. After Monica landed safely,
Ashley told us about an apartment building that rented by the month.
The next day Monica and I moved into an apartment, with Dayid and
Ashley taking another one down the hall.
"Want a hit of smack?" Monica asked as we settled in. By this time,
she too had figured out what had been making us sick. Sickness or not,
though, the stuff was pure paradise, and I accepted. She winked as she
handed me her stash. "Souvenir from Neal."
Every day brought another familiar face to Dayid and Ashley's apart
ment. The overflow filled our living room. Although no one mentioned
the details of his or her business, I assumed we Goa Freaks were in
Canada for the same purpose. I loved being part of these drug-smuggling
outlaws, an underground community vibrant in the straight world of
North America.
Though the Goa Freaks didn't discuss business specifics, they
recounted dose calls with gusto.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Canadian Jacques told stories in
his French accent. "This time, they detained me in London," he said.
"There I was, peacefully waiting in the transit lounge for the connecting
f l i g h t ."
Goa Freaks crammed every comer of the room. Jacques scanned our
attentive faces and tossed his waist-length hair over his shoulder. He
fished a stash bottle from the sack hanging on his belt.
"...and suddenly a man approached me," he continued as he snort
ed from an ivory spoon, "and asked me to follow him." Jacques scooped
another spoonful and extended it to me. I leaned forward, and my nostril
met it halfway.
"Hoo, boywhat happened?" prompted Monica.
Jacques went on with his story as he offered powder to the rest of his
audience. "I knew they were going to search me," he said. "The man led me
through a corridor and down a stairway." Despite the crowd, the room was
quiet as the Goa Freaks listened. "The Customs official walked in front of me. I
had a stash in this pouch tucked in my pants. I palmed the pouch, like this,
and let him get ahead of me, then I threw it under the stairs where you
couldn't see it. He took me to a room and had me undress." Jacques paused, and
we waited expectantly. I was angry when he couldn't find anything."
The Goa Freaks cheered.
"My suitcases were there, and he searched everything. I was afraid he would
give me a rectal exam or make me stay overnight. Sometimes they keep you to
see if you shit anything out. But he didn't. He said I could go."
"Did you get your stash back?" someone asked.
"I bet he did."
"Of course he did."
Jacques smiled, raising and lowering his eyebrows. "Bien sur! When we
walked back, I waited till we passed the stairs then felt around in my pockets and
said I'd forgotten my cigarettes. I ran back and picked up the punch."
The Goa Freaks clapped.
"The man gave me a funny look when I caught up with him but said nothing.
Poor guy was so disappointed."
The Goa Freaks moaned and then laughed.
"To celebrate, I had champagne on the plane."
One close-call story brought another and another.
"That's like what happened to me."
"Once when I was leaving Orly."
"Germany's the worst. You know what they did to me?"
"No, Heathrow's the worst. Did I tell you about the time ...?" Weeks
went by laced with coke, smack, and stories. At night, we'd go
C lubbing and spend tim e in the b ath ro o m snorting and giggling.
Everyone was free with their cash and stash. We felt rich, wild, and inf-
nitely superior to everyone else. We were the Goa Freaks from India.
For my birthday, the gang threw me a party. The gifts were of gold
and silver.
"Where are you going from here?" Monica asked one day.
"I'm not sure. The monsoon's starting in India, right? So I guess I can't go
back there. What's the monsoon like?"
"Hoo, boyit pours every day all day. It's impossible to stay in Goa
 in the summer. It's the time to do business and hang out somewhere hunky
dory till the rains stop."
"How long does it last?"
"People start going back to India in September."
"I heard someone mention Bali. Ever been there?" I asked.
"No, but I've been thinking of going. Why don't we go together." "Great! I want
to visit Momsy in New York first. I'll meet you later." "Okey dokey. Leave me
your number and I'll call."
I prepared for New York. Airports had recently begun frisking people for
weapons. Since I didn't want to be caught going into the States with a mass of
cash, I decided to take the train. I phoned ahead, so Momsy would expect me,
then enjoyed the relaxing train ride, feeling like a business traveller.
"Baby, is that you?" came her muffled voice as I entered the apartment.
"Momsy? Where are you?"
"Over here, in the closet. Do you think you could help me . " (She grunted.)
"I'm trying to make room for ... Oh, nuts!"
I entered her ballroom-sized walk-in and peered through a cluster of hanging
clothes. Momsy." She looked so sad standing there with a finger in her
mouth amid a pile of hat boxes. "What's the matter?"
"Fudge, I broke a nail," she answered.
When Momsy told me Aunt Sathe was in town from Wilkes-Barre,
Pennsylvania, I hopped with excitement. Usually Aunt Sathe made only day trips
to New York to see her migraine doctor, but this time she was staying overnight
in a hotel in order to do some shopping. Though Momsy didn't get along with
Aunt Sathe, I thought she was nifty. Tall and slim, she advertised electrical
equipment on local Wilkes-Barre TV. She was also a bit wild. During my teen
years. I'd turned on my cousin Matthew to marijuana, which I liked in those
days. He, subsequently, had turned on his mother, and after that, whenever I'd
visit, the three of us would retire to the basement for a puff. I could discuss
things with Aunt Sathe I wouldn't dare with Momsy. Now, hearing she was in
town, I couldn't wait to see her.
As soon as she opened her hotel room door I grabbed her in a hug. "AUNT
SATHE!"
She responded with her usual heart-w arm ing, "TATALA!" an old
endearment. Aunt Sathe and the Wilkes-Barre branch of the family came from the
Orthodox end of Judaism. She kept a kosher house and generously sprinkled her
dialogue with Yiddish. Momsy, on the other hand, prided herself on her big-city
worldliness and wouldn't be caught dead with a word of Yiddish in her mouth.
Aunt Sathe and I sat on the bed, and she held my hand as I told her about
Goa and India. Then I domped my cash on the coffee table. It formed a
considerable mound.
Her mouth opened. "Oy vey, tatala. What did you do, rob a bank?"
I had just completed, in my eyes, a remarkable feat and felt triumphant
about my accomplishments. I'd travelled around the world for three years and
returned with a load of money. I was a success.
I told Aunt Sathe the truth.
At first she was shocked and apprehensive. But the longer she sat before
the cash, the more she mellowed. She picked up a rubber-banded packet of fifty
hundred-dollar bills.
"What if you got caught, you shmeggeggy you?" she said.
"No chance. If you look good, you don't even have to go through Customs.
Not in Canada."
"Oy, sounds like mishears to me."
By the end of the afternoon, she began to have visions herself. Though
Aunt Sathe had not needed to work after her divorce from my uncle, I knew
that grand vacations and thousand-dollar dresses were no longer a part of her
everyday life.
"You know, tatala," she said, "I've been thinking for a while now. There
are no eligible men in Wilkes-Barre, and believe you me when I tell you I've
looked. There's not one worth this much of my little finger. I have to get out, go
somewhere. I wonder . . . Maybe . . . Do you think you could include your old
aunt in one of those deals?"
I thought she was kidding.
"Now? What do you think?" she pressed. "Nothing dangerous, of
course."
Aunt Sathe was serious.
"Didn't think I had the chutzpah, did you?" She crossed one long leg over
the other and looked into another packet of hundreds. Aunt Sathe was really
serious.
I didn't like the proposal at all. How could I involve my aunt in a scam?
Could I send her through Customs with a set of cases? I looked closer at the
elegant woman caressing her chin with hundred dollar bills. She was poised and
chic and classy. No one would ever suspect her. Not in a million years. But she
was my aunt!
 At the end of the visit she reminded me, "You won't forget me now, will
you, shana maidala?"
I shook my head but dismissed the idea from my mind.
Meanwhile, I ran out of dope again. I didn't want to find out how I'd feel
without it. I searched the streets of Greenwich Village in the hope of finding
something there. As I crossed Bleecker Street I heard someone call my name. It
was an older version of someone I'd hung out with as a teenager. And it
turned out that O lder V ersion had been on the methadone program for
years, though at present he was clean and working in a T-shirt store.
"Please, please," I begged him. "Score me some smack."
It took time to persuade him, but eventually he agreed. After I waited
impatiently in his store for two hours, he finally brought me a packet, from
which he'd taken some as commission.
Oh, a little snoot felt so good. I loved the feel of it seeping through my
body.
But scoring the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that
was an enormous hassle. It entailed begging Older Version to go and then
waiting ages after he finally agreed.
"Baby?" Momsy said one day as I sat, miserable, by the phone in my third
hour of waiting for Older Version to call me back.
"What?" I answered grumpily, not wanting to leave the instrument that
was going to ring any second.
"I need your help."
I found Momsy in the dining room with her hands on her hips and a frown
on her forehead. "I can't five with this upholstery another day," she said. "Look
how the sun changed the colour over there. What do you think of a snazzy
print to replace it? Creamish, maybe."
I shrugged. "I'm waiting for this guy to call."
"Or do you think a print would make the room too busy?"
I shrugged again. Two hours later. Older Version still hadn't phoned. New
York was a real drag. I was ecstatic when Monica called and said
she was ready.

Monica and I agreed to meet in Amsterdam and timed our flights to arrive
within an hour of each other. I spotted her halfway across the international
waiting room. Tall, blonde, and Nordic, with a guitar case on her hack, she was
hard to miss.
We ran into each other's arms. A fter New York, it felt especially
great to be back with my Goa friend.
 "I have a hunky dory place for us to stay while we're here." she said. "You
know Amsterdam Dean? I have the address of his houseboat."
I'd first m et A m sterdam D ean when he'd been Saddhu George's
roommate. We became better acquainted over the season. During the
extended stay in Bombay, while Dayid, Ashley, and Kadir had succumbed to
Bombay Syndrom e so engrossed in partying that business was delayed
Dean had a birthday party at the Horizon Hotel in Juhu Beach. The ballroom of
the five-star hotel had been rented for the occasion and packed with Goa
F reaks. Several room s in the hotel had also been reserved and turned into
opium dens, complete with opium baba and sm oking paraphernalia. After
hours coked-out at the party, the opium had been a delicious respite. I'd
been impressed, and the idea of staying on his houseboat appealed to me.
We taxied to the designated canal and searched for the boat with the right
name. Climbing aboard, we found Dean. He seemed thrilled to see us.
"Welcome to my summer home," he said.
A pig stay. No maid service, obviously.
M onica and I moved aside enough of the clutter to make room for our
luggage. "I don't have extra beds, but you're welcome to the Floor," said Dean,
who had thinning, curly hair and glasses. The floor was fine. Dirty mess or no, I
was with my Goa friends, and everything was dandy. I felt connected, a member
of a secret society.
Sitting slanted on the broken arm of a couch, I browsed through the
Amsterdam section of my address book. Perhaps I could find an old friend to
look up. Bach! There was the phone number of his mother's house, where I'd
spent one glorious week with him three years before. Did I dare call Bach? No, I
didn't. But I couldn't help smiling as my mind filled with images of his blue eyes
and the red and white striped shirt he'll worn the first time I'd seen him at a club
called the Oxhooft.
His real name was Bart, but I'd called him Bach because he was so spectacular
for an everyday name. His bulging blue eyes were as engaging as any concerto.
Bach had been the first person I'd met who used smack. Being himself a
masterpiece, anything associated with Bach was masterly too including smack.
I looked again at the address book. No, I couldn't call him. But I let my
finger ditch the spot where his name was written.
That night, I suggested we go to the Oxhooft, which was still a popular
discotheque, according to Dean. Upon entering, I hunted every comer in search of
Bach. No luck. I recognized the bartender, though, and let him slip me a free
drink for old time's sakea Genever, the Dutch gin.
Monica, Dean, and I danced and told Anjuna stories. What a difference
between the drug scene in New York and the drug scene of the Goa Freaks. In
New York it had been ugly. It entailed slinking down graffiti covered hallways
and dealing with creepy, slimy people. With my Goa friends it was glamorous and
gay and exciting. I felt part of an enchanted community as we huddled in the cloak
room for a snort of coke, scooped in the silver Aries spoon Dayid had given me
for my birthday. Before we left the club, I looked for Bach again. Still no luck.
The houseboat was fun, despite the stench of the toilet, which didn't
flush and had to be dumped where, I didn't ask. After another day there,
Monica and I thanked Dean for his hospitality. "See you in Anjuna in
September," we said and caught a plane to Singapore, where we checked into a
Holiday Inn.
"Oh, poo!" I exclaimed, banging my fist on the bureau top. "What's
wrong?" asked Monica.
"I forgot to come in on my old passport. Now the new passport's ruined
with this Singapore stamp. Shit!"
It took us an hour the next day to get a visa for Indonesia. Then, after
buying a ton of electronics Singapore having the best and cheapest in Asiawe
hurried to catch a flight to Bali. Since we'd heard Singapore didn't allow long
haired guys into the country, we decided the place wasn't for us.
We arrived that night in Denpasar, the only citymore like a big villagein
Bali. We slept in a hotel and had our first view of Indonesia in the morning.
Breakfast awaited us on the patio, the teapot diapered in a strawberry-shaped
piece of wool. As we sat outside and buttered our toast, we took in the leafy
sights and chirping sounds and thick, flowery scents.
"Hoo, boy, look at that," said Monica, jabbing her marmalade toward a black-
and-orange bird hopping along the railing.
"Oh, Monica, this is so great," I said. "I can't believe it. This is like a real
vacation-type vacation that straight people go on. Only we don't have to go
back to some job somewhere. I love being rich like this."
Later we took a walk through town, and M onica ran into a Goa Freak
named Jimmy whom I'd never met. He had a puffy afro and wore a judo outfit
pinned with a silver star that said "Sheriff."

"Yo! You chicks gotta come stay at our bungalow lodge in Legion. All the
Goa Freaks are there," he told us.
"Hunky dory! I'm glad I ran into you. Who's here?"
"Trumpet Steve and Laura, Cindi, Michael, and Fatima. There's a bunch
at the lodge, then Narayan and R ichard have a house not far away . . . "He
grinned and stuck out his chest. "I'm the sheriff."
Within an hour we were there. The lodge, right on the beach, comprised
many bungalows, each split into two connecting rooms with their own bathrooms
and patios. Monica and I took one next to Black Jimmy and his girlfriend,
Elam e from Vancouver. Across the way was an American couple, Trumpet
Steve and Laura, and their baby, Anjuna. Anjuna had been born in a hut on
Anjuna Beach during a full moon. Laura and the twenty-two people who'd
crowded in to watchhad been stoned on acid at the time. W ith her brown,
shoulder-length hair and her large breasts, Laura was the epitome of "Earth
M other," and since her baby was named for the place we called home, she was a
mother figure to us all. Though he didn't fit the part, Trumpet Steve tried to
assume the role of papa.
"Like, hi. Welcome to our bungalow lodge," he said. "Let us know if you,
like, need anything. We're, like, one happy family here."
Next to them, Sylvia, a dark-haired Italian, had half a bungalow, with Patrick,
an English man, in the other half. Cindi, an American with short, blonde hair, had
her own bungalow next door. All were Goa- people I'd never met. They
welcomed us warmly, coming to say hello and to offer information and gossip. I
felt very much at home. When I learned Jimmy was into smack, I felt even more
at home. That evening, Monica and I dropped by his room.

"Yo, girls! Come smoke a few bhongs with the sheriff."

A bhong was a vertical bamboo pipe containing water. One's mouth fit into
an opening at the top. The smack, sprinkled over tobacco, went in a bowl on the
side.
"I didn't know you could smoke smack," I said.
"Hoo, boyit's the best way. You use more dope, but it's more fun." Yes, I
was going to like it there very much.
The beach wasn't much fun, though. Bali forbade nude bathing. Though
we were miles from the touristy Kuta Beach, and though our beach was usually
deserted, we still chanced a fine going naked. But constant horizon-scanning did
not make for peaceful sunning.
 One morning Monica came through the connecting door to my room.
"I'm not doing any smack today," she said. "I'm going to quit."
A controversy was growing over the smack. It was actually fairly new to the
Goa Freak scene. Since the early sixties, when people started migrating to
Goa, drugs had been a focal point of activitiesbut not heroin; mostly just
hash and acid. The only people doing dope had been the "French Junkies," and
they'd been scoped by all. The term junky itself was used in a socio-economic
sense to refer to a low-class drug user. It denoted a poor, sleazy person,
someone likely to rip you off.
As the early residents of Goa involved themselves in the drug trade, the
lucrative business transformed the sixties hippies into the rich Freaks of the
seventies. Soon the loose cash led to the widespread use of cocaine, which led to
cocaine nerves and then to the discovery of the soothing smack effect. It was
Neal who'd originally turned on the beach to acid w ho'd also turned on
the beach to smack. Neal had been an Original member of the scene. Everybody
knew him or had heard of him, and everyone around him loved him. For as long
as anyone could remember, Neal had given freely of his acid, his money, and
his time. When he began to give out smack too, the smack rode an express
pipeline into the soul of Anjuna Beach. When I'd arrived in Goa, it was just
being introduced to the scene. Not everyone used it, and those who did didn't
really see themselves as users. This was how it was with many of the Goa
Freaks in Bali who, though they indulged in it now and then, also frowned
on its use. On the days Steve and Laura didn't take a snoot, they disapproved of
anyone who had.
"Like, you girls have to be careful with this powder," Steve said. "Like
Laura and I, if we smoke one day, then we, likely won't do it for two or three
days with that."
They and Sylvia and Patrick went through grumpy days now and then
when they were "getting the powder out of their systems." None of us was sure
where we stood in relation to it.
"I should stop too, sometime soon," I told Monica.
"Well, I'm stopping right now," she said. "I don't want to be too hooked. I
haven't had any yet this morning."
"Good luck. How do you feel?"
"Fine. Come on, lazy bones, let's swim."
I snorted a hit of dope, packed a stash in my bag, and went to join Monica
on her porch. Two guys sat there with her Richard, my old friend from Goa,
and someone sexy named Narayan. They were both
American. Though Richard's hair wasn't very long, Narayan's was real short.
On top of that he wore glasses. Not my type at all. But there was something in
the way he moved ... the way he leaned on his elbows with his legs stretched
out and crossed.
I bent over to kiss Richard. "Where are you staying?"
"Down the beach. Why don't you two come by tonight for dinner?" "Great!
How do we get there?"
"We'll pick you up. Listen, is it true you two are into smack now?"
I looked over at M onica tuning her guitar. "Yeah, well ... now and then."
"You'd better stop that stuff, it's dangerous."
"I will," I said to dose the topic. "Hey, are we going to the beach?" M onica
strained a chord. "Monnn ica!"
"Okey dokey, let's go."
That night, Richard and Narayan came for us on their motorbikes. It
seemed everyone had a motorbike, as it was one of the only ways to get
around. The public him os (open vans) went by sporadically, bin if they had
a fixed schedule, I didn't know it. I'd never been crazy about bikes. Though
Richard didn't drive fast, I was still apprehensive.
"Please slow down," I told him more than once, imagining my knees
colliding with asphalt.
A goose ran out to greet us as we pulled into the flowered courtyard of
their house.
"Beware of the goose," said Narayan. "It bites."
As I climbed off the bike, the beastly thing followed me, honking and
pointing its beak at the hem of my dress. I could hear M onica laugh behind
me as I jum ped backwards out of the goose's way, up the steps to the porch.
From elevated safety I w atched it turn around to snap at Monica's blue
satin harem pants.
"W hoa . . . " she shrieked and quickly jum ped up to the porch next to
me.
The in sid e o f the house had the old Goa look com bined w ith
Balinese batiks, a form of hand-printed fabric. We had several rounds of coke,
and then a Balinese servant brought in the meal. Everyone ate with chopsticks
an "in" thing to do.
"Sorry," I complained, "I don't have patience for these things. May I have
a fork?"
After a dinner swimming in soy sauce, Monica followed me to the
outhouse in the yard. We had to run the last few feet to escape the goose.
 "Let me have a hit of your smack," she said as we slammed the door just in
time to evade the oncoming beak.
"I thought you quit."
She winked at me. "Maybe tomorrow."
M usic blared when we returned to the house. I danced over by
Narayan. During dinner I'd been im pressed by his clever remarks. He wasn't
just sexy, he was really smart. Though not my usual type, there was
something awfully attractive about himmaybe it was his bright red Chinese
pants that opened to reveal the sides of his legs. I smiled at him,
and we danced toward one another.
"Want to see my batiks?" he asked.
"Sure."
We danced through the doorway and into his room, where, after a
quick glimpse at the batiks, we sat on the bed. He opened a case of odds
and ends and took me on a tour of his life.
"This is a picture of my ex-wife. You know Krishna? No? She fives in
Anjuna. We both grew up in California, though I didn't know her then. Her
name wasn't Krishna in those days, of course. Mine wasn't Narayan.
Here, look at this shell. I found it on a beach in Australia."
We spent the evening browsing his memorabilia, until Monica saun
tered in and said she was leaving. Richard leaned on the wall and rattled
his keys.
"You're going? I'll go too then," I said.
"Stay a while," said Narayan. "I'll take you back later."
"No, I'm going." Part of me wanted to stay. I loved listening to his
witty stories and had an urge to run a finger along his exposed leg. Another
part of me, though, kept focusing on his measly two inches of hair.
"So," Monica asked later when we were alone. "You like him?"
I scrunched my face. "Not my type. That hair!" But I couldn't get
him out of my mind.
The next morning, as I lounged on Monica's porch eating my usual
fried chicken for breakfast, Narayan zoomed across the flagstone path that
connected the bungalows. Patrick opened his door to investigate the racket and
waved. Narayan waved back and shut off his noisy vehicle by our steps. Today he
wore bright orange Chinese pants. To drive the bike he'd raised them around his
waist, leaving his legs bare. He looked graceful as he swung himself off the bike.
"How come you're so graceful?" I asked him. "You move like poetry."
 Monica rolled her eyes, groaned, and went inside her room.
"I used to be a dancer," he said, pirouetting over to me. "Do you
always eat chicken for breakfast?" His red, flowery kimono opened, revealing a
lovely chest, hairless and tan.
"No. Sometimes I eat steak, but they don't have it here." "Meat!
I've been a vegetarian for four years now."
"I hate vegetables. Never eat them. Ugh, they crunch." I pointed at the
beautiful thigh Narayan held behind him in an arabesque. "I wish I could bend
my leg like that." Monica slammed her window shut. Was she
trying to tell me something? Did I sound retarded? "What kind of dancing did
you do?" I asked.
"Ballet." He held out a book with Chinese lettering. "I came to your I
Ching." After explaining the ancient form of fortune telling, he sat next to me and
spread a piece of blue velvet material over the wooden
boards of the porch. He handed me three coins with square holes in the middle.
"Throw these," he said.
I tossed them on the velvet. He peered at them and drew lines on a piece of
paper. I glanced at his short hair. It looked soft. Silky and soft. I
resisted the urge to touch it. How could I be attracted to someone who looked so
straight?
"Again," he said.
"Again?" I tossed, very aware of how dose he was. "Go
on."
"More?" I noticed his pants had unwrapped from his legs again. "Keep
throwing them."
I tossed. He scribbled. Somehow, the space between us grew smaller
each time I leaned over to toss the coins and he leaned over to study them.
"Okay, that's enough."
"Aw, I was just getting into it."
He laughed. "Now let's see what your fortune is." He leafed through the
book, matching lines. I leaned closer to watch. Our heads touched as we looked
down at the Chinese characters and the English translation beneath. We
maintained head contact, and I had trouble concentrating
on what he said. To make sure he didn't move away I asked a few dumb questions.
Yes, lust definitely made me sound retarded.
The warm days in Bali passed quickly. More and more Goa people arrived. As
the summer progressed, the Freaks finished their business and
looked for a nice spot to stay till the monsoon ended in India. Patrick and
Sylvia got together for a few clays before deciding they weren't compatible.
Steve and L aura continued their on-again-off-again dance with smack.
And Narayan and I consummated our relationship.
We spent long afternoons in his bed. I was crazy about him. But he
kept hassling me about the smack.
"W ant saki?" he asked once.
"No, thanks."
"Oh, excuse me, I forgot you were a sm ack head. W ho needs saki,
right?"
Black Jimmy was my connection, and M onica and I never failed to
spend a few hours a day smoking bhongs in his bungalow. Smack was
great, but smoking smack was definitely the greatest pastim e on the face of
the earth. Ah, loved the feel of holding in a lungful of it.
One day, Jimmy appeared at my door. "Yo, it's the sheriff. Can I talk
to you?"
"Come in. What's up?"
"The contact in Legion is drying out."
"Uh-oh. 'W hat are we going to do?"
"I'd like to score some weight and I need an investor. You interest
ed?"
"Um ... about it."
"I'd fly to K uala Lum pur in M alaysia. I heard the sm ack's cheap there.
comeback with a pound or so."
"How much money would you need?"
"I could do it with five thousand."
"Let me think about it. I'll let you know."
Secretly I was thrilled. Here was the chance to be an investor. Big
profit. No risk. Of course I would accept.
told Jimmy the deal was on and retrieved five thousand Canadian
dollars in cash from the m anager of the bungalow lodge, with whom I'd
deposited my funds.
Jimmy seemed in no hurry to get going, though. Two weeks later, he still
hadn't left. Our smack supply ran low, and it became a chore scoring
enough of it.
"I'm quitting today," announced M onica one morning.
"What, again?"
"No, this time I'm really doing it. It's the perfect opportunity since
there's so little available."
" Maybe stop too," I said. "This way, when Jimmy comes back front
Malaysiaif he ever leavesI can make money on the deal instead of
consum ing the entire sm ack m yself. Okay, but take the Coke Cure. I
don't want to suffer."
That afternoon I purchased enough coke to last a week. I finished my
remaining dope stash and began the cure.
Large doses of coke made the first day merry. Of course at night I
was too weird to sleep. That was okay too; I just deal more coke and went
for a midnight dip in the ocean. By the third day, though, things became
hairy. I was so wired. My nerves were a disaster from all the coke and no
sleep. Every noise made me jum p. Air molecules grew thick and moved
around tauntingly. I hid in my room, being in no shape to socialize.
M onica gave in and indulged in a few bhongs with the sheriff.
I told myself: I'm going to get off this drug, even if Monica doesn't.
By the third night, I looked like a paranoid schizophrenic. When I'd
first arrived in Bali, I'd bought a Balinese mask of the demon Rangda and
had hung it from the ceiling fixture in my room . Its three-foot-long
blonde hair hung halfway to the floor. The face of the mask had the most
hideous features imaginable, and the Balinese waiters who brought room
service would see it hanging there and marvel that I could five with it. It
had never bothered me before. But now the damn thing swung around
with every vagrant air current, and that horrible face turned to look at me
no matter when: I went in the room. From Monica's bungalow came spooky
Pink Floyd music.
It was more than I could stand.
Eeeek! I threw down the paperback behind which I'd been hiding,
stood on a chair, and grabbed Rangda. I flung the hom ely thing face
down in the closet. After securing the closet door, I went to M onica's
room.
"Monica, please, please. I can't stand it. Please lower that music. I'm
flipping out here. Please, please."
She winked. "Okey dokey."
Jimmy finally left for M alaysia. His girlfriend, Flame, rem ained
behind, and she too decided to quit the dope. By the time she felt uncom
fortable, I was on my fifth day (it was taking longer and longer to get the
sniff out of my system ). I'd discovered that, by drinking titanic volumes of
alcohol, my nerves weren't in such a sorry state from the coke, and I could
even sleep. Flame came to my room, and we ordered two bottles of gin. call
the w aiters at the lodge, slit-sh ap ed gongs hung on every porch and were
to banged forcefully. Elame and I banged and banged on ours all night, sending
the Balinese waiter for repeated orders of ice and orange juice.
"Hello again." Elame and I giggled at him hysterically. "You're so pretty.
What's your name?" We nearly fell off the porch in drunken laughter.
When the sky over the sea glowed with morning, Elame and I tottered to
the bed and barely managed to hoist up our legs and arms.
"I wish Jimmy were here. I'm so homy," she said.
"I have a vibrator."
"Goody, a vibrator. Maybe that will help."
I stumbled to the closet and fished under Rangda's hair before victoriously
returning to the bed with the instrument.
"Ah," shrieked Elame when I poked her in the ribs with it. "That tickles."
After a final burst of laughter, we fell asleep, heedless of the humming
from the vibrator. By morning the batteries had led.
On the seventh day, I felt fine. I'd had a good night's sleep, and the
withdrawal symptoms had vanished. I joined Monica on the beach.
"How are you this morning?" she asked me.
"Great. It's over. I'm clean. Wow, I actually did it. That was some heavy
week. But it's over." I lay down next to her and soaked up the splendid sunny
morning.

By night time, I was stoned on smack again.

Oh, well. So maybe I didn't have to quit completely right now. I had set out
to detox, and I'd accomplished that. I no longer needed dope I
just wanted it.

W hatever smack was available had become precious. One day Narayan
stopped by to ask, "Come with me to Denpasar?"
"No, I'm waiting for someone."
"Who? Your new smack connection?"
"Did you see Monica on the beach when you drove in?" I said to change
the subject.
 "What's the matter are you running low?" he asked sarcastically. "What will
you do when you run out?"
"I have enough. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not the one who's worrying. W hat happens if Jimmy d o e sn 't come back?
What if he takes your money and goes somewhere for a vacation? Then what will
you do?"
"Leave me alone. Go to Denpasar already."
"Maybe you're out of dope now? Is that why you're so snappy?" "Will
you leave me alone?"
"Why don't I check. Where do you keep your stash? In here?"
He started opening drawers. I ran after him. "Stop. Stop. Go away."
"What? You prefer your heroin to me? Silly question. Of course you do. No
contest, right?"
"Are you crazy? Stop this."
"I'm not the one who's crazy."
He found my remaining stash and declared, "Look what f found!" "Give
me that." I lunged after the precious packet, but he held it out of reach.
"Give that back." I jumped in the air after it, but he grasped it
tight and prevented me from squeezing open his fingers. "NARAYAN! Give
that back."
"Look how angry she's getting. Look at you, you're a mad woman." "GIVE
ME THAT!"
"What would you do if I flushed it down the toilet?" I le went in the bathroom.
"D O N T YOU DARE." "Look,
she's starting to panic."
"NARAYAN! I SWEAR ILL NEVER TALK TO YOU AGAIN. D O N T
DO IT."
"Say please." He held my priceless treasure over the toilet.
That was it. The relationship was over. Nobody did that to me. Do anything,
but don't take my stash. Finished. We were finished.
I walked away and sat on the bed.
I would not let him hum iliate me over this. Did he want to prove
that I had no control over using? I could stop if I wanted. I'd just done that. Did
he want me to show I favoured him over heroin? No wav!
I hated him for badgering me.
"What's the matter?" Narayan jeered. "You won't beg? Look at this
you've given up? You don't want it anymore?"
I threw him a murderous look but didn't budge.
 He came in the room. "Here, take your poisonous powder."
I grabbed it from his hand and ran past him to lock m yself in the
bathroom. I stayed in there a long time, and eventually he left.
He wanted me to choose? Well, I'd chosen. Ha!
When he came back later that night, I refused to open the door. He
pounded a while, then gave up and went away. Still I kept the door
locked. An hour later, I went to investigate a sound coming from the
bathroom and found him trying to climb in the high window near the
ceiling. He didn't fit. W ith one arm and his head hanging in, he tried to
talk me into forgiving him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I won't touch your stash ever again. I promise.
Let me in."
"G ET OUT OF MY W IN D O W "
"Will you let me in?"
"Never. Go away." I closed the bathroom door and went back to the
spy novel I'd been reading. I could hear his muffled shouting.
"CLEO. COME ON. I SAID I WAS SORRY. C LE-00000 . . . "
I ignored it but had trouble concentrating on the book. I was dying to
throw my arms around him. I wanted to sit with him on his porch like the
day before, laughing at his jokes and throwing liquorice drops at the goose.
I wanted us to walk hand in hand through Denpasar.
But it was over now. He'd ruined it. I hated him for it.
M onica came through our connecting door. "What's that noise?" she
asked.
"Oh, it's only N arayan trying to worm through the bathroom w in
dow."
"Did you two have a fight?"
"It's over. It's just over."

N ext afternoon, as I returned from a shopping spree, a B alinese

porter rushed to carry the wooden statues I'd bought in Kuta Beach.
"Your friend is here," he said.
"Who? W hat friend?"
"Your friendthe black man." He smiled and added, "The sheriff."
"Jimmy! Jimmy's back?"
I left him struggling with the carvings and dashed down the flagstone
 path. Patrick was hurrying out his door. He beam ed and announced,
"Jimmy's back!"
I follow ed one rock behind him as we loped along the path. We
en tered Jim m y's bungalow to find everybody there from our lodge those
pro-smack and those anti-smack, even baby Anjuna. Fat grins were on the
faces of those waiting for the brimming bhong to come around.
"Cleo, like, Look who's here," said Trumpet Steve.
Jim my sat at the centre of the group, reigning over his smoking
paraphernalia, the silver star pinned to his chest.
"Welcome back," I said, giving him a kiss. "Good trip?"
"Right on." Jimmy held up a tin powdered-milk container. "Yo, dig this.
One pound of pure M alaysian white dope."
I squeezed into a spot between Steve and Sylvia and accepted the bhong
from Elam e, who lit it for me. As I exhaled a cloud of smoke, Jimmy held a
carved ivory spoon to my nose.
"Try some this way. Primo shit, man."
I took two snorts in each nostril and joined the others in their childish
grins. Patrick lifted the m ilk container, peered at its soft white contents,
expanded his smile, and passed it to me. I gazed at it a bit, then passed it to
Sylvia. Everyone had a turn caressing it. We ordered wine and lounged the
night away in Jimmy's room, smoking and sniffing his acquisition. It was a
time for celebration.
The party atmosphere extended for days and then weeks as friends, and
friends of friends, came by for the feast. It seemed we turned on everybody
within five miles. Jimmy repeated his tale over and over.
"I heard Kuala Lumpur was the place to score," he retold us, "but I didn't
know anyone there. So, know what the sheriff did? I hired a likely looking taxi
driver to drive me from the airport, and I asked for his help. He drove me
around a while, and I gotta tell you, I wasn't sure this Dode w asn't gonna rip
me o ff or hand me over to the narcs. And then."
Narayan came to see me a few times, but either I was at Jimmy's whose
room he w ouldn't enter because of the sm ack or I'd locked myself in my
room and wouldn't answer his knock. Sometimes, I ran into Narayan at one of the
outdoor discotheques Monica and I frequented. I'd ignore him.
But I missed him. I missed the way he put his head down and locked
sideways after saying something cute and clever.
One afternoon, as M onica and I returned from the beach, we passed a
slew of police going the opposite way. Policemen! At least a dozen of them.
Holy shit! Hastily we entered our bungalow and locked the door.
"Hero, boy! What was that?"
 Peeping out the curtained window, we saw the police enter Jimmy's room
and heard Elame scream. She screamed and screamed. The rest of the lodge lay
quiet and still. The screaming went on, accompanied by crashing noises. Then
silence. After an hour of crouching by the window, Monica and I dared to venture
across to Patrick's.
"They're waiting for Jimmy," he informed us. Patrick had heard from
the room service waiter that the police had come for Jimmy, who'd left only
moments before.
"We have to warn him " I said.
"I'm not driving out of here now."
"Maybe I could sneak away by the beach."
I returned to my room, changed back into a bikini, grabbed a towel, and
strolled casually to the beach. No one followed. As soon as I reached the sand, I
dropped the towel and ran. I ran the mile or so till I came to the path heading
inland to Narayan and Richard's. I ran into their compound so fast the goose
didn't bother coming after me. Puffing and sweaty, I ran into the house
shouting, "THE POLICE ARE AFTER JIMMY! THEY HAVE ELAME!
WE MUST WARN HIM!"
"Well, what did you expect?" said Narayan. "Half of Bali knows he's
dealing smack."
"Come on," I urged. "We have to stop Jimmy before he drives into the
trap."
"Isn't that fittingthere's a posse out for the sheriff."
"Narayan! Come on. Richard?"
They did organize them selves quickly and rush to their bikes. Richard
said he'd check places Jimmy might be. Narayan would stay on the road to stop
him if he returned.
As Narayan swung his leg over the bike, I noted again how graceful he was.
It had been weeks since we'd been lovers since he threatened to flush my
precious stash down the toilet. I gave him a hesitant wave. Could I forgive
him? Then maybe we could be together again. "Good luck," I called out to them.
When I ran back to the lodge I found everything still quiet. Monica wasn't
in the Bungalow, and when I went to track her down. Trumpet Steve waved
me to his place. They were all there. It looked like a town meeting.
"The police are, like, still here," said Steve. "They're, like, waiting to ambush
Jimmy."
"It's okay. I have N arayan and R ich ard cov erin g the roads.

They'll stop him."

 "We've, like, got a problem."
"Maybe the police will go away when they see Jimmy's not coming back,"
said Sylvia.
"Hoo, boy they've got the smack."
"Wait a minute, we don't really know what they're after," said Laura.
"M aybe it has nothing to do with the sm ack. M aybe they ju s t want
Jimmy."
"If they want Jimmy, they want the smack," said Patrick. "And if
they're in Jimmy's room, they have the smack."
"And they, like, know we're all one group." "Do
they?"
"We could be separate tourists. How would they know we knew each other
before?"
The speculations continued. By evening, we were restless. A fter
watching the room service boy go to Elame twice, I beckoned him to find out
what was going on there.
"She orders dinner," he told me.
"But what about the police?"
"They order dinner too."
"I'm going over to see what's happening," I told the gang.
First I went to my room to change. Then, taking a deep breath, I
knocked on Elame's door.
A policeman answered.
"Hi," I said stupidly.
"Come in," he motioned, smiling.
"Can I come in?"
"Come in."
"I want to visit my friend."
Elame greeted me with a strained frown. "Friend. Friend," she told them.
The police moved to the other side of the room to give us privacy.
"How are you?" I asked her.
"I haven't had dope since this morning. They're waiting for Jimmy." "What
happened? Did they find anything?"
"Only a little hash. I threw everything down the toilet and out the
window. Did you hear me scream? When they walked in I screamed: I'm
naked. GET OUT! GET OUT! So when they saw I was alone and
undressed, they waited by the door. That's when I got rid of what I could."
 "What about the smack?"
"They haven't found it yet."
"Did they look?"
"They looked through everything, but they didn't bother with the can of
smack. They must have thought it was powdered milk."
"Where is it?"
"In the wooden cabinet, right in front. They searched there, I saw them."
"You need dope? I brought you a stash just in case."
Around midnight, I walked back to Narayan, and Richard's.
"We found him," said Narayan. "I found him. Stopped him on the road. He
was about to drive into the lodge."
Jimmy was hiding behind an armour. He looked scared. "Yo, man, that
was close. They almost got me."
"They haven't found the smack yet."
"I've gotta split this scene," Jimmy said. "The sheriffs having a bummer
here."
"Fm taking- him to the airport tonight," Narayan told me. "Richard lent him
money for the airfare."
I followed Narayan as he went to his room, but I didn't enter. I stood in the
doorway and watched him uncertainly. As usual he wore a bright flowery kimono.
Red was a great colour for him. He turned to face me and sneered.
"See what happens with heroin?" he said mockingly. "Bad karma." I made an
impatient noise and looked at the ceiling. Narayan came closer. "Bad karma!" he
said again, loudly, with slitted eyes. I pushed him away. "I'm glad this
happened," he continued. "Glad! Now you'll have to scrounge for your dope.
Serves you right!"
"Fuck you," I said and spun away from him.
He took hold of my hand and said gently, "Don't go."
I pulled away forcefully and stormed out.
By the next morning, Jimmy was out of Indonesia. Meanwhile, the police
were frustrated from waiting all night for nothing. When they finally left, they
took Elame as consolation. They put her in a hotel and had her guarded so she
couldn't leave. They stationed a sentry in Elame and Jimmy's bungalow.
Late in the afternoon I went to the hotel to bring Elame dope. When I
arrived back at the lodge, Steve and Laura were holding another town meeting,
this time over the tin of smack.
 "We have to get it out of there," said Laura. "If they haven't found it yet, they
still may at any moment."
"Like, what do we do?"
"Wait for an opportunity."
That night, at different intervals, we prowled outside Jimmy's bungalow and
peered through the windows, seeking a chance to run in and grab the can. At
one point, the policeman heard Monica and I giggling and came out to
investigate. Leaving the door open, Monica squatted and pretended to pee. I then
quickly closed the door and went back inside. I laughed out loud.
"But Monica, there's a perfectly good toilet only four Feet away. This isn't Goa,
you know."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"They're going to think we're all a little strange."
The next day, Steve announced, "We've got to, like, move out of this lodge. It's
too hot here with those cops and that tin of smack they might find, like, any
second."
"Yeah, what if they need powered milk for their coffee?"
"I found us a place called Kaiya Waiya," Steve continued. "It's a gorgeous, like,
resort further down the road. It was built two years ago, but after it was finished,
it turned out the site was, like, haunted. Nobody wanted to go near it. It's been
deserted ever since, so we can stay there for practically nothing. Wait till you see it,
like, you won't believe it."
That afternoon I climbed behind Monica on her motorbike and we went to
check it out.
Stupendous. An absolute dream. Kaiya Waiya consisted of castle-like houses
with walls surrounding inner courtyards. We toured the place in awe. Wooden
statues hid amid tropical greenery. Here a dragon, there a garuda, a bird from
Hindo mythology. Carved, multicoloured snakes peeped from bushes. One house
had its own swimming pool, and Steve thought Monica and I should take that one.

We were thunderstruck when we saw it. It had a moat. A moat! Obese

goldfish swam in the moat, and a Balinese man fished there. We entered double
wooden doors to find a six-foot stone Ganesh the Indian half-man, half
elephant god shooting a stream of water into the pool. Off the side, a fountain
spouted from the mouth of a gargoyle. Chaise lounges surrounded the pool, and
steps led to a patio overlooking acres of paths. Gigantic flowers climbed the inner
walls. Behind sliding glass-doors was the bedroom. The other side of the room
opened onto a
patio facing the sea. We were speechless. The bathroom was down a few steps
and half outdoors. Among plants and carved figures lay a sunken tub of mosaic
tiles.
"We'll take it," I declared.
"Like, dynamite, huh?" said Steve. "I spoke to the caretakers and talked
them into letting us stay here. We're the only ones who ever wanted to. I told
them we'd take ten to fifteen houses, so they agreed. The thought of the money
must have made them brave enough to, like, tackle the ghosts."
We moved.
The house I shared with Monica became the party place. Ours was the
biggest and had the Pool. It became the hangout for all Goa, and friends of
Goa, Freaks. No ghost ever made an appearance, though. We called to them,
invited them for a swim, and offered them hits of dope. No ghost.
Meanwhile, Elame was still being "detained." I went twice to bring her
dope, but it was difficult to find transportation back. No himos cruised so far
from town, and hitchhiking was impossible whenever a driver heard the name
Kaiya Waiya, the car door would slam in my face.
I developed a phobia about motorbikes. They terrified me, and it seemed
that, as soon as a guy realized that I was afraid, he'd drive faster and more
recklessly. Only males did this, so I felt safer with female drivers. Monica had a
bike, but I didn't want to abuse our friendship by asking her to chauffeur me
around. There was only one solutionI had to learn to drive one of the damn
things myself.
I'd gone with Narayan once to the motorcycle rental place outside Denpasar.
A Chinese woman ran the profitable business, which also invested in scams,
money lending, and other illicit activities. A huge. Oriental-looking man was her
second in command. When I accompanied Monica to the Shop to pay her monthly
fee, I told Huge Oriental I too wanted to ride.
"I teach you," he assured me. "You five near beach, good place to practice."
The next day Huge O riental turned up at Kaiya W aiya with a Yamaha,
and I soon putt-putted on my own. A bike was less terrifying when I drove it
myself. Slowly I crept along, very pleased with my valour, despite my senior-citizen
speed.
Suddenly, the police turned their attention to me. They'd found out
from the manager of our old bungalow lodge that I was the one who'd given
Jimmy five thousand dollars before he'd left for Malaysia. The manager also
told them the total amount I'd left in deposit with the lodge. The very large
amount, all in cash.
Unlike my friends. I'd never been antipolice. I liked police officers. I found
them reassuring to have around. I admired their w ork and had always been
friendly with any I'd met. In the same way, I now became chummy with the
inspector who came to see me. I invited him and his subordinates to make
themselves comfortable by the pool.
This frazzled Monica, and she rushed away fast. As she exited, I asked
her to send the waiter with drinks. The nice inspector was suitably pleased
during the next hour of courtesy and propriety.
"You like Bali?" he asked me.
"Wonderful, wonderful."
We got along so well that he never even inquired about the money I'd
given Jimmy. Though I felt reasonably safe after he left, I buried my stash and
extra passport in the bathroom garden.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," said M onica one day, entering the bedroom
from the Pool area. "You made the paper."
"You're kidding! Why? What does it say?"
"Patrick has it; he's outside. It's about Jimmy."
"Oh, shit."
Nude, I stepped out into the morning sun, where four people lay basking
and another two swam. "Patrickyou have the newspaper?"
Without opening his eyes he handled it to me and said, "The headline's a
dozy."
AMERICAN TOURIST SOUGHT BY POLICE. T re al the sto ry of
how the police had been searching for Jimmy, and how theyd discovered
he was out of the country by a telegram he'd sent. The telegram came from
Thailand and was addressed toME! There was my nam e, reproduced along
with the whole contents of the telegram. He was fine, the newspaper informed
me, and he wanted me to forward his belongings.
"I made the papers. I'm famous!" I exclaimed.
"Do you think it'll give you tro u b le w ith the inspector?" asked
Monica.
"No. We're good buddies now. And as long as I keep my stuff buried in the
garden, they can't reach me. Do you believe the police stole my mail? Isn't that
against the law?"
That afternoon Elame was officially arrested.
The next day Steve brought news "The police r e le a s e d
Jimmy's possessions and Patrick has the smack."
"YOURE KIDDING! The can of smack? My smack? Patrick has it? Yahoo!
How did he get it?"
"As soon as they, like, stopped guarding the room, he just went in and took
it. Just in time too, because right after that the manager, like, packed Jimmy's
things and locked them away."
"That's so great! Yawee! A miracle!" I did a dance around the pool. "Patrick
is not com fortable holding it, though, so, like, you better pick it up as soon
as you can. He told me to tell you."
"I'll go first thing in the morning."
My smack! My whole pound of Malaysian smackI was going to get it
back! Hallelujah!
The next morning I was still in bed when Monica came in from the terrace.
"Guess who's here and wants to see you?"
"Who?"
"Narayan. He says he has something for you. He's outside."
"Hoo. I don't want to see him." I had a snort, put a tape in the stereo I'd
bought in Singapore, and climbed back in bed.
"Cleo, Narayan's waiting for you. He says it's important."
"Tell him to come in."
"No, he wants you to go out."
"In a minute." I closed my eyes and enjoyed the smack coursing through
my bloodstream.
"Hoo, boy Cleo, you better come out here," said Monica a little while
later in a strange tone.
"What does he want?"
"Narayan's gone, but he left something for you. I think you should see
this." I climbed off the bed and went through the flimsy drapes waving in the sea
breeze. "Look what that bastard did," she said.
On the floor of the porch, standing by itself, was the powdered milk tin that
had once contained the smack. Water now filled it, and a pink flower floated on
top.
"Where's the smack?" I asked.
"He said it was evil, so he threw it in the ocean."
"He dumped my smack in the ocean?"
Narayan threw my five thousand dollars worth of pure Malaysian heroin in
the ocean?
NO!
 Not my smack! And he left me the container filled with sea water and a flower!
I stormed back through the drapes.
"What should I do with this can?" shouted M onica after
"I don't give a shit about the can!" I flung m yself on the bed and
bunched the pillow into a ball. BEAST! How could he do that to me? I
hated him. HATED HIM. I wanted to tear his skin off bit by bit. I wanted to
gouge my fingers into his eyes. I wanted to bury him to his neck in sand and
watch the sea come in. HATEHATEHATE!
Monica entered shaking her head and said, "He has a lot of nerve." "I
could kill him. Kill him!"
She went out the other way to the Pool. I lay smothering my pillow and
fuming. How could he? After all the time we spent together. How could
Narayan take something so im portant to me and threw it in the ocean? Oh,
did I hate him. I wanted to see him chopped into little pieces. He couldn't do
this to me and get away with it. No way. I would KILL him.
No, I would have someone else kill him. That's what I'd (For sure I
could find someone to do it. If you paid enough money, you could get the
natives to do anything. I had the money. Yes, that's what I'd do. I'd have
him killed. I'd ask Huge Oriental. He was the closest thing to a gangster I'd
seen on the island. He would find someone to kill Narayan for me. Oh, I
couldn't wait to see Narayan's dead Body. I would celebrate his funeral for a
week. He couldn't do something so mean to me without reprisal. No way. I'd
show him.
That afternoon I headed for the motorbike shop to speak with Huge
Oriental. I still burned with fury, but as I rode the always-deserted road,
skirting the chickens who ran in front of my wheel, I rethought the plan. Was
I being too drastic having Narayan killed? Did I really want him dead?
Were money and lawlessness making me cold-hearted? Would this be bad for
my karma?
Maybe death was too extreme. Maybe I should just have him beaten up.
Yeah, good enough. I'd order his arms and legs to be broken. That would
satisfy me.
As I drove in the shop, huge Oriental glanced up from the broken
headlight in his hand. "How is the driving?" he asked.
"Great. I love it. But I have another favour to ask you."
"Yes? What can I do?"
"You know Narayan?"
"Narayan. Yes, of course." He continued fixing the headlight.
 "He's a bad man. Very bad. He stole my money. I want his arms and legs
broken. You know someone who can do it?"
Huge Oriental looked at me. "You are angry with him, yes?"
"Very angry. He ripped me off. Will you help? Here is one hundred dollars."
Huge Oriental put down the light when I handed him the hundred-dollar bill.
"You get someone to break both his legs and both his arms, and for every tooth
you bring me I will pay another twenty-five dollars. Okay?"
He smiled. "You are very angry."
"Yes. Will you do it?"
He folded the bill and nodded.
"Don't forget, for every tooth I will pay another twenty-five dollars." Driving
back, I glowed with inner peace. I'd show that Narayan. He couldn't do
something like that to me.
My visa was running out again. I was nearing the end of my third month in
Bali, and, technically, three months was the limit for foreigners. Instead of
returning to the Immigration office in Denpasar, I decided to fly to Java and try
to scam a three-month extended visa. I'd tell them I was studying the Hora or
something. It would be cooler to be out of Bali while Huge Oriental performed his
dastardly deed.
Leaving Monica in charge of the house, I journeyed to Jogjakarta. My
sojourn there included a tour of the Borobodour temple and a night with a
beautiful Indonesian who had black skin and waist-length, Asian hair. I found
him hanging out with Australians, cashing in his good looks with the foreign
women. He wore expensive western clothes and drove me to his home on a
motorbike. It was late at night when we arrived, and we tiptoed through a hall,
passing a horde of people, old and young, sleeping everywhere. I stepped over
three snoring, ancient women and squeezed past a table occupied by two toddlers.
In an inner room he woke his brother curled on a mattress and sent him to
find another bed. In the morning, as we prepared to leave, the entire family
came to meet me, touch my hair, and examine my clothes. One great-grandmother
lifted my skirt to feel the satin with her calloused fingers. Kids with thumbs in
their mouths stared.
I was anxious to return to Kaiya Waiya. I missed my friends and couldn't
wait to visit Narayan in the hospital. I fantasized about him lying there helpless
and bruised. I planned to sit by his bed, hold his hand, and gloat. I'd bring him the
same kind of flower he'd left me in the powdered milk container, and I'd tape it to
his cast. Oo, oo, this would be good!
Gleefully, I flew back to Bali.
"Cleo! Hunky dory!" greeted Monica. "Welcome back."
Laura waved from the pool, where she was giving baby Anjuna a donk.
 I tore off my clothes and dove in the water. Coming to the surface, I leaned
my arms on the edge o f the pool and asked nonchalantly, "Anything
happen while I was away?"
"No," answered a recently arrived Goa Freak. "A few good parties, that's
all."
SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! That m eant N arayan was not in the hospital. He
hadn't had his legs and arms broken. The bastard was on the loose, as healthy as
ever. SHIT!
"Oh, yesJimmy sent someone from Bangkok to help get Elame out of
jail," added Monica.
T hat aftern o o n , I rode to the m o torbike p lace to seek Huge
Oriental. Not only was I furious that Narayan was still in one piece, I also felt
Huge Oriental had cheated me out of my money. I didn't think it wise to
confront him too harshly, though. One shouldn't yell at a gangster.
"No see, many days already," said Huge Oriental as I stepped around a
pile of tires and entered the Shop. "You were away?"
"I went to Java for a visa."
"It is pleasant there?"
I nodded, then blurted, "You didn't get someone to take care of
Narayan for me." Huge Oriental shook his head. Now what? I couldn't
interrogate the bouncer-type on his non-com pliance. "W ell ... then .. .
just keep the money as rent for my bike. It'll cover the fee for a month,
okay?"
"You want it that way? Okay."
I drove off miserable that Narayan was unharmed, but at least I no
longer felt I'd blown the money. Some gangster!
On the way back, I stopped in Kuta Beach for a dorian milkshake and
bought a Balinese oil painting, which the man packed in a bamboo holder.
Then I went to the beach and sat on the sand amid Australian tourists. Look at
that they all wore bathing suits!
The longer I sat, the angrier I grew over Narayan. I needed revenge.
Could NOT let him get away with throwing my dope in the ocean, but I
couldn't think of anything. W hat to do? What? What?
Anger brewed and brewed. I had to do SOMETHING.
 Idea! I'd go to Narayan and hash him on the head. If I killed him good.
What could I use to hit him? I felt the bamboo package. It wasn't very hard,
but I'd use it if I couldn't find anything better lying around Narayan's room. I
jum ped up, marched to the bike, and took off with determination.
As I neared Narayan's place, I talked myself into looking relaxed and cool.
I had to visit him like a friend. If he suspected anything, he'd be on guard. I'd
have to be nice to him until he turned his back. And then WHAM!
I turned off the road onto the sand path leading to his compound. It was
difficult to drive on the soft ground, and the bike kept sliding and getting
stuck. I parked it fifty yards from the house, giving up on driving closer.
Walking from there, I tried to rid myself of burning anger. Calm. Calm. Be
calm. I must be calm and cool. Win him over. He mustn't suspect.
There he was. I saw him sitting on the porch. Smile. I must smile. The
smile wouldn't work. I felt it go crooked on my face.
"Well, well," Narayan said with boast in his voice. "Look who's here. To
what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
I lost it. I couldn't smile. Couldn't do it. Couldn't. I wanted to strangle
him. Something stung my foot, but the pain couldn't pierce the rage. I
looked down. It was the goddamn goose. I ignored it.
"Well, it's always nice to see you," Narayan continued. "Can I offer you
tea or are you here for some other purpose? I must say I'm surprised."
My brain clogged.
"Come inside," he said.
I followed him into the house.
He sm irked at me. "Are you getting enough dope? Having a hard time
scoring maybe?"
"FUCK YOU. THAT STUFF COST A LOT OF M ONEY, YOU
KNOW!"
"Gee. You annoyed I dum ped your pow der in the ocean? That's
where it belongs."
No longer able to contain myself, I swung the bamboo above my head.
He easily warded off the blow and caught my wrists.
"Woo, Look at thisit's Wonder Woman!"
"LET ME GO!"
I kicked and bit and broke Loose. Close to tears, I ran out the door.
 down the steps, and into the trees. Narayan ran after me tauntingly. So did
the goose.
"Is that why you came here? You wanted to fight me?" He laughed.
"Isn't that mean. And I thought you wanted to hang out."
I almost reached the bike when he caught up. He tackled and we fell.
"STOP. LET ME GO." I scream ed and fought. Soon he had me
pinned on the ground. "GET OFF ME." I couldn't move. Helpless, I lay
under him shrieking, "LET ME GO. LET ME GO."
A passing Balinese heard and came to investigate. As he neared,
Narayan released me.
I scrambled up.
Shaking, I inserted the key in the bike. N arayan rem ained on the
sand, watching. His laughter followed me as I sped away, tears of fury
streaming down my face.

A week later, Monica gave me the news. "I'm leading on a trip," she
said. "My money's running out and I have to do a run."
"Where are you going?"
"Australia."
"Hash?"

"Well, good luck:. How long will you be gone?"

"Maybe a month. You'll still be here, won't you?"
"Yeah, think so. Is this your own trip?" I asked.
"No. I'm running for Narayan," she said.
NARAYAN?
Shocked, I could only watch as she opened her suitcase. Tom; could my
best friend do business with my worst enemy? W here was her loyalty?
Stabbed in the hack my best friend! My best friend! How could she do that
to me?
I watched her fold a dress and pack it. Betrayed! She was going to
Australia with Narayan! MY Narayan!
The next day she was gone.
 I threw many parties over the following weeks, and at one I met
Chic a tall, thin Colorado boy with blonde hair reaching halfway down his
back. He wasn't a Goa person, though; he was of the Kathm andu crowd
close cousins. He'd lived in Nepal for seven years and owned a club there, a
popular Freak place. The world had few Freak communities Goa was one,
Kathmandu another. We felt related.
Chic and I spent sunny days filming movies with the eight-millimetre
movie camera I'd bought in Singapore. I film ed the Goa Freaks at Kaiya
Waiya. I filmed Chic's beautiful nakedness diving into the Pool. I had Chic
film me on a motorbike, driving at the remarkable speed of ten miles an hour.
Chic turned me on to Balinese magic mushrooms that, unlike acid, only
lasted an hour or two. You could munch a handful in the afternoon and the
trip didn't kill the whole day. Sold legally in Bali, a hotel down the road
listed mushroom meatballs on its menu. At one of my daytime parties, I
catered from the hotel. They supplied me with turtle kebabs and a platter
of meatballs. I posted a sign on the table:

MEATBALLS = I TRIP

For an hors d'oeuvre, I offered cheese spread on crackers. In the

cheese I planted a pill, a combination speed and downer. In my mind I
im agined my guests would pluck the pill, swallow it, and then eat the
cracker. Unfortunately, people popped the whole thing in their mouths.
"BBBBLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!" theyd exclaim at the
taste.
What a face they'd make. "No no," I'd hurry to say. "You're supposed to
swallow the pill and THEN eat the cracker. Here, have some wine to wash
it down."
One day, returning from Denpasar, I decided to stop at the police
station to say hello to the inspector.
"Hi, remember me?" I said, sticking my head in his office doorway.
"Hello. Please have a seat. Will you take a glass of water?"
"No, thanks. I just came to say hello."
We chitchatted a while, and then he said, "You are leaving Bali soon."
"No," I answered, not understanding. "I wasn't planning to leave.
no. If
"We have a new Chief of Police. He is unhappy about the situation with
your friend Jimmy. It is political."
When I drove away, I contemplated his words. Had he warned me of
impending trouble? Was that his way of telling me things were getting hot?
Should I leave Bali?
Before going home, I visited Max and BarbaraNew Yorkers, both Goa
Freaks. They also lived at Kaiya Waiya. I found them in the open inner
area of their castle-like house playing with their baby under a frangipani
tree.
The three of us had previously discussed a possible business arrangement.
They had two sets of hash-filled cases stored in Bombay and were willing to
split fifty-fifty with whom ever carried them to A ustralia. Mulling over
ways of transporting a double load, I'd remembered Aunt Sathe's desire to do
a run. Well, why not use her? It no longer seemed an absurd idea. It no longer
seemed improper to involve my aunt in a low risk, high-yield venture.
W ealth was pleasurable, and I wanted to share the feeling.
So I wrote to Aunt Sathe, asking if she was still interested, and she
wrote back, yes.
"Hi, Max. Hi, Barbara. I've ju st been advised to leave the island.
What's happening with those cases?"
"If you want them, they're yours," said Barbara.
"I can do an aunt-and-me run. How does that sound? Great, huh? My
aunt and I will take the cases together. Aunt Sathe's in her late forties and
carries herself like the First Lady. What do you think?"
"Your aunt will run cases with you? Does she know what's inside?" asked
Max.
"It was her idea! I arrange to meet her in Bombay. 'Where will we
find you in Australia?"
"Our connection's in M elbourne. W e'll m eet you there. I sell the
dope, and we'll split the profit."
"Terrific."
Three days later, I was back in Bombay, with Aunt Sathe scheduled to
arrive a week later. In the meantime, I decided to find a house in Goa
before they were all rented for the season. I wanted something perm a
nent.
 I wanted a house of my own that I could fix up and have available at all
times. I wanted a perm anent home. A perm anent Goa Freak, that's what I
wanted to be.
At Dipti's in Bombay I ran into Dayid and Ashley. When I told them I
was on the way to Goa, Ashley suggested I stay in their house.
"By now it's a slovenly quagmire of dost and mildew," Dayid added, "but
you' re welcome to it."
I flew down to a very green Goa. The m onsoon, now in its last
throes, had caused vegetation to flourish like an alien Fungus. Grass hid the
paths, and insects keek-keeked and eeped. Inside Dayid and Ashley's house, I
found everything packed. Cobwebs stretched wall to wall. Still, it was Dayid
and Ashley's fantastic house, and I felt honoured to be there. I dumped my bag
in a dusty comer and set forth on my mission.
Up and down I searched the deserted beach, asking for a house. Aside
from the occasional French Junky poking a tousled head from a hut, no
foreigners could be seen. From Indian to Indian I went, but they shook their
heads or pointed behind the paddy fields. I couldn't find what I was looking
for.
No longer accustomed to walking, I was exhausted by sunset. That
night, lying on a m ouldy m attress, listening to the rain on the roof, I
snorted smack, punctured a spider web with my foot, and indulged in the
feeling of being in Goa. This was my home now. I loved this place. I
WANT to find a house.
The next day I followed a lead and sought a local man named Lino, whom
I finally found at Nelson's Bar off the Mapusa road. "Yes, I have a house for
lease," he informed me. "I can fix for you. Shall we go see it?"
As we neared the beach, I grew excited. We headed right for the area I
wantedin the centre of Anjuna Beach by the sea. Encouragingly, Lino seemed
interested in my desire to rent a house on a long-term basis. "Here," he said
finally. "This is it."
"This?" I despaired at the sight of it. The building was enormous and,
rare for Goa, two stories high. But it didn't have a second floor. It didn't
have a roof! The ground floor was a m ound o f dirt and fallen bricks
among which a tree had grown. Its branches hung over the crumbling walls.
"This is a ruin!"
"Yes, but I will fix. This is the house from my childhood," said Lino.
"There's a tree in it."
"I will pull out."
"I don't know ... "
 "If you accept, it will be ready in two months only."
A few days and many miles of walking later, I took it. We agreed on a ten-
year lease. The rent totalled a thousand dollars a year, exorbitant for Goa,
w here most people paid no more than twenty-five dollars a month. He said
he needed two years paid in advance so he could afford the repairs.

I fell in love with the idea of building a home. Having grown up in an

elevator apartment, I had a fascination for stairs, and this two-story house
fulfilled one of my prima' fantasies. Since most of it was yet to be built, I could
design it the way I wanted. I toll Lino to construct the second floor only in the
back half of the house, leaving the front rooms with a high ceiling.
F eeling like I'd sprouted a root, I flew to B om bay to m eet A unt Sathe.
I registered her at the Oberoi-Sheraton, the city's second best hotel (after the
Taj Mahal).
"Oy, tatala, why is that woman lying on the dirty sidewalk with her
baby?" asked Aunt Sathe, looking out the window. "Haven't they heard of
bacteria here? What kind of meshugge mother is that?"
"Aunt Sathe, those are beggars. They five on the sidewalk."
"Oyvey!"
"Sometimes they even m utilate their children so they come beg for
more money. See the boy with the limp
"Enough already. Don't tell me anymore!"
That afternoon, I went to collect the suitcases w here M ax had to ll me
I'd find them in storage at the A storia Hotel. Soon, Aunt Sathe and I were
in flight to Sydney, Australia.
"How do you feel?" I asked her on the plane. "Scared?"
She made a reassuring face, but I could tell she was nervous. "If only I
could have a snooze, tatala, I'd be much better. I have a secret cigarette with
me, but I don't think they'd let me smoke it here."
Oh, SHIT!
W e were carrying eight kilos of hash each, and Aunt Sathe had a
joint on her! Just what I neededto get busted for my aunt's m arijuana.
"AUNT SATHE!" I wailed.
So, I'm sorry. I won't go anywhere without a supply. I need it for when
I get a migrame. It relaxes me and Jets me sleep."
"But Aunt Sathe, we have SIXTEEN kilos o f hash fo r you to
smoke."
"Now don't be a nutpick I couldn't smoke hash. It's made by Arabs." "What,
so it's not kosher?"
 "W ell ... I would feel better not smoking it."
"Aunt Sathe," I explained, "this hash comes from Afghanistan, and while
the people who m ake it ARE M uslim , they're definitely NOT Arabs."
"Same thing."
I looked out of the window a second before asking, "Is your stash well
hidden, at least?"
"Stop worrying already, you nudnik you. It's in my makeup case under
my eyelashes. They'll never find it."
Shit. It they were to search us, that's the first place they'd look.
W hen the flight attendant handed her the dinner menu, Aunt Sathe
ordered the kosher plate.
Arriving in Sydney, everybody had to go through Customs. Aunt
Sathe as she always did when nervousbegan to chatter. I thought I'd the
as she proceeded to direct her verbal anxiety at our Customs inspector.
"So, tell me, boychik, are there nightclubs in town? How about a dis
cotheque for my groovy mace? How's the weather? Oy, is that a paper cut
you've got there? I have some antibiotic cream here . "
He, apparently, was enchanted.
I wondered if the pounding in my chest was the beginning of a heart
attack.
M . . and isn't that interesting," I heard Aunt Sathe say with a p re
posterous am ount of excitement. "We speak the same language yet five an
opposite sides of the globe. What a shame though."
Exiting Customs at last, it was me who was the wreck. My dumb beige
dress stuck to me with sweat as I steered my aunt toward our connecting
Melbourne flight.
"What's the matter, tatala? Why the long puss? I thought that went well."
Barbara joined us a few hours after we checked into a hotel the
Hilton, of course. Aunt Sathe would have been depressed had we stayed
anywhere else. Aunt Sathe adored Barbaraespecially after she managed to
pry her nice Jewish last name out of her. I was horrified. Last names were
something Goa Freaks never discussed. They were too connected to the
straight world we'd rejected.
"Where's Max?" I asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from
Barbara's family tree.
"I le stayed in Bali with the Baby. Because of his long hair we decided it
would be best if I came alone."
 That night a guy B arbara knew from a previous visit took Barbara and
me to a local club. Like Melbourne in general, it was ultraconservative, but
we had a Brand time scoffing at the natives.
"Look at those white socks over there. W hat IS that dance step the man is
doing?" We laughed. "I think he's trying to imitate an ostrich." We stared
openly at his feet. "A pregnant ostrich."
"I don't think ostriches get pregnant." We laughed louder and continued
to stare.
"That's it exactly, then. A surprised, pregnant ostrich!" 'We pointed,
laughed some more, and attem pted to im itate the step. W e were Goa
Freaks, elite beings, and no one else mattered.
A bouncer approached, asking Barbara's friend to remove his hat.
"Men don't wear hats indoors in M elbourne," the bouncer told him.
W hen the friend refused to comply with the archaic request, the three of us
were politely asked to leave.
The next day, white Aunt Sathe was at the beauty parlour, Barbara told
me about the trouble she'd had later that night after they dropped me off. "I
was followed by the police," she said. "I'm living in a quiet, residential
neighbourhood. Maybe they didn't like my freaky clothes."
"Maybe they were just making sure you got home safely," I suggested.
"When will you take the cases?"
"I was supposed to m eet the connection tonight to weigh the dope, but
now I don't know. What if the police are watching me?"
"Barbara, I can't wait here forever. This hotel and my aunt are costing
me a fortune."
"But I'm scared."
"Okay, if you don't want to go, I will. Give me the name and address, and
I'll do it myself." Feeling confident and fearless, I was sure I could handle it.
"Of course expect m ore m oney," I added.
In the end, Barbara decided to go that night herself, and she had no
problem. A few days later, she gave me forty thousand Australian dollars, and
we kissed goodbye, planning to meet in Goa. I gave Aunt Sathe half, twenty
thousand dollars.
It was still too early to go back to India. The house w ouldn't be
ready yet. Aunt Sathe and I decided to stay in Australia and have a vacation.
We flew to Sydney and checked into another Hilton.
"So, tatala, how do I find my rich next husband. Nil? Any suggestions?
 "Find a man you like and stare at him. You'll see. It works." "Oy!
I couldn't!"
She could. And she was great at it. Elegant and beautiful, she didn't have
to work hard to collect admirers. As we explored the city, we never went far
before Aunt Sathe found us a personal guide. W e'd visit the
opera house, the koala bears at the zoo, and other assorted tourist sights, and,
not long after we arrived back at the hotel, one of our guides would be
calling her or sending flowers.
"Why don't you answer the phone, already?" shouted Aunt Sathe from
the bathroom, removing rollers from her hair.
"I don't want to miss this TV program. It'll be for you, anyway. Who is it
this time? The lawyer?"
"I hope it's the mensch from the opera. Remember? With the
moustache?"
We intended to stay in town a while, so we moved to an apartment, and
I made plans to modeljust for fun; I didn't need the money. One of Aunt
Sathe's boyfriends sent her an opal necklace.
One night e heard a knock on the door. Aunt Sathe and I looked at each
other.
"Who is it?" we asked.
"PO LICE . OPEN THE DOOR."
"Oh, shit."
No choice but to open the door. Three of them entered, two men and
one woman. "We have reason to believe there's heroin or methadone in this
apartment," the woman said.
A unt Sathe had no idea I'd been doing sm ack. The am ount I'd
brought to Australia with me had recently run out. For two days I'd been
making desperate and obviously not subtle quests for more. I'd been able
to find only methadone, and that was exactly what I had in the apartment a full
bottle of methadone. The police began to search.
Less than an hour before the police had come, I'd swallowed a speed pill
that now took effect and caused me to buzz around joyously. While I was
concerned they'd find the bottle of methadonenot to mention Aunt Sathe's
kosher stash it was nonetheless difficult for me to stop smiling. My mouth
couldn't restrain its happy grin. Soon the policem en were charmed, and
they joked with me as they peered into drawers and cupboards. They
thought Aunt Sathe charm ing too as she chattered about the difficulties of
the currency exchange system.
And all I had with me was some of your A ustralian dollars, and of
course they wouldn't take my American dollars, and then, oy, when I p u lled
out In d ian ru p ees "
The policewoman, however, was not impressed. She threw me dirty
looks. W hen she exam ined my p assp o rt and saw my b irth date, she
became ferocious. It turned out we were born the same day of the same
month of the same year. We were both twenty-six, only she looked over
thirty and I barely looked eighteen. She hated me.
"Where is it?" she asked me coldly. "We know it's here. Where is it?" She
seized my handbag and hunted through it. She unfolded a letter I was in
the middle of writing.
OH, NO!
THE LETTER ! M em ory o f w hat I'd w ritten shot through my
brain. OH, SHIT! I'd recounted the details of the M elbourne scan, and how
much money we'd made. If she read that, Aunt Sathe and I would be dead.
I lunged at the policewoman and grabbed the letter from her hand. I
wanted to jam all four pages in my mouth and swallow them. She held on tight,
though, and her eyes flashed poison as we struggled. Of course she pried it
back.
Gratification spread over her face as she read it.
"Look at this," she said to her companions when she'd finished. She oozed
with triumph and smiled menacingly in my direction.
Meanwhile, something had stunned methe image of wrestling with a
Inspector of the police. Only criminals fought with police, and I'd never
pictured myself a criminal. I viewed my enterprises as capitalist, not felonious.
Drugs were illegal in the western world, true, b u t they h a d n 't always
been, and they weren't illegal everywhere in the w orld. I considered the
prohibition against drugs a temporary situation and considered m yself an
innocent creature in a time trap. A criminalno! Not me! I'd always been
comrades with the police. Struggling with the woman placed me on the other
side of the law for the first time, and I didn't like the wav it felt. Her side
was so much stronger.
They continued searching. My pensive state coursed aw ay on the tide
of the speed pill and I floated through the next hour, peppy and exuberant. A
policeman took Aunt Sathe to the safe in the office and found our cash the
exact am ount of A ustralian dollars I'd mentioned,
braggingly, in the letter.
They left the money in the safe, though. And I kept sm iling.
The police woman looked into everything, opened everything, and pulled
everything inside out. She did the bedroom last. I held my breath when she
took hold of my overnight bagthat was where I'd put the methadone. Still
smiling, I watched her Lift everything out, piece by piece. Johnson's Baby
Shampoo. Birth control pills. She laid them on the bedside table. Her hand
closed on the unlabeled bottle of methadone. She placed it on the table
next to the shampoo. It stared at me from across the room. But she didn't
notice it.
Hadn't they come specifically for heroin or methadone? Didn't they know
what methadone looked like? The yellow liquid seemed the brightest thing in
the room. To me, it glowed like a slice of sun, and everything seemed to point
in its direction. But she didn't see it.
They found nothing illegal.
Three hours after the police arrived, they left, taking my letter with them
but leaving the money. Glaring at me murderously, the woman was the last
one out the door.
E cstatic from the Speed and heady with the satisfaction of eluding the
police, I felt like M aster of the Universe. I knew they'd be back as soon as
they drew up the necessary papers to get at the Australian cash we had no way
of legitimating. I immediately moved us to a different hotel, and by the next
afternoon Aunt Sathe and I were out of Australia.
Successful in the face o f adversity! I had no doubt foresight and good
sense would protect me forever.

Ever since she'd seen The King and I, Aunt Sathe had dreamed of visiting
Siam. I wanted to give her a treat she'd always remember, and since ['d heard
that Siam (now called Thailand) was the heroin capital of the world, we flew
to Bangkok.
The month long co-existence had strained our relationship. Aunt Sathe
had been unnerved by the Sydney affair, and, though we looked forward to
touring Bangkok together, we agreed it would be best to five separately. I had
the secondary motive of needing to find a connection. I took Aunt Sathe to
the Sheraton, then went to a place I'd heard about, the Malaysia Hotel.
The Freaks were international and mobile, so Freak enclaves existed
around the world. These havens provided access to the local scene.
Among fellow Freaks, friendship was instantaneous and resources were
readily shared. The M alaysia Hotel was a major Freak place in Bangkok. It
turned out to be everything I'd heard and more. The hotel overflowed with
Freaks and hippie travellers. Entering the Lobby, I had the feeling everyone
knew each other. In a comer hung a bulletin board with notices, messages (some
obviously coded), and warnings to beware of particular
undercover narcotics agents. The warnings described the agents, noted
which countries they worked, and provided the names they were currently
using. I felt connected to a brethren and part of something
Two guys stepped in the elevator as I went up to my room. "Just
arriving in Thailand?" asked one.
"Yeah, hey, this is a great hotel."
"Damn right. Find anything you want at the Malaysia."
"Know where I can get smack?" I asked.
"Drop your bags in your room and come to ours. Two-oh-two."
W ithin minutes, I had a bhong in my mouth, as I sat with them and
three others. "Oh, boy. You've no idea how much I m issed this sniff," I said,
savouring a lungful of heroin. "I've been eating Opium and drinking
methadone for weeks. Ahh. Now, this is the real thing."
D aytim e was spent w ith A unt Sathe. W e v isited the R eclining
Buddha and the Emerald Buddha. We explored the floating market, the
weekend market, and the snake garden.
"Aunt Sathe, a man's ogling you."
"Where?" she asked, speaking like a ventriloquist, with her lips hardly
moving. "Not that shmuck with the Hawaiian shirt?"
"No. Over there by the Buddha bell."
"Oy vey, look at that pot belly. That fat tush. You can find me better than
that, tatala."
Aunt Sathe loved Bangkok. I loved Bangkok. I adored the Malaysia
Hotel.
At night my new friends and I would go to the movies. The Thai
dope was potent, though, and I slept through most of them. We all did.
W hen the movie ended we'd go back to the hotel, smoke more smack, and
try to decipher the plot from the Bits we'd managed to catch.
"I rem em ber him entering the factory, and then I nodded out,"
someone would say.
"I saw the factory scene;" another would offer "They started fighting,
 and a dode bashed Bruce Lee over the head with a barrel and then
I don't know. I guess I fell asleep again."
"That part I remember. I woke up as the barrel
One m orning, my M alaysia Hotel friends and I took a boat ride down
a canal. We slept through that too.
After three weeks Aunt Sathe returned to Wilkes-Barre. "Bye, Aunt Sathe,"
I said, hugging her tightly before she left. "I'm so glad you visited your
Siam. Its been heaven, tatala. be w aiting to h ear about the next
scheme."
"Scam."
"Scam. Oy, never get that right. D on't forget, if you see my doc
tor friend, tell him how much I liked the bracelet he sent."
Walking down the street a few days later, I heard a voice call my
name "Yo, Cleo, it's the sheriff. Wait up."
"Jimmy! You've been in Bangkok all this time? How's it going?" "A
real bummer, man. I'm broke."
Black Jimmy and I went to smoke bhongs, and he told me his woes. He
was having a hard time maintaining his habit. I gave him some stash. He
needed money. I gave him a few baht (the local currency). Goa Freaks were
supposed to help each other.
"Bummer, man. The sheriff's on a bummer."
Over the next ten days I gave him m oreboth m oney and dope then
I got fed up with supporting him. Fellow Goa Freak or no, his bummers
ended up costing me money. Enough was enough.
I made a quick trip to Laos, partly to escape him. I returned with a
L aotian m arriage canopy to hang over my bed in Goa, a suitcase of
L aotian wall hangings, and a toothpaste tube cram m ed with Laotian
smack.
Then it was time for India. One last thing to do before leaving for
Bombay-I wanted a porno movie. I'd bought a projector to show the movies
I'd taken of the Goa Freaks in Bali. I thought a porno film would be an extra
novelty to entertain the gang in Anjuna Beach.
A few hours before my flight, I went to Patpong Road and searched the
streets of the red-light district for the right type of person. Finally I found
someone in a bar who promised to deliver the film before I left.
"Soon, okay? My plane to Bombay leaves at 3:55."
When he didn't show at the hotel, I was disappointed.
I never expected him to deliver the film to the airport and was horrified
when I was paged out of the departure lounge and confronted with the sleaze
holding a brown paper bag.
"O h, it's you. That greasy bag is for me? Uh, thanks, I guess." I
looked around to see if anybody was watching. Everybody was watching. I
didn't open the bag to check its contents in front of the dozen seated
passengers, two security guards, three courtesy personnel, and a whole
Cathay Pacific check-in counter. I paid him his twenty dollars in good faith.
Going back through Im m igration and the weapons check c a rry in g the
bag, I felt conspicuous. I didn't peek inside until I reached the plane's toilet.
Hey, it did contain a canister of film; and w hen I h eld it to the light I
glimpsed tiny naked figures. In colour even.
Now I had the problem of sneaking it into B om bay, w here such
things were prohibited. The projector was another problem. In d ia was
strict about allowing certain products into the country. Cameras, tape
players, and electrical equipment were heavily taxed, and the governm ent
tried to prevent their being sold on the black market. They had to be
recorded on one's passport and taken out of India at the time of departure.
Since I wanted to leave the projector in Goa and not take it with me whenever I
left the country, it was important that it not be marked in my passport.
A rriving in B om bay, the C ustom s in sp ecto r asked his usual,
"Camera? Radio?"
I sacrificed the camera. "Yes, a movie camera," I said, hoping he
w ouldn't look beneath it to find the projector, nor beneath the projector to
find the film. He didn't.
I'd changed during the monsoon season. I'd become audacious a
slayer of police dragons; and I'd become powerful a chieftain of destines.
I'd even learned to drive a m otorbike! I'd earned the title Goa Freak and
loved everything about being one the excitement, the outlandishness, the
opulence, and the camaraderie. W hat a wonderful life!
I couldn't resist staying at the Sheraton. One's hotel reflected the success of
one's monsoon business. The Sheraton or the Taj M ahal m eant extrem ely
p ro fitab le business; the N ataraj and the A m bassador, very good; the
A sto ria and the Ritz, nice, steady work; Stiffles, struggling (except at the
end of the season, at which time it was okay); B entley's, scrounging and
p ro b ab ly looking to borrow money. Those staying by Juhu Beach near the
airport were probably still doing business. And those like Kadir who'd just
taken an apartment to which no one had yet been invited
 were most likely involved in a large-scale, continuous operation centred in
Bombay.
Bombay buzzed as the Freaks returned from the monsoon months of
business. The Freak hotels were fully booked. The air hummed with gaiety
and festivity. Old friends reunited. From the end of September, ml
the Goa Freaks began returning to India, Bombay was packed with people
on their way down to Goa or just up from Goa. Dipti's had a crowd outside
on the street, waiting to see who dropped by for ice cream and gossip.
" Shambo, man, how was your monsoon? Did you hear
I saw Alehandro on Chicken Street in Kabul. He's bringing down a
truckload o f ... "
about the generator Pharaoh bought in Japan ..."
" ... superb Bolivian blow. Brought it over myself. let you
" ... from Laos. And I scored a porno movie in Bangkok. Why don't you
drop by my room at the Sheraton ..."
The shops and stalls of the silver market, Chor Bazaar, Bindi Bazaar, and
Crawford M arket were deluged with newly earned money. Dollars, yen,
francs, pesos you had to wait in line at the black-market currency exchange.
Drugs from around the world, gadgets, electrical equipment, jewellery, art,
trophies from the monsoon, all exchanged hands. We sat in each other's rooms
and vied over whose stash would be used.
Everyone wanted to pay the tab. For dinner, groups of us would go to
the Ambassador and order four courses each. While waiting for the appetizer,
personal stashes would come out.
"Have you tried my Colombian coke?"
"Hmmm. Not bad. Now do a whiff of mine."
here, and pass this down ... "
"Anybody ever taste blue coke? Try this, man ... "
Powders would pass back and forth across the table until the food
arrived. By then, of course, we were too coked-out to eat. W ith a concerned
frown on his face, the m aitre d' would ask what was wrong with the food.
"Nothing. It's great."
"Delicious."
"Wow, man."
"The best."
N evertheless, our food wound up back in the kitchen, practically
untouched.
Betw een parties, I tore through the m arkets buying things for my new
 house. I got carpets at the Handloom House; papier-mache boxes,
candlesticks, and six-inch-high K ashm iri tables from the K ashm ir
Emporium; tasselled, velvet pillow covers from Crawford M arket; and
yards of satin material to make sheets. I ran from my safety deposit box at the
M ercantile Bank to the black-m arket exchange where the money
doubled to the shops and m arketplaces, and then back to the bank. I
bought so much, I had to take the boat to Goa.
India was different now that I had money. This time I had a cabin on
 the front. First class occupied the top deck and consisted of one suite and
six cab in s, tw o of which held o th er Goa F reak s. A b lo n d e Irish named
Shawn had the suite. Junky Robert and Tish had a cab in acro ss
the halt from mine. We hung out in Shawn's suite, sniffing d o p e and
coke, ordering room service, and telling our monsoon stories.
"Loathe me, it was something else, I tell you," said Shawn. "This was the
first time I'd been to Ireland in six years. What a gas to go back with dough.
Last time my father wouldn't talk to me because of my bong hair.
Kept telling me to clean up and get a job. He talked to me this time, he did.
The entire village came to see me. But, Lord, was I glad to leave. What
sour fives they five working every day."
"I don't know how they stand it," said Robert, nodding ou t, eyes
closed and head leaning against a porthole.
"Can you imagine going to job every morning?" "I'd
puke!"
"Loathe me, nine to five. How do they do it?"
"Beats me. I'd rather be dead."
In deck class, the last time I took the boat, dinner had been banged
down on a crowded, dirty counter; this time it was served on a w h ite
tablecloth. B efore; it had been cold rice on a tin plate, this time I had
crispy chicken on porcelain. Yes, India could be quite luxurious if one had
money.
During dessert, Robert fell asleep with his spoonful of honey pastry
midway to his mouth. It dropped from his hand and landed on his lap,
waking him.
"Damn it," he said as syrup spread over his thigh.
As we laughed, a smile crept across his face. He inserted the spoon in
his dessert cup and scooped out a load of syrup. Whop! He shot it at
Shawn's chin.
Whop! Shawn fired back.
Whop! Whop! Tish and I joined in.
By the time we left the table, yellow streaks covered the tablecloth, and
my hair was sticky. A glob of honey ran down the wall, and Tish had honey
h an g in g from an ear. We left the room giggling uncontrollably.
With his head held high and one eye closed, Robert slipped fifty rupees into
the waiter's palm. The waiter bowed.
In poverty-stricken countries the rich could five like sovereigns.
MAP OF ANJUNA BEACH

SECOND SEASONIN GOA

1 9 7 6 1 9 7 7

ARRIVING IN PANJIM, we split up because bags and packages filled every inch of my taxi, and I
wasn't going directly to Anjuna Beach anyway. I first had to go to Mapusa, the village near
Anjuna where Lino the Landlord lived. I'd sent him a telegram and found him waiting for me in
his four-foot-square battery shop.
Anxiously I asked, "Is the house ready?" I couldn't wait to move in and become an official
resident.
He shook his head side to side Indian fashion. It looked like no or indecision but meant,
"Sure." Then he said, "One or two things remain needing to be done, but you can stay inside."
"Wonderful!"
"You go now? I will follow on my motorcycle."
I felt euphoric. As the taxi headed down the traffic less road to Anjuna Beach, tears filled
my eyes. How beautiful it was there. My territory now, where my people lived. I knew there'd be a
party that night.
I was surprised when we turned oh the paved road onto a dirt way that took us across the
paddy fields. I hadn't known a car co u ld go so close to the sea. The taxi left me thirty yards from
 the house, and I ran to see the new hone.
Y es, it had a roof. W hite and blue windows. It looked immense.
Wow. Mine. My home! Lino pulled up beside me. "You see, it is
finished."
With a key, he opened the padlock connecting the brass rings of the
front doors. I walked in with the reverence someone might show for a
cathedral. Shiny red tiles felt cool beneath my feet no dung floor here.
I passed through the front room and up three steps to the main room-
huge! The tree was gone, and the ceiling rose high above me. The stair
case ! It faced me from the far wall, turned, and went up to the square
landing I'd designed. Upstairs, one enormous room led into another. The
end room turned right to extend a further thirteen feet. Wow. I'd make
this gigantic space the bedroom. I opened a window to a fishy-smelling
breeze. The ocean lay fifty yards away, on the other side of the pig-as-
waste-disposal toilets.
Toilets? "How could they build toilets in front of the view?" I asked
Lino, who'd followed me upstairs.
We are afraid to swim. Our houses face away from it, and we put
the toilets behind the house."
"You never swim? Hey, is that a door?"
"Yes. You have five doors leading outside."
I opened it to find concrete steps descending to the back porch. A
few feet away was the well. I stepped down and ran a hand lovingly over
the seats of the porch.
"How do you like?" asked Lino.
"It's the most wonderful house in the world."
I re-entered through the kitchen door. As I moved from room to
room, images, colours, and designs flew through my brain. "This will be
the dining room. Is that a sink?" By the window was a concrete depres
sion with a drain hole. Bending to peek through the hole, I caught the
eye of a chicken pecking in the yard. "Oh! . . . How cute." Water would
have to be carried in from the well.
"Are there furniture stores in Mapusa, or must I go to Panjim?" I
asked.
"No stores. I know a carpenter. He made your stairs. You want I
send him to you?"
"No ready-m ade furniture?" I gazed around the room. "Hmm.
Actually, it might be fun that way. I can design what I want. I'd like to
have a long table here. Enough to seat twenty people. Low, so we'll be
sitting on the floor, get fluffy cushions.... Hey, this will be great!"
 As soon as I unloaded the taxi, I unpacked the m ost im portant itemthe
bhong. I smoked a few bowls of tobacco and smack, put on a new Singapore dress,
grabbed the silk parasol I'd bought at a Bangkok market, and headed for the south
end beach.
"Hi, Laura! " I waved to familiar faces.
Zigzagging through bronze bodies, I helloed my way to Amsterdam Dean and
laid out a lungi. "I got a house," I said, overflowing with the joy of a homeowner.
"Yeah, where?"
"Just down there, behind Apolon's chai shop. It's two stories." "Two stories
near Apolon's? Isn't that a ruin?"
"It was. I had it fixed. Took a ten-year lease."
"A lease? How much are you paying?"
"Ten thousand rupees a year," I said proudly.
"TEN THOUSAND RUPEES! W hat? H es ripping you off. You cant let him
get away with that!"
"It's a terrific house," I protested. "He made it the way I wanted."
"No place is worth ten thousand rupees. You'll give the Goans the idea they
can change us anything they want. Watch, now everybody's rent will go up." Dean
had been cleaning ashes from a chillum and, turning the c h ilu m over, he pounded
it forcefully. I felt m isunderstood. "TEN THOUSAND R UPEES!" he
exclaim ed again, louder than before. "You'll ruin the beach."
"Wait till you see it," was all I could answer. Why didn't he applaud my
building a mansion in a prime spot? Humph!! Did he expect me to settle for a shack
behind the paddy field?
Then again, although the Goa Freaks were money-oriented, life in Goa was
rather simple: no electricity, no running water. Would domestic extravagance change
the ambiance? Well, so what? They'd called me Hippie Deluxe in Europe; now
I'd be Freak Deluxe. A few com forts wouldn't destroy the pristine ness. Besides,
the Goa Freaks hired locals to fill their water vats, clean their houses, and do
laundry. They'd already progressed beyond living like natives.
Ruin the beach; I'd show him ruin the beach. I would make: myself a castle. Let
everybody's rent go up. The Goa Freaks could afford it.
Before returning home I ran an errand scoring coke. This season I wouldn't
wait to be offered some. I had plenty of money to buy my own. I could buy as
much as I wanted, and I wanted a lot.
Junky Robert and Tish lived in a house up the rocks from the beach. I entered
their door to find Tish on a mattress reading a book and Robert
in the process of falling asleep. While the bottom half of Robert
kneeled on the floor, the top half curled over, about to plunge head
first into an open suitcase.
"Cosy little place you have here," I commented.
( . . . to Bombay Brian's," said Junky Robert, waking suddenly
and finishing the sentence he'd apparently started before he nodded
off. "Oh, hi, Cleo."
"Did you find your letter?" asked Tish. "Joe has it for you in his
back room."
Joe Banana now kept aside the mail of people he knew, putting
the rest in the box on the porch. I felt honoured. An official Anjuna
Beach resident. Tish supplied me with a gram of coke, and the three of
us went to Gregory's restaurant for dinner.
Exhausted by the time I returned to the house, my vitality
returned when I saw my roof peeping over the palms. My home! The
coke perked me up more, and I spent the night pushing boxes and
planning what would go where. My very own house, made to order.
Oh, this was going to be great.
The next day, I crossed the paddy field to the road where
motorbikes and their Goan drivers waited for passengers. Unlike my
male friends, Goans would obey me when I told them to drive
slower. In M apusa, I hired a taxi and, making numerous trips to the
marketplace, filled it to overflow ing. I needed twenty kerosene
lamps to light all the rooms. Pillows, mattresses, bags and bowls I
had trouble matching the drab coloured items sold in M apusa to the
bright colours I envisioned for my interior decor.
"No, not grey," I said to a merchant. "I need orange. You don't
have orange? No, no. That's a boring brown. I need orange.
ORANGE!"
W hen I could spare tim e from art work, I went to a beach
party. With the noisy generator up the cliff out of sound range, the
band's electric guitars blasted from a wooden stage. Beneath them,
eighty dancers stomped the sand in bare feet.
Beyond the dancers, hundreds o f Freaks stood and
m ingled. F u rth er back, groups sat around candles planted in the
sand. Furthest away were the worm-like shapes signifying sleeping
people in bags. G oa's Freak beaches extended north and south on
either side of Anjuna, and the people who lived there came to our
 parties and spent the night. While some hardcore Goa Freaks preferred to five off
Anjuna usually on an isolated beach far away m ost of the people from other
beaches were transients, new to the scene.
My crowd sat near the band. I found myself a choice spot next to Dayid,
Ashley, Barbara, and Max and offered my stash of coke.
"Did you and your aunt have a nice time in Sydney?" asked B arbara.
"Eek, would you believe the police searched our apartm ent?" I said. And I
re c o u n te d the ev en ts that took p lace a fte r I le ft B a r b a r a in
Australia. I loved the admiration the Goa Freaks showed for my successful brush
with the law. "Close call, huh?" I said at the end. "W ho's that?" I asked, pointing to
someone in black and silver dancing around a tree.
"That's Petra," answ ered Dayid. "Haven't you taken cognizance of
her in Kathmandu? She's resided there for years. I think this is her first peregrination
to Goa, though."
"You should see her house in Nepal," said Ashley, holding, aloft a foot-long
cigarette holder. "Its decorated in black and silver, and she has a pet owl."
Petra joined us. She wore layers of black skirts in different len g th s. From her
neck, ears, wrists, and waist hung jingling silver ordainm ents. She had a deep
voice with a German accent and spoke with sharp, dramatic emphasis, a remnant of
her days touring Europe with the Living Theatre.

"Hello, C hildren of the sun god H uitziloPO C FItli," she said, spreading her
arms like a priestess addressing a tem ple o f follow ers.
"This beach is M ARvelous. I've never been a BEACH person, though. I like the
MOUNtains."
I offered her a snoot of coke and felt thrilled to be part of these spectacular people.
"NEAL!" I shouted, spotting my old friend distributing acid .to the crowd. I ran
to kiss his cheek. "Where've you been?"
He giggled and shook his bangs. "W hat a story. Open your mouth
and have a drop of this first." He held an acid-packed straw o v er my tongue and
tapped. A drop fell.
"Mm, thanks. So, what happened?"
"I went to C alifornia and found out I was a father! I met this woman the
year before. We were only together one night. Shortly after, I left the country."
"Meanwhile she had a baby?" "Can you
believe it?"
"Were you writing each other?"
 "No, nothing like that. I never thought I'd see her again in my life." I laughed. "So now
you've brought her here? The baby too?"
"Both of them"
"Oh Neal! Has this woman been to India before?"
"She's never been anywhere before."
I clapped my hands, giggling.
Later I met Eve, the mother of Neal's baby. Wavy long hair covered
most of her face, with her half-concealed eyes looking spaced-out. "Neal's told me about
you," she said in a soft voicesickly soft, almost a whisper. It sounded controlled, like she had a
scream she was trying not to let out.
"What do you think of Anjuna Beach?" I asked.
Her one visible eye focused on me again. "Two weeks ago, I never
guessed I'd see Neal again. Now here I am" She arched her back peculiarly and seemed to
shift inward, focusing on a private thought.
"Well, good luck" I said, thinking Neal had snared himself a bizarre

Actually, I was almost sad that Neal had a woman and baby with him
He'd been a great friend to hang out with. I wondered if it would be the
same with than around.
Soon, daylight crawled over the hill. As the stars faded, dawn energy
had everyone up and dancing. Through the eye of my movie camera I watched themface
skyward to dance with the sunrise. Here and there, a sleepy head surfaced from a worm shape to
behold black night turn whitish blue. I filmed Paul on the stage singing a song he'd written,
inspired by such an occasion: "Welcome in, come on welcome in, come on welcome in the
dawn, welcome in the dawn"
This had to be the best place on the planet.
Later that morning, I took a. walk with Paul to his house on Joe
Banana's hill behind Tish and Junky Robert's. He and P an had been having problems lately,
mostly over his use of smack Pamwas now pregnant and living elsewhere on Anjuna
Beach.
"You must come see what I'm doing to the house," I said as we
climbed his front steps. "I bought fifteen mattresses in different sizes. A tailor in Mapusa is sewing
covers for them Poor man had a hard time measuring them while they were stuffed in the back
seat of a taxi."
Paul began to chop coke and I pounced on a pen and paper I spotted.
"Let me show you what I'm doing in the dining room," I said. Lying
on my stom ach, I drew. "See, this is the table having m ade. I bought
nine orange and nine yellow rugs to go under every side cushion." Paul
stretched out next to me and placed the m irror on my drawing. I snorted a
line and moved the m irror aside. "For the two ends, I have bigger carpets in
the same colours."
"Yeah?" Paul peered at my scribbles. His body aligned the length of mine,
one hand resting on my back.
"Every cushion will be different." I resumed drawing. I-Es hand
moved across my back and down my legs. "See, some will be striped this way,
and some striped that way." When his arm could reach no further, it backed up, burrowing
under my skirt.
"Two walls will be orange, two yellow . . . " He reached the top of my legs. I'd
stopped wearing underwear months before. "Uinmin ... the shelves too, one
yellow, next one, um, orange . . . " His fingers slid between my thighs and
stroked the moist area there. He found my clitoris. " napkins too, h a lf
o range h a lf yellow " He m assaged in c irc le s ." Hmmm . . . " I opened my
legs wider. "Ummm . orange ..." His circles continued, and my hips moved to their
rhythm.. . . lots of orange, mmm " The tip of a finger slipped inside me. "M innt...
uh, want to hear about the ninety saris I bought?" I asked.
"Tell me."
"Umm..." I rolled on my back keeping my legs apart He placed one of his legs
between mine. His finger re-entered me, this time plunging Jeep. "MMNImm" I took hold
of his hair. "Um... well, ninety saris, five yards of material each for the living room and the
bedroom" His finger thrust in and out. "Umm... I had the carpenter drape them ...
from ... the ceiling to ... create a ... tent effect mmmmtn."
Weeks flew by, marked only by the colour of paint I was currently using. I
snorted enormous amounts of coke and, in coke furore, worked day and night on my
fantasy house. Everything I'd ever dreamed of, I created in my new home. I made trips to
Bombay for special things. While there, I also stopped at the safety deposit box at the
Mercantile Bank Coke consumption nibbled hungrily at my money.
Neal visited often, and we'd turn each other on to smack and coke. He was a welcome
break from the non-stop work on the house. The super-excessive energy of the coke
spurred me to greater and greater
120 Geo Odzer

detail and fanciness. Not a piece of furniture was one colour only. The low cost of Goan
labour allowed me to hire an army of painters for pennies an hour. I indolged my every
coke-inspired whim.
Neal listened patiently as I described my latest flights of creativity. CLICK, CLICK,
SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK went his razor blade on the glass block with the
engraved lion. "This house is really coming along," he said during a visit, shaking his
bangs and looking around.
"The upstairs is almost finished," I said. "I had linoleum laid on the floors. Red and
white for the bedroom and blue and green for the boudoir."
"Boudoir? Uh-oh," he said, taking the glass block from my hand as I was about to
snort a line. "Maybe you shouldn't do any more of this."
I laughed and grabbed it back. "Well, that's what I call it. Actually, I don't use the
room for anything. It's just a place to walk through to get to the bedroom."
"And linoleum!" He smiled. "You're revolutionizing the beach. Where do you
think you are? Beverly Hills?"
"But this is my home. I'm going to be here forever." I paused, gave him a pixie
smile, and said, "W ait till you see my next project." Displaying papers covered with
coked-out curlicued designs and intricate measurements, I explained, "I'm going to cut
the kitchen in half and make a bathroom!" Neal slapped a hand to his forehead. "I've
already designed it. See, look. Over here, I'm putting a flush toilet and a shower "
He shook his head. "A flush toilet? How can you do that?"
"They're building the septic tank now. And this little rectangle next to the toilet is
a sink, a real enamel-type sink with faucets and a drain. I have it all figured o u t . . .
Where's the other diagram? A tank on the roof will supply the water. It'll have to be
lugged there from the well."
"You'll have the only flush toilet on the beach. Here." With a SQUEAK
SQUEAK and a final CLICK, Neal passed me the block again. "Maybe this toot will
inspire a sauna or a whirlpool bath. Who'll fill the tank?"
"The maid, though she doesn't know it yet. be glad to have a
bathroom inside the house. You should've seen me the other night, coked-out and
wired. I hadn't slept the night beforeI'd been staining the wood of the staircase.
Come to think of it, I don't think I slept the night before that either. Anyway, about 4
a.m. I took the pump-lamp outside to the toilet. Yippy, it was so bright in that tiny
enclosure. Every bump on the wall formed shadows that swelled and contracted.
Spooky!
m o d ellin g co m p o site fro m a talen t
agency
A soft drink ad featurin g Cleo

C l e o 's C a r
Taking sannyas with Bhagwan

Watching movies in thethear

Cleo in G oa
 W T M fy jg - id _ .. . ''aukit-

Graham playing backgammon

in the dining room

I couldn't wait to get out of there."

"Coke' 11 do that, especially if you don't get enough sleep," Neal said.
"You know that much by Starko's? I'm positive it followed me home the
other night."
I fell back in laughter and knocked the bhong over.
Neal's visits definitely brightened my day.

December consisted of constant partying. Music wailed nightly on

the beach and continued till the next afternoon, when people went home to
sleep. Since no one kept track of days, Christmas went by without
felicitations, though Alehandro wished me "Happy New Year" at, or near, the
correct date.
Petra lived in a house not far from mine, and she too dropped by
every day to say hello. "Ou, it's so nice and COOL in here," she said,
raising her arms as if standing under a waterfall. She leaned an elbow on
the four-foot high platform the carpenter had made for me. "What IS this
thing?" she asked.
"Do you like it? I designed it myself. Sometimes I like to be up high,
so I sit up there. Other times I like to crawl into a little space, so I sit
underneath."
Like Neal, Petra smiled tolerantly at my enthusiasm. She looked
inside the satin surrounding the platform and commented, "Interesting."
Petra came often to keep me company while I worked.
 One afternoon she and Neal visited at the same time. It was the day the
Goans started the bathroom. We watched as three locals laid bricks across a
doorway to convert it to a window (I didn't need a door going outside from the
bathroom!). A few feet away, three others planned the wall that would divide the
kitchen in two. While Neal told stories and made lines of coke, Petra flashed
me disapproving looks. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
When Neal left, she coaxed me away from the renovation site for a moment.
"My dEAr, what is GOing ON between you and NEAI?" "We're friends."
She raised one eyebrow and lowered the other in the most disbelieving Look I'd
ever seen. "Is thAt so?" She put one hand on her hip and tossed her head
dismissively. "Neal is a suPERB man. I met him years ago in Kathmandu
beFORE he was into smack. BeFORE he got everybody ELSE into smack too."
She lowered her eyebrow again. "And before he had EVE and the BAby. Just be
CAREful, my dear. Are you getting enough SLEEP with all this COKE?"
No, I wasn't getting enough sleep. I'd be up for days, coked-out, spaced-
out, designing weird things. I hadn't been eating much either. Who needed
sleep and food? All I needed was coke and a pencil.
A few days later, as I tried to figure out what colour to paint the front room, a
voice called through the open window. "Are you Miss Cleo?" I turned to see a
pretty face surrounded by black curls. "I heard you might be interested in buying
coke," he stated.
"Actually, I don't have money on me at the moment," I answered. "I'm
going to Bombay tomorrow to pick some up. Maybe next time."
Again I'd run out of money. I'd bought a colossal amount of coke since I'd
been in Goa. That, plus smack, plus the construction, had really swallowed my
finances. Living in Goa could be stupendously inexpensive. Food and rent cost
little and I paid the Goan maid twenty-two dollars a month for coming in seven
days a week and doing everything.
Drugs were the main rupee eaters. I loved playing benefactor. It was
exhilarating to slip a spoonful under everyone's nose. I loved having people
flock around me, nostrils twitching, waiting expectantly.
Later that day Petra came by to ask, "Did you receive my PREsent?" "Present?
No. What was it?"
"Aw, I TOLD him to come here. This DARling boy knocked on my door
selling coke. He was STUNning. I thought you'd LOVE him so I told him to
come HERE, that you were SURE to want some."
"Oh, yes! He was here. But I didn't have money on me."
"He looked your TYPE, THAT'S why I sent him Over." Then she added.
"To keep you out of TROUble."
Keep me out of trouble? To keep me away from Neal, she meant.
Unfortunately, I had a feeling it was already too Tate for that.

Bombay was crowded with late-season arrivals. I stayed in town only long
enough to stop at my safety deposit box, change money on the black-
market, visit my favourite opium den in Chor Bantu-, leave a few rolls of
movie film to be developed, buy a dozen fancy doorknobs at Crawford Market,
and gorge on Dipti's jackfruit and ice cream.
W hen I retu rn ed to A njuna B each, I searched for the p retty boy
who'd been sent as a present by Petra. He was easy to spot at parties. He
always wore white on the bottom and red on top, and he cruised the
crowd slowly, making him self visible to potential custom ers. His name was
Serge, and he was French-Egyptian. He'd grown up in Egypt but went to
college in England, which accounted for his impeccable British English. He
and his English wife had been living for years on Colva Beach, two hours
from Anjuna, with their son. During the last monsoon, his wife had made a
scam, bringing three kilos of coke from Bolivia to India. It had been her trip
her money, her connections. Serge had had nothing to do with it. Now, in Goa,
if he wanted to share the profits, it was his job to sell the powder while his wife
stayed in their isolated Colva home.
I became a regular customer of Serge's at parties. Tish and I began each
night by splitting a gram, and we'd buy second and third grams as the night
progressed. Besides business transactions, though, and my filming his prowl
through the crowd once, I never had much contact with him. Then one
evening I saw him at Gregory's restaurant, stated at a nearby table.
"IU, Serge," yelled Mental, an American with wavy, dark hair hanging to
his waist. "Tee hee, how's it going?"
"He's gorgeous," I whispered to Mental. By then I was so enthralled with
Serge I could barely aim the forkful of buffalo meat at my mouth. "I've been
trying to get to know him for weeks now."
Thinking more of scamming free coke than of doing me a favour, Mental
asked me, "Why don't we all go to your place after dinner, tee hee?" He
addressed our table, "Wanna come to Cleo's? Hey," he shouted to the other tables,
"Cleo's house, tonight." Then he went personally to invite Serge. Serge accepted.
We left Gregory's restaurant in a group.
 "Thanks, Mental," I said to him as we crossed the paddy field.
It turned out to be a sm all party that went on m ost o f the night. Serge
supplied coke for everybody. I sat next to him and monopolized his attention.
Just before dawn he went to the kitchen to make coffee. I never used the
stove, especially with Goans around to do those stores. Serge was a
gourmet cook, chummy with kitchens, and the Goans were asleep.
"This kitchen is amazing for Goa," he said. "I've never seen chimneys
here before."
"I had them made. I designed everything. This whole back area was
one room until I had the wall put in." Serge's eyes twinkled as he watched me
skip excitedly, exhibiting my creations. I pointed out the snake-head doorknob
on a closet, then said, "Come look at this" as I took him to the hallway
between the kitchen and the bathroom. I stopped by a painting hanging there
and explained, "This is my fantasy house. I'm fulfilling my childhood wishes.
The canopy over my bed, the stairs, the hammock, and this." I lifted the
painting off its hook to reveal what lay beneath. "I've always dreamed of
having a safe behind a painting like so. Just like in the movies, huh?"
Serge's smile widened as I demonstrated the excellence of my security
system by yanking on the safe's metal handle. "How did you get the Goans
to do that?" he asked.
"It wasn't easy they'd never heard of such a thing. See how burglar
proof it is?"
"Miss Cleo," he said, taking my arm and pulling me close. "Would you
be still a moment." I stopped yanking and looked up at him. Black kohl,
the Indian cosmetic, outlined his eyes, exaggerating their size. "At least slow
down enough so I can kiss you," he added, laughing.
We swayed across the inch separating us. I loved the feel of his satin
vest.
"Hmmm. Very nice, Miss Cleo," he said when we broke apart. "I
think by now our coffee water must have boiled into evaporation."
By the time we returned to the living room, many people had left.
M ental was still there. He was injecting powder into his arm. Though in the
past the Goa Freaks had disparaged needle use, lately it was becoming more
tolerated, especially for coke.
"W here'd you get the coke?" Serge asked M ental in an annoyed tone.
"I had some of my own, tee hee."
"And yet you let me be the one to turn everyone on?"
"You have so much," Mental answered, absorbed in watching blood
flow into the syringe.
"Let's go up," I said, taking Serge's arm and leading him to the stairs.
"That's typically Mental."
"I don't like when people take advantage of my generosity. It isn't my
coke either."
We passed through the "boudoir" to the bedroom. In one motion I
removed my dress and turned to watch Serge disrobe. He threw his pink
scarf over a Balinese statue and smiled down at me lying on the bed.
"I bought this canopy in Laos," I said, painting to the fringed thing
hanging overhead. "It's supposed to be for wedding ceremonies. What's
that string?" I asked noticing one around his waist.
"This was given to me long ago. I never take it off."
"Never?"
He laughed. "Once in jail in Kabul they made me, but that doesn't
count." He leaned over and we kissed.
"Ow. W hat's that?" I objected to something digging into my chest.
He lifted to reveal the silver phallus he wore around his neck. "A
shiva Unigram."
"I suppose you never take that off either?"
"No, if it bothers you, remove it."
"Let's just slide it to the back."
I pulled the charm across its chain and held it behind his head as we
kissed deeply. After a while, as things heated up, I forgot and let go. I
wasn't concerned when the silver Unigram started banging against my fore
head, matching Serge's sexual movements stroke for stroke. But later,
postorgasm , with Serge collapsed on top of me, I noticed an ache not
only on my forehead but again at my breast bone, against which the
damn thing was now crushed.
Serge laughed when I complained, saying "Pardon me."
A few hours into daylight Serge had to leave. "Business. I have to
make up for the coke we consumed last night."
So w alked Petra's present to the door. A handful o f people still
lounged downstairs, one asleep on the top of the platform. "Well, ciao.
Have a nice day."
"You too. Bye, Miss Cleo."
As I closed the door, D octor Bo approached me. D octor Bo, an
American, was a real doctorthough a doctor of what, nobody knew. "I
think I should tell you Mental's been freaking out and making" a mess," he
said.
"Oh, no! Where is he?"
"In the dining room."
I rushed to the back of the house. "Oh, god!"
I didn't find Mental, but I found his trail of destruction. The lid of a
plastic water- tank had been removed, and water was everywhere.
"He freaked out with the water," said Doctor Bo.
I
Pieces of things lay strewn about. "My Kashmiri boxes! My cassette tapes!
Look what he did to the broom! He shredded it!"

"This is his wallet," said Doctor Bo, holding up a soggy rag. "Here's his passport. Look
at these picturesthey're tom to bits."
"Uh-oh, I better find him."
I followed the signs of Destructo and panicked as I saw them lead up the stairs. "My
movies!" I dashed up, burst into the room, and found Mental with his hands closing on a
canister of film. "MENTAL, NO!" Gently I pried his fingers from my treasure. "Come on,
Mental, time to go home. I'm going to sleep now. Everyone's leaving."
"I'm okay," he said. "Don't worry. I do another hit of smack and
then go. I'm okay, tee hee, I'm okay."
It took a few minutes to get him downstairs because he kept stopping to look around
and pat his pockets. Then he crouched on the floor and played with a scab on his ankle.
"Come on, Mental."
"Where's my smack?"
"I don't know, where did you leave it?"
"Here's a package of something," said Doctor Bo. "But whatever it was is wet."
"Wet? Wait, tee hee, wait."
"Get out of the water, Mental. Mental, stop splashing."
"Tee hee, wait, I'm looking."
"What are you looking for? Put down the broom. Mental! What are you doing?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay. Tee hee, I'm leaving."
"Don't tear up your passport. Give me that. No, don't put it in the water!"
It took another half hour to get Mental out of the house. I kept his passport, holding it
for when he was less destructive. Apparently, when Mental consumed large amounts of coke,
he ran amuck like thatrushed about out of controla Coke Amuck. Many hotels in
Bombay no longer let him in because he'd destroyed their bathroom s. He frequently
obsessed on water. He'd tear plumbing from the walls. Once, the manager of the Nataraj
Hotel used a pass key to get into Mental's room after the people underneath complained of
flooding. The manager entered to find the sink and toilet smashed and a cowering Mental
slamming around the bathtub yelling, "Roaches! Roaches! They're everywhere!"
It was more funny, though, when Mental had his Coke in someone ELSE's house.
 DIAGRAM OF HOUSE

p
FIRST FLOOR SECOND FLOOR

o
o Sink
KITCHEN V)
Shower

'uoset I
Wall Safe /- o
outto porch s:

Satin-Covered Mattross

Tables
Cushions
People realized that when Neal and Eve came to visit, something would be
missing when they left. Eve was a kleptomaniac.
Late one morning at a beach party, after Neal had Bone home, a
com m otion erupted behind the stage. Investigating the ruckus, I saw
someone drag EVC along the ground while a crowd cheered him on. Her skirt
bunched around her waist, revealing a bare bottom scratching across the dirt.
"She deserves it," I overheard someone say.
B ecause of my closeness with Neal, I felt responsible for Eve. I
picked up the bag she'd dropped and ran after her as she screamed. I
reached her as she broke free and turned on her assailant with curses and
sharp nails.
"Come on, Eve, let's go," I said, trying to lead her away, but she was
freaked out and screaming. "Come on, Eve. Let's go do some smack." I
thought the smack might calm her down.
I pulled her away backwards as she yelled, "Fucking bastards." She
kicked at a spectator and shrieked, "AAAhh."
"Come to my house," I said.
"No," she whispered.
Though she w ouldn't leave the party, she let me usher her through the
dancers to sit at someone's candle and sniff some dope. I really needed a
snoot. Both of us had swallowed a dose of acid, and everything was spacey.
Apprehension and eagerness engulfed me. Eve was restless. She didn't want
to come to my house. She didn't want to remain seated. She didn't want to
stay with me, either. She stood up and m oved off. She appeared headed for
more trouble.
I decided I had to get Neal. Shit! He lived on the other side of the
beach, across the paddy field, near the road. It wasn't im possibly far, but
with me trip p in g -and spacey tripping at that it was seriously far.
I ran all the way and thought I'd the of exertion in the paddy.
"NEAL! WE HAVE TO SAVE EVE. SH ES G ETTIN G INTO
FIGHTS. WAKE UP."
He opened one eye as I came tearing into the house. "Shhh. You'll
wake the baby." He didn't move.
 I lowered my voice. "Neal, Eve's freaking out the beach."
Slowly, he raised his naked form and sat cross-legged on the mattress. He
peered at the baby lying nearby. "Party still going?" He smiled at me and
shook the bangs out of his eyes. "Sit down a minute?"
I sat. "Of dope, yes. I'm too wired for more coke."
"Well, I need a little to wake me up." He reached for his glass Hock, and
I watched him chop and m eticulously construct two perfect lines. CLICK,
CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"What patience you have," I commented. "I don't make lines anymore.
I snort lumps. I ju st pile it out and snort it up." He giggled. I changed
my mind. "Yeah, okay, I will have that line after all," I said. "I can never
resist." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. "Oh, but come
on, hurry. W e've got to save Eve."
We left the baby in the Charge of an Indian teenager from Bombay
w ho'd hung around with the Freaks at D ipti's, and whom N eal had
brought to Goa for no reason in particular.
It was late m orning and the sun was high when we arrived at the
party. W e found Eve sitting by herself, Flashing hateful glances around
her.
"The chick stole my lighter, man," said Olivier to Neal in a French
accent. "Is not right. There is something wrong with that chick."
"W ell straighten this out," Neal answ ered before kneeling beside
Eve. "Are you okay? Had a bad night?" He moved a strand of hair off her
face. "Let's get out of here." She rose and followed him easily. So did
Olivier.
"What about my lighter, man? It is from Kenya. Has a gazelle on it." "I
w ant to get her off the beach," N eal told him. "W e'll go to the M onkey
chai shop."
The four of us climbed the rocks and gathered around the wooden
tables of the chai shop. Nobody sat. I was too wired; Eve was on planet
Mars; Neal was refereeing; and the Frenchman was angry.
"Five him back the lighter, Eve."
"I don't have it."
"Eve, ju st give it to him and we can go home."
"He's lying. I didn't take it."
In the acid-party aftermath, everything looked weird. Textures went
wrong. The wood of the table I leaned against felt like fabric. It folded
over my fingers. Eve's face took on strange colours, her features blending
 together. I watched her nose squash under her cheekbones. Neal lifted
Eve's purse off her shoulder and dumped the contents on the table.
"There it is! That is it. See the gazelle?"
Neal handed the lighter to O livier and put everything else back in the
bag. "Let's go now."
As we hurried out of the chai shop, the Frenchman called after us, "Do
something about that chick, man. She's not right."
We went to my house, which was closest. We had a few hits of
smack, and then Neal washed Eve's face and positioned her under the
platform, where she fell instantly asleep.
Neal and I sat side by side, and he talked away the sharp edges of my trip.
CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. "I grew up in
W ashingtonthe state," he told me. "Bet you never knew anyone from there,
did you? Went to the University of W ashington and received a Master's
Degree in English Literature. Then I got married and moved to France. My
wife and I taught at the American University in Paris."
"A professor!"
He giggled. "Yeah, a professor."
"Are you still married?"
He giggled some more. "I guess so. We never divorced." More giggles.
"Then last year I married a Thai whore in Bangkok."
"Oh, no! Two wives!" I laughed.
"The Thai's tough. Boy, you wouldn't want to fight with her. Carries a
long knife."
"Why'd you marry her?"
"I don't know. She wanted to. Why not?"
"Two wives and Eve."
We fell over laughing and had more lines of coke. CLICK, CLICK,
SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
The rest o f the afternoon we lay on our stom achs, side by side,
shoulders touching, Neal's smiling face dose to mine. In the evening. Eve
woke up and he took her home.
And so another two days passed without sleep or food. Near where Eve
had been lying, I noticed a metal bird was missing. And yes, I had to admit, I
was attracted to Neal. Very attracted. Uh-oh.
 Petra's present, pretty Serge, rarely came to see me on his own. Sexy,
coke-carrying Serge was very sought after. When we got together it was
usually because I spent half a day tracking him down, searching for him on
his dealing route by Joe Banana's. If I couldn't find him there, I'd try" other
places he frequented, all of them full of females awaiting his attention. One
was a house behind the paddy where Serge went for a massage from a host of
damsels eager to indulge him.
"Cleo's here," a bare-breasted woman in a sarong inform ed him.
Serge lay naked on a satin covered mattress. From astride his back, a naked
woman in a green turban rubbed coconut oil on his skin.
I Ie raised his head from the cushion and, with an unlit beedie hanging
from his mouth, said, "Be right with you. I'm almost done. I love a massage,
don't you?"
When he was ready, he extended his hand. "Come for a ride, Miss
Cleo?"
I climbed behind him on his bike, and we drove off over the sand,
weaving through trees and sparsely scattered houses and onto the paved road.
I still hated riding motorbikes, but in this case it meant putting my arms
around this gorgeous guy. His velvet, Afghani vest was open, so my hands
closed over naked m idriff. Actually, I didn't m ind riding behind him at all.
"Do you know Bernard and Sima?" he asked, turning his head so I
could hear over the rushing air. His scarf flapped in my face. I pushed closer
against him. No, I didn't mind this particular bike ride one bit.
He drove me to Bernard and Sima's house off the M apusa road. A stone
wall ornamented with ball shapes surrounded the property. As we drove in,
Serge was waved at by a group of people sitting under a tree. He led me up
the front steps, past a Goan lady washing the marble floor on her knees. A
E uropean wom an in an outfit that covered only one breast swung in a
hammock. Seeing Serge, she smiled and followed us into the house.
"Salut," said Bernard. Serge introduced me to the group, most of
whom were French. Sima, Bernard's girlfriend, was Iranianan Iranian
princess, it was said, who scandalized her family's title with her lifestyle. I
liked her immediately. She was friendly and warm and clever.
Since wanting to buy coke was the excuse I used in my search for
Serge, he now borrowed Bernard's scale to weigh me a gram, and then,
business over, we sat with his friends. It wasn't five minutes after we were
sitting dose, leg to leg, that the woman with the bare breast wrapped her
arms around Serge's neck and swooped him out of the room.
Sima noticed my sad face as I watched the octopus drag, him away
and smiled sympathetically. "Want to chase the dragon?" she asked.
"Whats that?"
"I'll show you." She picked up a sheet of alum inium foil. "This is how
we do it in my country. This is Iranian smack."
Hearing the word smack, my ears perked up. The powder she held was
brown instead of the white I was used to. I kept watch on the doorway
through which Serge had disappeared. I wondered if it led to the kitchen, or
a bedroom. W hat was the nymph doing with my Serge? Sima placed a rock of
smack on the aluminium foil and, while Bernard held a lighter underneath,
she inhaled the smoke with a rolled up rupee note. As the rock m elted, the
liquid flow ed and had to be "chased" with the bill. The burning-smack
smell aroused my interest in this new method.
"Want to try?" Bernard asked me.
"Sure."
I kneeled by the foil. It took a m om ent to get the right-sized rock into
the right spot, and I waited anxiously with the rolled bill -poised in the air.
"No!" said Serge, suddenly behind me. "I didn't bring her here to get
stoned on smack." At one time Serge had been into smack, but he'd quit
years before and was now against it. "I'm trying to get her to stop using, and
you teach her a new way to do it!" I noticed the nymph was no longer with
him . M mm, w hat a p re tty face he h ad even w hen it frowned.
Later, while driving me home, he asked, "Shall I come by tonight?"
"Yes!" Though I wasn't crazy about sharing him with the rest of the
female population of Anjuna Beach (not to mention his wife in Colva), he was
definitely worth it.

Meanwhile, I saw Neal every day. He needed companionship during his

growing problems with Eve.
"She steals from everyone," he told me as we walked the path at the
northern end of Anjuna Beach. "Remem ber the first time I brought her to
your house? I found out she'd taken one of your skirtshad put it on under
her dress and a brass figure too. I made her bring them back, but when
she returned those she took a Kashmiri box. I don't know what to do. People
cringe when they see us at their door. Pretty soon no one
will talk to me. They'll be afraid I may visit." It was late a fte rn o o n , and
the blazing sun had sunk behind the palms bordering the beach. "She's
strange too," he continued, but I couldn't concentrate on N eal's w ords. I
had something on my mind. "I want to than" k you for your su p p o rt in
this," he said. "Sometimes I need someone to talk to. i love the baby,
probably the only one ever have. I'll be forty soon."
"Forty! Yipes. I thought you were my age."
"See why I can't let the baby go? Even if it means staying with Eve."
"Neal?"
"Hm?"
"Neal, I have to tell you something." I looked away and w atch ed a
crow loop in the distance. "Neal, I think I've fallen in love with you." We
stopped and stood by a wall; a pig could be heard grunting oft the other
side. "I'm sorry, I don't want to make things harder for you."
He giggled and pulled at his beard. "Well you have."
We sat on a rock by the path, not saying anything. I felt like I'd
ruined everything between us, but at the same time I was relieved to have
told him. He couldn't have been more surprised by the situation than I
was. I'd never told anyone I loved him like that, out of the blue. Actually. I
hadn't fallen in love like that before. For me, love never developed over time.
It was immediately there at the beginning, then usually wore away with
time. Neal wasn't my usual type, either. Good grief, fo rty years old! I
never went with older guys. Serge, I knew, was my same age. And Neal had
a beard. I hated that scratchy stuff. M aybe this was a new kind of love.
Maybe this was really love and not lust. Uh-oh, what had I gotten myself
into?
"Well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens," he said.
W hen we en tered his house we found M ushroom Je ffre y , an
Englishman, sitting with Eve. "Here he is!" Mushroom Jeffrey exclaimed
when he saw us. "Neal, I brought psychedelic mushrooms for you to try.
They're supposed to be right-o super. Just received them in the mail." I
unfolded a packet of foil to reveal a pile of brown flakes. W e each inserted
a Finger and scooped some out.
" Tastes terrible."
We then snorted coke and w aited for the trip to come on. CLICK,
CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. Nothing happened.
 "I think those are supermarket mushrooms, Jeffrey'," Neal finally
decided. "A & P brand."

The first time Neal and I made love was one morning after a party. It was
hot upstairs in my bedroom, but with the bed in front of the window, we were
cooled by the sea-smelling breeze blowing from the ocean. A ray of sunlight
lit a comer of the red, satin sheet where we cuddled as Neal recounted the
months he spent as a political prisoner in Greece.
"I was a heavy politico back then," he told me.
"Yeah?" I said, not really sure what that meant. "Are you still into
politics?"
"Yes," he said with determination; then he added, "Well, no, not lately."
He paused. "I'd like to be involved. I just don't get around to it."
I hugged him, and we set aside affairs of state.
W hat heaven to have his body in my arms. Oh, yes, I was definitely in
love.

WE were in love. W e fell into a routine. We were together every day,

dawdling the afternoon in my house, going to Gregory's restaurant for
dinner, Joe Banana's for mail, maybe Norwegian Monica's for a visit. He'd
spend the night at my place.
And once a day Neal and I would go check on Eve and the baby.
It was usually late at night when we'd begin the trek across the paddy
fields. Over the sun-parched earth we'd go. Neal carried a flashlight and
followed the foot-worn path. I climbed the mounds between the fields and
tried to keep my balance as I walked in the dark. I'd grown to enjoy the
dark and rarely carried a light anymore. Half-way across, we'd stop for a
coke break and prepare for the visit. He'd sit on the ground and take out his
glass block and razor blade and, with the flashlight between his knees, he'd
begin the line-making process. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK,
SQUEAK. I'd perch beside him on a mound, and we'd tell each other our
secrets.
"I wanted to be a writer," he told me. "That's all I ever wanted to do.
That's why I left Washington, to write."
"Did you?"
"Not really, except for political com m entaries in my activist days.

But I never started the novel." "Couldn't get it together, huh?" I asked.
He gazed at the sky, shook the bangs off his forehead, and giggled. "I
guess not. There was always something. M aybe one day I will stop taking
smack. Soon, I'm stopping soon. I'm quitting for good. M aybe next week."
Neal always claimed to be on the verge of quitting. Nobody paid
attention anymore to his declarations of impending abstinence.
"What would you write about?"
"I dont know." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"Maybe this."
"What?"
"Goa."
I laughed. "No one would believe it."
W hen he passed me the block, I knew we'd soon be moving on to
Eve's. I wanted to stall. It was so nice there in the open field, just the two of
us, so many stars in the sky, the sound of party music in the distance. I touched
his thigh through purple satin pants and pulled his shaggy hair.
"Shall we go?" he asked.
"Ohhh, no." I laid my head on his shoulder.
I didn't want to leave our sacred spot in the paddy field. We always
stopped at the same place, though it was hard to tell one dry, cracked field
from another. Flat earth stretched to the swaying panes on the horizon. I
descended the dark hump of the hill to Baga. I didn't want to leave our
flashlight refuge to go to Neal's house. For me, Neal's house was hell.
Eve had found herself a friend, an American guy into needles. Neal
never stuck a needle in his arm that was for junkies. What differentiated a
"junky" from a person who used junk was a question of money and
sometimes style. Those with little money had to inject their drugs, since
less was required that way. This wasn't true of coke, though, for fixing
coke would soon lead to shooting great quantities com pulsively, and
therefore required either a lot of money or a talent for sophisticated hus
tling. Eve and her friend fixed smack and coke, both supplied by Neal.
Often we'd arrive to find both o f them nodded-out on the porch, one
asleep on the concrete bench, the other on a mat on the floor, the baby
playing by herself nearby.
Our visits to Neal's house quickly became a dilemma for me.
 They went on and on and on. Two hours, three hours, six hours, seven
hours.

On and on. Eve would stare strangely into comers and talk in that soft, quiet
voice of hers.
"Hi, how are you?" she'd whisper as we arrived. Eve had a collection of
objectsceramic heads, blown-glass animals, jade Buddhas that she
paraded for us. She'd caress them and move them around. Everyone
knew they were stolen, of course. Everyone could even identify who in
each piece had been stolen from. One of my K ashm iri leopards, which had
disappeared the month before, sat on display right there on a shelf.
The hours would drag by in the dirty room. No matter where I'd sit, I'd
have to place my limbs around the ants that formed a perpetual trail on the
centre table and across each m attress. I w ouldn't m ind the first hour, or
even the second. Neal loved the baby, Mahara. He'd stare at her as if
m arvelling that he'd created such a thing. He'd play with her hands and feet
and make noises against her head. It was cute to watch, even though, as
Petra would say, I love children.
It w asn't so much the visits I loadied; hut the way N eal handled
them. I would tell me we'd leave as soon as the baby fell asleep, but hours
after the baby had closed its eyes, we'd still be there. Despite klepto Eve, Neal
was the m ost-loved character on the beach. He'd helped everybody at one
time or another with drugs and money. People dropped in by the dozens.
CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. N eal was a great
storyteller too. He'd been on the scene for so long, he knew old-time
stories about all the major Anjuna figures.
"You should have seen Alehandro in Kandahar back then."
W hat drove me crazy was that Neal seemed to enjoy my growing
anger as two or three hours passed after he told me we were leaving
"right now."
"Neal, let's go."
"Okay, one minute. When Graham appeared in Kandahar
"N eal..."
"I'm ready, we're going."
Then N eal w ould take Eve som ewhere for a talk into the other
room, to the porch, the garden, anywhere. It seemed he waited until I was
fuming with impatience before he remembered some urgent thing he had to
tell Eve. Time would pass. I'd have to go find them.
"Neal!"
"I'm corning."
It w ould be an o th er hour till he re tu rn e d to the liv in g room .
CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. M ore stories. Then
another hour would pass before he was ready to go again. Then Neal
would have a long discussion with Eve over how much dope and coke to leave
her.
After a few weeks I was convinced he used Eve and his visitors as a
Cool to manipulate my feelings. I tried letting Neal go to the house by
him self. But then, despite his prom ise to be back in an hour, end up
trekking across the paddy fields half a day later to get him. The crowd
would smile as I storm ed in. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK,
SQUEAK. I'd stand in the doorway with my arms crossed.
"FE, cutie," Neal would say. "I'm just leaving. Sit down a minute."
So I'd sit, and more people would arrive, and the stories would go
on, and I'd he trapped there for hours again.
W hen I did finally get him hom e, w e'd fight m ostly with me
shrieking and Neal serenely chopping coke. The madder I became, the
calm er he grew . CLICK, GUCK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
When I was absolutely furious with rage, he'd appear the epitome of peace
and satisfaction. A well-fed cat dozing on a cashmere sweater could not have
seemed more content.
"I C A N T TAKE TH IS A N Y M O R E! YOU SAY Y O U LL BE
BACK IN A FEW HOURS AND A DAY GOES BY. DONT "PELL ME
YOULL BE RIGHT BACK IF YOU D O N T INTEND TO RETURN
FOR A W EEK! T H A TS ALL I DO THESE DAYS IS W ATT FOR
YOU TO RETURN. IM SICK OF IT. I W O NT DO IT ANYMORE."
Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food. "ITS OVER. GET OUT.
GO. GOODBYE."
"Come here and do this nice big line."
"IM SERIOUS, I WANT YOU TO LEAVE. GO BACK. TO EVE
AND THE BABY."
"Look at the line I made for you."
"WILL YOU LEAVE!"
He'd get up and bring me the glass block. "Here you go, special
delivery."
I could never refuse a line of coke, and for a while I'd he placated but
 then my anger returned. IM N O T G O I N G TO SPEN D ALL DAY
W A I T I N G F OR YOU AGAIN. I M NOT GO. LEAVE. GOODBYE."
"Here, cutie, have another line."

At maximum anger, I would storm to the door and throw it open. "GET
OUT!" He never budged. He enjoyed the Show.
Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food.
We would make up eventually, perhaps after spending the night back to
back in angry silence (I was the angry one). Or sometimes, when I did manage
to lock him out, I'd decide not to see him again and wouldn't answer the
door when he came back. Those times apart lasted days and even weeks.
During our off periods, I'd spend time with Serge. I liked Serge a lot too.
Besides being so pretty, he was sweet and caring. He worried about my
health.
"Look at you, you're so skinny!" Serge would say. "I'm taking you
someplace special to eat. Let's go to the hotel in Baga. They have more
variety than Gregory's restaurant."
"Oh, yum. Squid!"
"You want squid? Then that's what you'll have. Anything, Miss Cleo, as
long as you eat."
He was right; I was skinny. Very skinny. Dinner often passed with me too
coked-out to eat. Some days I forgot to eat at all. Not when I was with Serge,
though. Despite all the coke we did, he always insisted on taking me
somewhere for food, and he'd do his best to get me to swallow it.
"I can't eat anymore. I'm not hungry," I'd say.
"Just finish your pork chop."
"I CANT!"
"Sure you can; here, open your mouth."
"NO."
"Come on. For me. This one m outhful for me. W on't you do this one
thing for me? Come on, open up. Good girl. I knew you could do it. Now
one more."
"You said just one!"
"One more. This is the last one, come on."
"I don't like string beans."
"No string D eans? Okay, I got rid o f the string beans. Now open
your mouth."
 He also tried at every opportunity to get me off dope. "You have to
stop taking smack, Miss Cleo. It's not good for you. Look how skinny you
are."
"That's because of the coke, not the smack."
"Then you must stop that too."
"What? Look how much you do."

"Yes, but I can handle it. I eat."

He never stopped lecturing me about smack, and periodically he
wore me down and I'd half-heartedly agree to stop. Once, when I was
trying to block the uncom fortable feelings of withdrawal, I took half a
dozen M andrax the English equivalent of the sleeping pill Quaalude,
sold over the counter in any Indian pharm acy and a few packets of
Valium. Serge left on his rounds and, stumbling along incoherently, I was
found by the maid, who thought that something was terribly wrong with
me. Afraid I was sick and dying, she and her father, Apolon, who owned the
chai shop next door, loaded me into a taxi and sent me to the private Catholic
hospital in M apusa. The doctors didn't know what to do with me, so they
put me in a bed and, because I was so thin, they gave me glucose
intravenous drip.
Within a few hours worried Serge arrived. "What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"From what Apolon told me, I thought you'd be dead."
"No, I'm ju st m iserable without the dope."
"Now, now. Y ou're doing great, M iss Cleo. You don't want any
smack. You'll see, in a few clays youll be fine."
"I'm so blah. This is depressing."
"Actually, this hospital is a brilliant idea. You can stay here until you get
straight. Three meals a dayfatten you up. Yes, this place is ideal for you.
Keep you away from temptation."
"I want to go home. I don't like it here. A bunch of people prayed for
me."
"No, really?" He laughed.
"Five of them stood around the bed with prayer books and chanted at
me."
Serge tilted his head back as he laughed aloud. "Seriously," he said, "I
think you should stay a few days."
 "How long?"
"Until the smack leaves your system, maybe a week."
"A WEEK! I'll go crazy here a week."
"No, you won't. I be with you every day."
"You won't. You'll be with your business. Or your other wom en."
He sm iled. "I prom ise to be here as much as I can. I'll go now and put
things in order and then come back. The business can h o ld w ith o u t me a
day or two. And you know I don't think of other women w hen I'm with you,
Miss Cleo. Will you stay?"
" We l l . . . I don't know. I'll try, but if I can't stand it, I'm going to
leave."
"It won't be so bad, you'll see."
Shortly after he left, Neal came. "What are you doing in the hospital?"
"OOOOOh, I took a bunch of m anthes and Apolon thought I was
dying."
He lay next to me. "Move over a bit. So, why are you still here?" "Serge
thinks I should stay and get off the smack."
"Good old Serge. Then I guess you don't want this line I'm making
you." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"No, no. I mustn't. Hey, you know what they gave me a while agoa glucose
drip. It was nifty, had stuff to make me healthy. You could use one; you're as
skinny as I am."
"It does sound good. I always forget to cat. Do you think they'll
give me one?"
"Sure, why not? I ring for the nurse."
"Wait a minute, how long will it take? I was planning to drop acid
and he in the sun."
"Only an hour," I'll go get her."
I ran down the hall and brought back a sister-type nurse. She couldn't speak
English, and we had to tell her what we wanted by pantomime. She shook her
head as if she understood and then left the room. Neal and I lay side by side on
the bed and waited.
And waited.
"I don't think she understood," said Neal after a while.
"Has she been gone that long?"
"Too long just to get a drip."
"Wait a little longer. Shell come."
"It will be too late. I come back tomorrow and do it then."
"Just a few more minutes."
"I'm going to take the acid now so it'll come on by the time I get to
the beach."
"Aw, don't
Not three minutes after he took the acid, the nurse arrived with the
intravenous apparatus.
"Oh, no! I can't do that now. I don't want to be hooked up to that
thing when the acid hits!"
I smothered my head in the pillow laughing. "I told you she'd be
back. Go on, do it. It doesn't take much time."
"How long did you say? An hour?" The nurse m otioned for him to he
on the other bed. "Should I do it?"
"Now or never."
Amid my giggles, Neal climbed on the other bed and let her stick the
needle, with its trailing tube, into his arm.
Of course it took longer than an hour. The yellow liquid in the container
hanging above him was barely a third gone when the acid hit full force.
"Wow, look at those wavy lines in the ceiling. Hey, I can't stay l ike this
forever," Neal exclaimed, checking his vein, which was swollen with needle and
glucose juice. "It's been longer than an hour. Hasn't it been longer than an
hour? This is not the best place to spend a trip, you know?" He looked at
me hiding my laughter with a starched-too-stiff
"W heres the nurse?" he asked. "I'm going to tell her to get me out of
this contraption. How do I ring for her?"
"Your glucose isn't finished," I m anaged to say between guffaws.
"You can't stop in the middle."
"Will you ring for her? Listen, I've got to get out of here. Ring for her,
okay? Stop laughing. It's not funny. I want out of here."
Eventually I did ring for the nurse, but by the time she arrived she
found the needle out of Neal's arm and swinging an inch above the floor.
"Thank you," he said to her. "That was delicious." He kissed me
goodbye. "I'll see you later."
"Neal, wait. Give me some smack, I'm coming with you."
He giggled. "You want to leave? Serge will be angry with me."

And so I went back and forth between them. When I gut rd up with
chasing Neal across the paddy field, I'd look for Serge, whod immediately
feed me. He filled my stoves with kerosene and my shelves with spices, and he
cooked me delicious dishes, including one called Beef with a cream sauce
dyed blue. His cheese om elette was my favourite; it was his last resort
when trying to seduce me into putting something in my stomach. The trouble
with Serge was that he nagged me over the smack and, too frequently,
convinced me to cut down.
Serge now stayed with me nearly all the time, though once a week he
drove to Colva to see his wife and son. Since he'd told me about the
arrangem ent at the beginning of our relationship, I accepted the situation.
As time went by, though, it disturbed me that I wasnt the only one
in his life. And so, when I felt neglected by Serge or fed up with his doctoring, I'd
go back to Neal.
My monetary situation looked bleak as February and then March came
along. The money I spent fixing the house was nothing compared to what I
spent on dope and coke. Every trip to Bombay drastically reduced my cash
stash. I didn't want to use it all. I needed to save enough to fund a scam for the
monsoon.
Finally, on yet another trip to Bombay, I decided I could NOT take any
more money out of the bank. That was it. Somehow that last withdrawal had to
last till the end of the season.
It didn't, of course.
"I can't take one more rupee out of my safety deposit box," I told Serge
one night. "I have to think of a way to pay for another month or so down here."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, maybe I could sell something."
"I don't think you'd be good at dealing drugs; you'd consume more than
you'd sell."
"Hah! Some faith. What can I do then?"
He shrugged. "You could design clothes like Gavroche does." "I
don't sew. And I don't want to learn, either."
"You can't cook and open a restaurant like Brigitte. Can you do anything?"
"Like cook and sew? No. Come on, there must be something else." "How
about selling hash at the flea market, since you don't like smoking it."
"No, what else?"
"Can you play poker? You could try to win money."
"Hmmm. Know what? Dayid once asked if they could have their poker
games here. Said he'd give me a part of each pot."
"You want to host a poker game?"
I jumped up excited. "Not an ordinary game, how about a CASINO! I
could have different things going on at the same time. This place is big enough." I
paced the room as grand visions filled my brain. Cocaine was great for
inspiration. "Poker games last for days, right? Well, I'll supply everything. Food.
Cigarettes. Services. There's room if anybody wants to sleep. They can take
showers. What else?"
"I'll be here to sell coke."
"Yes, yes, perfect! Our own resident coke dealer, I love it! It'll be the
best poker game ever." I ran to find pen and paper to write a List of what I
needed. "What else? I want the casino to be so spectacular they'll never have
their games anywhere else. Opium! I can turn a room into an "0" den.
They'll feel frazzled from playing for days in a row, and after they take your
coke, they'll need a way to relax. I'll go to Bombay and bring down an
opium baba and the smoking stuff. M aybe I can pick up a roulette wheel.
Green felt for a crap table."
"I'll make the food."
"Ohh! This will be great. With your scrumptious meals, my casino will go
down in the history of Anjuna Beach." I skipped around the room, tapping the pen
against my hip.
"Hold your horses, Miss Cleo. I don't want to be in the kitchen all day."
" W e ll. . . okay, we'll have one far-out time the first night, before the
playing starts. How's that? In the morning I can order eggs from Apolon."
I began preparations immediately. Putting aside for the moment the idea
of a roulette wheel and a crap table, the biggest problem was getting the
Opium from Bombay, plus the baba to make pipes. I decided to put the baba in
the front room. I set up mattresses there, forming a square so several people
could he around the "den." I'd have to lock the front door and use the side
entrance; wouldn't want people walking back and forth, making the haha
nervous. Hearing that Bernard and Sima were going to Bombay for a few days, I
asked them to buy me a pipe and the smoking utensils. Later, I'd figure a way to
bring the haha down.

W ith everything in motion, I paid a visit to Dayid and Ashley and told
them the plan.
"Sounds quintessential!" said Dayid. "Do you know, there's a town in
Southern Italy named Cassino. Spelled with two esses. It experienced heavy
fighting during W orld W ar II."
We set a date for the game the following week.
Serge planned the menu. Anjuna would never see something like this
again three courses of the best cuisine France had to offer, limited only by the
availability of fancier items.
"I can't cook on this puny kerosene burner," Serge said. "You call this
an oven? How am I supposed to know how hot it is?" The oven was one I'd
bought at Crawford Market in Bombay, the Goa kind being made of rocks and
wood. Mine at least had four metal sides and a door. It didn't heat itself,
though, but rested on top of a kerosene stove, which meant
 there was no way to control the temperature. "I'll have to borrow mine
from the house in Colva," Serge continued. "I'll need more burners anyway
for the different dishes and sauces."
Since the dining room table could seat only twenty comfortably, we
restricted the dinner's guest list to the players and their mates. This itself
was unusual Anjuna events were open to everybody.
Serge and I spent hours checking details. They seemed endless, and my
casino took an im probable proportions as I figured out more and more
ways to create something special.
"How about a masseur?" I asked. "Sitting in a chair for hours, the
players will develop cramps. I could have an Indian in the bedroom giving
massages. What do you think?"
My most ambitious project, though, was turning the Goans into butlers.
I wrote step-by-step instructions on how to serve the meal. Serve from the
left; remove plates from the right; check for empty wine glasses, even planned
finger bowls.
"Finger bowls!" laughed Serge. "You're not serious. Miss Cleo?"
I was no longer merely earning money to last the season I was creating
a gala event. Bernard and Sima brought me the opium equipment from
Bombay, but I had no baba. I tried making pipes myself, but it was
complicated and resulted in more opium on the floor than in the pipe. I
gave up. I did find an Indian masseur, though. I fixed up the front room for
him, instead.
For the opening of Cleo's Casino, the players and guests arrived in the
early evening. Serge and a dozen Indians crowded into the kitchen. "Why
are so many Goans here?" I whispered to Serge.
"I suspect they're plain curious. News of your dinner is all over the
beach."
As I'd expected, too many people came, but it sorted itself out, with
some uninvited leaving and others sitting at tables against the wall. I sat at
one end of the main table, and Serge who ran back and forth to the
kitchen sat at the other. After we consumed the appetizer, which had
been waiting an the table, I grandly rang the brass bell I had bought for the
occasion. Expecting one Goan to come through the swinging doors (made at
my design by the carpenter), I was aghast when no fewer than eight, of all
ages, dashed into the room, picking plates from whichever side was closest
and plopping down the next course.
Oh, no! I wanted to the. Hadn't they read my instructions? Arid
crushing chaos, I flew into the kitchen crying.
 "Serge! Did you see that? An army charged in with the next course!"
"M iss Cleo, everything's Erne. This is Goa, not Las Vegas. Relax.
Here, taste this."
And so passed the first formal dinner on Anjuna Beach. Though I
couldn't eat m ore than a bite, Serge's B oeuf B ourguignon was supreme,
and everyone agreed it was a Goa first. During dessert, I sensed the players
were antsy to start the game. They retreated to the boudoir-turned gam e-
ro o m u p stairs, w here I had ev erything arran g ed on a green tablecloth
to m atch the green w alls. The others m oved to the living room, where a
party began. Frantically I ran around coddling
"Will you calm down!" said Serge. "Relax and enjoy your party. It's
sensational."
It really was sensational. People came and went all night. I limited the
upstairs spectators so there w ouldn't be too much noise. In the bedroom I
laid out the opium, but the people who tried to smoke succeeded only in
splattering brown goo on the linoleum floor. Egads, my linoleum! As
prearranged, the masseur arrived in the morning. I had eggs and toast brought
in for the interested people, while m ost of the players stayed upstairs with
the game. For lunch I ordered a buffet placed within reach of the poker
table, so nobody would be discouraged from nourishment by distance.
Late in the afternoon, Serge announced he was leaving for a while.
"Where are you going?"
"I have things to do. I be back."
"Ohhhhh, m ust you?"
As soon as he left I felt depressed. I was exhausted. My nerves were
frayed from pre party anxiety plus a ton of coke. How could he leave me?
Where was he going? To his wife? Another one of his girlfriends? I felt
abandoned. SO tired.
After a last check for problems, I hung a blanket over the platform
downstairs and crawled underneath to rest. W here was Serge? I hugged
my knees and cried. Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food.
Too wired to doze, I lay there m iserable. Crowds no longer packed
each room almost everyone was upstairs, with one or two in the dining
room and someone in the front room getting a massage. The house was
quiet, with only an occasional curse from the game and murmurs filtering
from the hack. I couldn't dose my eyes. They popped open and filled
with tears. Giving up on sleep, I crawled out and wandered about feeling
lost. I didn't offer dinner and stopped em ptying ashtrays. Serge didn't
return till morning.
Happy to see him, I. couldn't be angry. As the game neared its final
hours, I recorded the event with my movie camera. Doctor Bo, slightly
Coke Amuck and paranoid, scowled at me through the view finder. I
laughed. Another heap of coke and Serge's return had cheered me con
siderably. I didn't even mind trudging up and down the stairs to open the
door, where my imported-from-Bombay doorbell now rang repeatedly.
" Shambo, Cleo, man," said Kadir, coming in. He had left the party a day
and a half e 3rHer. "So tell me, who lost money while I was away?"
Petra slunk in with one palm raised to her forehead like an Apache on
the w arpath. "W HAT'S going ON here. The W H OLE b each is Talking
about it."
Serge went from nostril to nostril, dispensing snorts of coke. Ashley
clim bed on a tabI2 and fanned herself with an ostrich feather as she
watched the end of the game. She placed herself in Dayid's line of vision to
lend support during his bout of losing.
"ABOMINATION!" said Dayid forcefully, throwing down another
hand of cards. ":'hat onerous luck!"
That night, after everyone finally left. Serge and I lay downstairs
under the platform, and I fell asleep in his arms.
B efore he left, D ayid had handed me my share o f the w innings$465.
That's all? It should have been more. Apparently, seeing how fast the money
had been piling up, the players decided to stop putting aside a percentage for
Inc. Not fair! W ith my habits, a few hundred dollars wouldn't last long at
all.
"So when's the next game?" Serge asked when I woke up a day later.
I gave him a dirty look. "Please. I don't think I could five through
another one of those." That was the last of Cleo's Casino.

As the end of the season came closer and closer, the weather grew
hotter and hotter. Serge stopped visiting his wife every week. "Last time I
went, I found her latest boyfriend using my toothbrush," he exclaimed. "My
toothbrush! A dirty, creepy junky. She has no finesse!"
Then one day Serge left India to do business.
And once again I returned to Neal.
 April brought my birthday. To celebrate, Neal and I taxied to the
Fort Aguada Hotel, the fanciest in Goa, an hour's drive away. We ordered
an exquisite dinner in the elegant dining room and snorted our lines
of coke o ff the tablecloth. As usual we couldn't eat much, but we enjoyed
the food trem endously by slinging it across the room from the ends of
our forks. Afterward, we strolled through the Lobby and squeezed together
on a chaise lounge by the pool, where we kissed and snuggled. For a
birthday present Neal gave me a diamond nose pin. We joked over which
side of my nose I should pierce. We didn't return to Anjuna till noon.
Too much coke. Not enough sleep. No food.
"W HAT DO YOU M EA N Y O U RE G O IN G TO E V E S? NOT
NOW!"
"We've been gone all night."
"BUT IT S MY BIRTHDAY!"
"I have to go."
"D O N 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 indoced 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 otherraised above my
heada hammer.
"W H ER E ARE Y OU ? I KNOW Y O U RE IN TH ER E COME
OUT!" An hour could go by and I'd still be opening closets, hunting the
hiding p erso n I knew was there. "HERE I COM E. 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 lainp,
which he'd then balance on the edge of something; and I'd thinkone 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 extinguisherheavy, 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 m ight say to
the other: "Maybe we should sleep. Has it been a long
 time?" It was this thing to do. When I felt ready. I'd take my standard sleeping
potionfive manthes and twenty Valium (smack too). Then IM 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 overmore 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 m iracle 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!"
"T hat's not true," N eal answ ered. CLICK, CLICK , SCRAPE,
SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
With psychoanalytic cocaine clarity, it became clear to me. "YES, YOU
A RE. YOU D ESTR O Y EV E R Y B O D Y YOU LO V E . LO O K W HAT
HAPPENED TO EVERYBODY ELSE WHO WAS U N FO R IIINAIE ENOL
KA I TO IIA V E YOU LOVE THEM."
"Shh, com e here and do this nice big line." CLICK, CLICK,
SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"Y O U RE C O N SU M ED W ITH G U IIT OVER TH A T ROCK
M USICIA N YOU KILLED."
"I d id n t k ill h im ." C L IC K , C L IC K , S C R A P E , S Q U E A K ,
SQUEAK.
"You think you did." A few years before, N eal had, as usual, dispensed his
smack at a party in the States. One of the recipients, a famous
m usician, had overdosed and died. "You think it's your fault he died." "W ell
... yeah." GUCK, C LIC K , SC R A PE, SQ U EA K , SQU EA K . "And you feel
g uilty about turning the Goa Freaks on to sm ack.
AND Y O U RE T A K IN G IT OUT ON M E! W ELL I W O N 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?"
"Sonn."
 But Eve's im minent 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 ju st stayed home. By this late in the season, the m ajority
of Freaks had left Goa. The heat signalled it was time to leave India.
Sometim es M ushroom Jeffrey visited me. M ushroom Jeffrey had
long, red d ish -b ro w n hair and a m oustache and beard. H e'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 m yself 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 th at deal for im m ediate incom e. Now was d efin itely the tim e
for me to leave In dia and do som ething. It w ould probably
w ise to get aw ay from N eal too. Though I loved him to death, our rela
tionship m ostly gave me m isery, frustration, and a sore throat from
yelling.
"I need a scam," I told Anand Geet (M ushroom 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."
T he B irm in g h am B oys, th irty or so guys from B irm ingham ,
England, operated an extensive export business. They'd known each other
before coming to India, and the group's com position continually ch an g ed
as p eo p le a rriv e d from or returned to England. They'd never been
hippies, never had long hair, never m ore than sm irked at the sixties notion
o f "peace and love"; and, living outside A njuna B each, they fre
 quented 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?"
"A ilaybe A rchim edes in Baga, but his stu ff 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 m ust 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 M onica had recently used that
strategy through Bermuda.
I had someone perfectly suited for the journey's second halfAunt
Sathe.
I wrote her, outlining the scam. I'd take the cases to Bermuda, and Aunt
Sathe would meet me there. W e'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 N eal announced, "I think it's time we leave here. The
monsoon will start soon, and there's hardly 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."
W e 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
hav en 't seen him in year . "
N eal's room on the ninth floor becam e 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 T ate. I'd be
enragednot 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 tim e w aiting 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?
D on't be m ad at me." He kneeled on the step below me. "Want to hear the
new s? Yoo hoo. Hello, hello. Well, I'll tell you anyway. Eve's leaving
tomorrow."
And then, she was gone.
Neal and I m oved 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 m istrust 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. W hat 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 g o in g 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 I3ritish Airways to London,
trans H eathrow , on to B erm uda. 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.
W hat to do? I couldn't go with my straight, stringy hair. No m atter
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
inform ation. Nothing.
By the time I resigned m yself 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 m ade the flight, but it no longer felt right, I didn't
ge
lt 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 m yself 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. W e'll find someone to go instead. W here 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."
"Its MY scam!"
It was no longer my scam. It becam e OUR scam. W ithin 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 m eet MY aunt.
 I cabled Aunt Sathe about the change.
Now we ju st had to w ait for Aunt Sathe's telegram.
"NO teleg ram ," I to ld N eal tw o days later, after returning from
American Express.
"No? There should be som ething by now."
When a week went by with no news, we became anxious.
After two weeks, depressed.
"Something m ust have happened."
"Her telegram m ight be lost. You know how bad American Express
m ail."
"Did you send your Aunt those cables?"

"E ith er L ila arriv ed or she did n 't. W e should have heard
something either way. There has to be a m essage for us som eplace."
I ho p e nothing happened to Aunt Sathe.
But we can't do anything till we get an answer. M eanwhile,
if the didn't go down, we c a n 't affo rd B om bay. I th in k 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.
H ardly a soul rem ained in A njuna. Only the failures who couldn't get
themselves together stayed in
d u rin g 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, A polon told me his daughter couldn't clean every day as
she had during the, season. During, the monsoon, the paddy fields
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? W e'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.
C L IC K , 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."
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 w ater, kerosene, C oca-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.
B oth of us had a stash of coke. Since the air was humid I decided to put
m ine in the safe beh in d the p ain tin g . A fter dropping cry sta ls 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 M apusa 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.
I had had my period in months. How many? Four, five? Could I be
pregnant? Never. Me? I hated kids. I looked at my skinny reflection in the
mirror. Impossible. I should probably stop taking the p ill.
I went back to the living room to join Neal and the m irror piled
w ith coke. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQ_ UEAK.
 Our first week in the m onsoon blended into one coked-out weird
day. We hardly noticed the echo of the rain sealing us in. The dimness of
the cloudy daylight blended with the dimness of the kerosene night light.
The long day stretched itself into a week. Then the coke was nearly fin
ished.
"I'm going to Bombay," said Neal. "We should find out if there's
news from your aunt. I'll pick up coke from Sukalatchi Street while Im
there."
"Check Joe Banana's first. Maybe Aunt Sathe sent a telegram here."
No mail at Joe's. Neal left for Bombay. That night, there was a knock
on the front door. I was surprised. I hadn't thought there was anyone left
on the beach to come visiting. Apolon and his fam ily used the kitchen
door.
I couldn't believe the pretty face I found on the doorstep. "Hello,
Miss Cleo."
"Serge!" I leaped on him, knocking him off the step. He wrapped his
arms around me.
"It feels so good to hold you again," he said. "I m issed you." We
kissed on the damp sand under the dark sky.
"Where have you been? You just disappeared," I asked and kissed
him again. "I'm so happy to see you!"
We went inside and sat under the platform holding each other. "I
had to do business. Make money."
"What are you doing back here in the monsoon?"
"Why, I came to see you, of course. Had to see Miss Cleo. But I was
afraid you'd be gone and that I wouldn't find you till next season." We
kissed some more. "Why are you still here?"
I sunk my fo rehead into my palm and groaned. "OOOOOhhhh.
Nothing worked right. I invested money with Tish and Junky Robert but
haven't heard from them. Then I sent a girl to Bermuda and she disap
peared. I don't know what happened to that scam. Neal ju st left for
Bombay to see if there's a telegram."
"Are you and Neal together, then?"
"NO! That's finished, really. I can't bear him anymore. I want to be
with you. You're the one I love." I kissed his cheek, his neck, his ear.
"Does Neal know this? Or does he think you're still together?"
"Well, I don't know . . . Yeah, I guess he thinks we're together. I've
told him it's over, but I don't think he believes me."
 "You missed him again."
"When he returns. You'll stay, right? You're not going to leave, are you?"
"I've come thousands of miles to see you, Miss Cleo. I m not leaving you
now. You'll tell him, though? I love Neal. He's my friend. I don't want to
create a problem."
"I'll tell him. He knows already. Besides, you'll be here with me." "Look
how skinny you are! Even skinnier than before. You must eat. When was
the last time you had a meal?"
"I ate a candy bar yesterday."
"A candy bar! That's not food. I make you som ething. W hat do
you want?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You must eat something. What will you have? A cheese omelette?" "Ooo,
yum! Cheese omelette!"
As usual, I couldn't eat more than a bite of the huge thing he cooked. "I
can't eat another mouthful. I explode."
"You hardly touched it. Come on, I made it just for you."
"No, no. Stop. Take it away. Later. Maybe I finish it later. Let my
stomach recover a while from the shook of nutrients."
The next morning, Neal returned.
NO.
Not yet!
Full of energy, he burst into the house like a tornado of good cheer. "Hi,
cutie. I'm back!" He giggled, dumped his bag on a cushion, and shook his
wet bangs. His clothes dripped water into a Pool at his feet. "Hi, Serge." He
turned back to me. "It's really raining out there. You should see it."
"That was quick. I didn't think you'd be back so soon."
He giggled. "Well, you see, I never made it to Bombay. The airport's
closed for the m onsoon. I spent the night in Panjim thinking I could board
a boat, but the boats aren't running either. W e're m arooned here. I had no idea
it was like this during the monsoon. It's unearthly. Like being stranded on
another planet."
"The buses are running," said Serge. "I got off one yesterday."
"You did?" Neal giggled again. "I can't imagine why anyone would
WANT to be here at this time. I know why we're here. I thought you had more
sense."
"I've spent many monsoons here in Colva," said Serge. "Until
year, I stayed in Goa three years without leaving. I like it in th e ra in y sea-
 son. It's peaceful and quiet."
"Serge, old boy! Can you sell us coke? Or don't you have any left?" "How
much would you want?"
"Looks like we might be here a while. What do you think?" he asked
me.
"Looks like well be here forever. We need half a ton."
"Maybe a few ounces. Could you handle a few ounces?" Neal asked Serge.
"I don't know . . . I need to keep some for m yself. One ounce for sure,
maybe two. I see how much I have."
Why did Neal have to come back? Everything seemed to be moving too
fast. In an instant, Neal stepped back into place and Serge assumed visitor
status. Serge physically withdrew from me under the influence of Neal's
presence. W ait a minute, wait a minute. This was not how I wanted it. I
wanted to be with Serge, not Neal. What happened?
I became annoyed. Why had Serge retreated to the other side of the room
like that? He was supposed to be over here with me. I felt isolated, left by
myself to handle the situation.
N eal sped around the room as if nothing had changed. F rustrated and
confused, I grasped the h alf-eaten cheese om elette that had been lying
there since the day before and threw it in Serge's face.
Neal giggled. Serge's hurt look told me he didn't understand. Well, good.
I didn't understand, either. I stormed out of the room, leaving him to pick up
the pieces of dried egg that had flown all over.
I paced the carpet in the bathroom, opening cabinets and drawers,
touching things, looking in the m irror. I changed my dress for one I
picked up from the floor. Since the maid stopped coming in, things continued
to he wherever they'd been discarded.
I still had coke stashed in the safe, so I didn't have to go back to the living
room right away. Instead, I puttered around the bathroom.
Eventually Serge joined me. His brown eyes were wide and he wasn't
smiling. Sadly and patiently, he told me he was going to the house in Colva to
see about the coke.
"You'll be right back?"
"Do you want me to come back?"
"YES! Aren't you going to stay with me?"
"You know I want to be with you. I don't know what you want .. .You
threw the cheese omelette in my face! I'd made that specially for you
 I hugged him. "Come right back, okay? Please." I snared a clump of his
hair in my mouth.
"I'll be here as soon as I can," he said, but I kept holding him. "I'll have
to leave now to get back by tonight," he added, trying to pull away. I didn't
relinquish my em brace. "The sooner I go, the sooner be back." I
tightened my grip and wrapped a leg around him.
We laughed together.

W hen Serge returned that night, the relationships were set. I was
with Serge. I knew it. Serge knew it. I guess Neal knew it.
It didn't matter anyway. As soon as Serge returned to sell us four
ounces, the three of us divided the house into three separate realities.
The otherworldliness of the extreme weather warped even further the
eeriness of our already-strained perceptions. It was like being in another
dimension soft, cloudy, speedy, and of course wet. It was hard not to
notice the wetness of the cushions, the soggy saris hanging from the ceiling,
our clammy clothes. In that respect, our three universes shared a common
elem ent. Nothing stayed dry during the m onsoon. Even the wood of the
stairs and the tile of the floor felt damp. And shortly, everything assumed
another monsoon characteristicmouldiness. Everything, everything,
everything was damp and mouldy.
Serge took over a window ledge under the stairs. He filled it with
coke paraphernaliahis needle and syringe; my soup spoon, now best
into a silver twirl; a champagne glass of water. Serge stayed at his window
ledge fixing one shot after another after another after another. Sweat
poured from his temples and blood ran down his arm. Obsessed with the
surge of coke as he squeezed the liquid drug into a vein, he never noticed the
Hood of water outside the window inches from his face. The tie wrapped
around his arm was held down by his foot at one end and pulled out by his
teeth at the other. Serge exclaimed "Oh, wow" regularly, like a stoned
cuckoo clock marking time. There was a rhythm to them. As soon as he
withdrew the emptied syringe from his arm, he'd draw water from the
champagne glass to clean it out. This he'd squirt in an ashtray, and then
he'd begin the process again coke in the spoon, a dash of rain water, stir
with the end of the needle, into his vein ... "Oh, wow."
His preoccupation was okay, though. I hardly m issed him. I'd be
crouched in coke-fantasy delight on a four-foot-square world map. Foot
on Bolivia, once over Antarctica, I would sail my finger on the Pacific as my
eyes scanned for land. "W here's T ahiti? I can't find it! W h e re 's Tahiti?"
For hours, days and weeks, with Serge riveted to his window ledge, I
planned my next scam s the ones that would go down as soon as we heard
from Aura Sathe and Lila.
"We need a midway stopover so Customs doesn't get suspicious," I said.
"Where is Tahiti?"
Neal would be nearby chopping coke. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE,
CLICK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. His limp satin pants clung to his legs as he lay
stretched out in his own coke rapture, leaning on an elbow. He'd use the
rusty m irror to scratch his beard as he told stories nobody was listening to. "
I rem em ber Petra in Venice," he said. "I think that was
here she m e t .. or was he there writing poetry? ... Well, one day
"Here it is!" I exclaimed. "I found Tahiti. Look, it's over here by the States.
This is perfect. I'll take the cases to Tahiti, coming from over this way. Then
you rake those dumb cruises out o f L.A. and m eet "
"Oh, wow."
" ... Petra perform ing at that time ... " CLICK, SCRAPE, GUCK,
SQUEAK.
"Oh, wow."
" SCRAPE, SCRAPE,
nobody would suspect anyone coming from Tahiti ..."
"Oh, wow."
SQUEAK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. " . . . gondola capsized
tt

or let Aunt Sathe

"Oh, wow."
The air was hick with hum idity and coke rainbow s. Every day
brought a new insect one bigger, stronger, and moving in a different way
than the old insect it had consum ed. It m arked the passing o f time. "What
kind of bit:; Co we have today? Does it crawl on my map? Hop on my lap?
Slither under my knee?
... and then B lind G eorge show ed up .. .
. . and then we visit these Islands here
"Oh, wow."
PE. Som ething ju m ped on N eal's glass
block and landed in the coke. "Hey! Look at this. Powered beetle! Whoa, little
fellow, having fun in there?" It didn't hedge. "Look at him. I t s stoned!
Immobilized." Neal pushed the insect with his finger.
" go th ro u g h A lask a next? It's up here."
A drop of sweat fell unnoticed from Serge's hair and landed on his
nose, where it slid to join the previous drops in the wrinkles of his harem
pants. He let the tie slip out of his mouth as another syringeful soused his
brain. "Oh, wow."
"Look at this bug go. He's staggering!"
. . . Alaska is good because it's part of the U.S. Once you get in
there, you're in. Who would search anyone going to Alaska?
"Oh, wow."
"Watch him waggle! Neal leaned over and put the glass block between
me and the N orth Pole.
"Want to go to Alaska?" I asked as I took the line of coke. Our eyes
met.
"How're you doing?" he asked. I smiled.
"Oh, wow," came Serge's muffled voice.
I jum ped up. "I need a super line to get me to the bathroom and
back." I scraped a pile of coke to the centre of the glass block and snorted.
I started to hand the block to Neal, but pulled it back. "Wait. One more.
The bathroom's so far aw ay."
After snorting the second mound, I strode unsteadily to the door. As I
passed Serge, I caressed a handful of his hair. "Oh, wow," he said, staring
h is arm .
To reach the bathroom , I had to pass the dining room and the
kitchen. Water had leaked in from the side door, and a stagnant Pool covered
m ost of the dining-room floor. I walked a few feet through water my wet
footprints followed me into the bathroom.

I really had to do something about the toilet. The tank on the roof was
empty, so the toilet couldn't flush. At least two weeks' worth of business had
accum ulated in the bowl. Pew! M aybe I should rem ove the cover from the
tank and let the rain fill it. I'd be taking a chance, though, because if a leaf
blew in, it might wreck the delicate system. I had to think o f som ething
soon. The sm ell was inching its way. to the rest of the house. W ithout the
maid coming every day, entropy was setting in.
 I looked at myself in the mirror. Mistake. Oh, look at me! I moved a hand
to my tangled head. W hat a m ess. I grabbed a brush and m atte a
half-hearted swipe at some hairs. Im possible. I'd never get those knots out.
I threw the brush down and contem plated the pile of clothes that covered
the table, the chair, and a comer of the floor. I took off the blue dress I'd been
wearing for who-knows-how-many-days and put on a red velvet one. I
dropped the blue dress on the floor.
I looked round the dim room . Smoke clouded the glass o f the
kerosene lamp. I opened a cabinet but could hardly see inside. I closed the
cabinet and opened a drawer. Birth-control pills. Still hadn't gotten my
period. I closed the drawer and slid open the sliding door of the closet. It
was filled with the clothes I never wore. Or at least nothing I'd worn
since the period stopped coming.
"HL" It WAS Serge. He came in and dried his feet on the rug. The
pupils of his eyes were enormous. I looked in the mirror. So were mine. He
came next to me and, side by side, we gazed at our reflections.
"Cleeeeeceeeeeo." It was Neal. "Where'd everybody go?" he said,
coming in and drying his feet. "Want a toot?" He offered me the glass
block. I took it, and he too turned to the mirror. He shook his bangs at his
image, made a face, and said, "I need a bath. The ocean's too rough to go
swimming. Why don't we go out in the rain?"
I handed him back the block and asked, "So, want to go to Alaska? It'll
be easy. Look, Show you where it is." I left the room, followed by Serge
and, a few seconds later, Neal. I waded through the water in the dining
room. W hite casserole dish containing a whole cooked chicken sat on the
table. It had been there untouched since Apolon brought it two days before.
"Hey," said Neal, "should we order another chicken?"
"Why?" I answered. "We never eat them."
"Alaybe this one's still good," said Serge. He lifted the cover and
peered at the food. He sniffed and took a bite. "It's good."
I returned to the living room and knelt on the map. "I'd also like to go
to Africa."
Neal came in and said, "I wonder if there's m ail at Joe Banana's."
"AUNT SATHE!" I exclaimed. My finger kept tabs on Africa while I
looked up at Neal. "We have to see if there's news from Aunt Sathe!"
"Maybe go later and check," Neal answered before becoming dis
tracted by the hallowing saris.
Serge continued chewing and sat at his window ledge. He picked up his
syringe. "Do you think it's August vet?"
I looked at the map. "Oo, look! Casablanca!"
 A week went by, then another two. We forgot all about Aunt Sathe in our
psychotic cocaine ecstasy. Life grew wetter and then darker as one by one the
lamps ran out of kerosene. At first Serge filled them from plastic b o ttles he
found in the kitch en. W hen those ran out, he used the kerosene from the
stoves. Then we made do with less and less light. On rare occasions, if
someone remem bered to ask, and if Apolon agreed to do it, the Goans filled
the bottles. But as their field work became more time consuming, and as we
grew crazier than ever, they stopped coming altogether.
For the most part, the house was now lit solely by three blackened lamps.
Serge had one on his ledge. Neal and I had one on the other side of the
living room, and the bathroom had the third.
Even though I was "with" Serge, it seemed I spent more time with Neal.
Serge had rented a motorbike and would leave periodically to do I didn't-know-
what I-didn't-know-where. I always forgot to ask. I knew he ate. In spite of
everything, he seemed to be keeping himself in better condition than Neal and
I were. W hen he was in the house, he spent the time at his window ledge
with his syringe, fixing one shot of coke alter another. When he wasn't at the
ledge, he soon fell asleep. So, although I more or less hated Neal (who could
remember?), I usually awoke to find myself lying next to him. Well, Serge
always fell asleep in the middle of the room! And at the wrong time!
One day I woke up on the floor with a hole in my chin. OW! Pain and
my cry had woken me. Alerted by my yell, Neal peeped over the platform edge.
(I guess I'd fallen asleep next to him again.)
"What happened?" he asked. "What are you doing down there?"
"OOOOOOOOw." I tried to hoist m yself o ff the floor, but raising my head
made me dizzy.
Neal giggled at me. "You fell off the platform in your sleep?"
"It hurts. 0000W . I ju st woke up. I don't know w hat happened." He
climbed down. "Here, let me look."
"I can't move my head. I'm dizzy."
"One second. Let me see!"
"0 0 0 0 W W W W W ."
"You cut your chin. You must have hit a comer of the step on your way
down."
"My head. It's killing me. Where's my smack?"
Neal brought my stash while I bled on the Rajasthani rug. "Maybe you
should have stitches."
 "NO. I dont trust those Indian doctors. I'd be scarred for life."
"You might have a scar anyway."
"Oh, no. Get me a mirror."
Serge was out. By the time he returned, I lay propped on an elbow,
unable to straighten my head. When he saw my bloody face, he rushed to my
side.
"What happened?" he asked anxiously.
"I fell off."
"No." Almost laughed. "How did you do that?"
"I don't know. I woke up on the floor."
"Why are you tilting your head?"
"It hurts and makes me dizzy if I hold it straight."
His concern grew when he saw my chin. "You should go to the hospital
and let a doctor look at you."
"I don't want to go to the hospital."
The pair increased as I tried to sit up. Serge's face filled with worry. "I
think you should go."
"IM NOT GOING."
"Yes, you are, Miss Cleo. I'm leaving right now to find a taxi."
"NO!"
But he rushed out and sped away on his motorbike.
"I'm not going anywhere," I told Neal.
Half an hour later Serge returned. "I brought you a taxi. The road's
washed out, so it's on the other side of the paddy field. Let's go. I'll take you
across on my bike."
"Absolutely not."
"You're going whether you like it or not."
"I'm not getting on that bike."
He kneeled in front of me. "Look at you with your cockeyed head. You
may have really hurt yourself." He kissed my hair. "I'm w orried about you.
I'd never forgive myself if you were seriously hurt. Please."
"No."
He senile:.; at me. "Well, if you won't go on your own I'll have to carry
you." Amid my screams, he picked me up.
"LET ME DOW N. I D O N T W ANT STITC H ES!"
He carried me out of the house yelling at the top of my voice. It was
pouring outside. The Goans across the way came to their window to
investigate. N othing the crazy foreigners did surprised them anym ore,
b u t we w ere g o o d e n te rta in m e n t. H a n g in g o v er S e rg e 's b ac k , I
pounded him with my fists.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO."
He carried me across the paddy field and dum ped me in the back seat
of the taxi. Neal climbed in too, and we were off to Mapusa and the Catholic
hospital.
Barefoot, hair in a rat's nest, and wearing a sopping pink-and-bite
checked skirt pulled over my chest, I was placed, still kicking, on the
emergency table. I barely let the doctors touch my chin and told them I
didn't want stitches. They didn't argue about that, but seeing my emaciated
form, they suggested I be admitted. They weighed me.
I weighed seventy-eight pounds thirty pounds less than when I
m odelled.
Neal wasn't much heavier, and he was given the bed next to mine in the
double room. Nurses immediately hooked us up to a glucose I.V.
Serge slept in my bed. That first night we were visited by every nurse
in the hospital. We were a great attraction.
"Welcome," Neal would declare in the tone of a gracious host as yet
another nurse popped her head in the doorway. "Do come in and sit
down."
None of them accepted his often
N eal had his smack stash with him, but the coke rem ained at the
house. Serge was to bring it the next day.
W e waited im patiently for his return and pounced on him as he
entered the room.
"It's about time!"
"W here've you been? It took you long enough. Did you bring the
coke?"
"Of course. But I only brought one gram. I'm going to ration you."
"One gram! For both of us! What?"
"You can't do that! That's sick!"
"Look how skinny you both are. You have to eat to regain your
strength." Neal and I protested vehemently. "It's only until you leave
here," Serge insisted. "Then you can do as much as you want. You must
eat.
 One gram a day between the two of us didn't last long at all.
"Oo, oo!" I exclaimed, struck with an idea. "Do you think we could put
coke in the I.V. bottle? Then it would go directly into my bloodstream ."
The notion intrigued them.
 W e w aited until the bottle was alm ost em pty. Then I stopped the flow
in the tube while Serge turned the bottle upside down and N eal mixed
some in with the glucose. When I started the flow again, there was an air
bubble in the tube.
"Oh, no. A bubble! Will this kill me if it goes in my vein?" "Don't
worry. It's too small."
The coke affected me immediately. A golden rush.
"Feel anything?"
"Oh, wow!"
W had to call the nurse when the bottle was finished.
"How did these air bubbles get in here?" she asked as she changed bottles.
W e shrugged our shoulders innocently .
They continued to give Neal and me glucose for three days and tried to
persuade us to eat as much as possible. The doctors prescribed vitamin
injections: one day calcium, one day vitamin B complex.
In the morning, Serge would drive away to fetch our daily gram. W 'd
be anxious to get him going so he could hurry back with the goodies. The hours
circled on forever as we waited restless and grumpy for his return. We then
sniffed up the one gram fast. By evening it would be gone.
But we did have great afternoons and even enjoyed the group of Goans
who came to pray, standing at the foot of our beds and aiming their song in
our direction. They ignored our laughter, our rolling eyes, our hand signals,
and the way I buried my head in the covers when my giggles grew out of
control.
A fter discharge from the hospital, we returned to the house in
Anjuna Beach and resumed our old routine, with one differencedaily
vitamin injection 3, one day calcium, one day vitamin B complex. Serge played
doctor. We'd bought intramuscular needles in Mapusa, and he provided Neal
and me with our cushy shots. If Serge was out when I remembered the injection,
Neal gave me mine and I gave him his. It was fun.
Then Serge ran out of coke. He'd sold us m ost of what he had and was
now left with none.
"Neal, could you sell me back half an ounce?" he asked.
"Remember my promise?" said Neal. "You told me not to let you do
anymore coke once you ran out. You made me promise."
One time, months before, Serge had made me promise not to allow him
do more than three fixes of coke. I'd agreed, and alter his third shot I took
away his syringe and hid it. What a drama! For two hours he did not stop
begging, whining, grovelling, and pleading for me to return his works so
he could do another hit. He drove me out of my mind, following me around
with clasped hands, "One more, please, one more." Good grief, what a
nuisance! After that I refused to be responsible for his drug dosages. Now it
was Neal's turn.
"Please. Sell me back a quarter ounce?" Serge said to Neal. "No."
"Okay, then one gram. One gram!"
"No."
"I'm out. You can't leave me like this."
"No."
"Pleeeeease. Then ju st let me have a few hits. I'll go out later and buy
my own from somewhere."
"No."
It went on and on. Neal would say no and move away. Serge would
follow begging, and whining.
"One hit, just one. You can let me do one hit. Please?"
He looked so sad. He seemed on the verge of tears.
"No."
I couldn't bear to see him suffer, so I made a secret sign for him to meet
me in the bathroom. I went first, and he joined me a second later. He looked
despondent.
"I have a bit left," I told him. "You can have some of my coke. Take your
works upstairs. I meet you there in a few minutes."
Neal's calling broke up our meeting, and we returned to the living room.
"What were you two planning in there?" Neal asked.
Serge collected his gear and climbed the stairs. Neal would ask such a
question. What was hethe Gestapo? As he was sprawled across cushions,
looking up at me through sheep-dog bangs, I blatantly followed Serge.
"Hey, where's everyone going?" Neal asked. "Can I come?"
Furiously I dashed up the last step and tried to slam shut the double doors.
The carpenter had done a m iserable job on those doors, though, and they
didn't fit together properly. They w ouldn't close. I kicked at them. Twice
they bounced back at me, but finally the edges connected and I quickly
fastened the metal bolt.
I jo in ed Serge in the bedroom . H e'd brought up one of the lam ps,
 and it caused grotesque shadows to wave across the saris hanging from the
ceiling. The room was bare except for the mattress in the middle of the floor.
I sat next to him and took out my stash.
He'd just found his vein with the needle when the explosion came. Terrified,
we looked at one another.
"What was that?" he mumbled through the tie in his mouth.
I felt pricks on my body and looked down to see spots of blood on
my arms and legs. Serge hurried to disgorge the contents of the syringe.
Then I noticed the glass stream over the mattress. At the next explosion,
we saw the rock. Serge saw it fly past my head.
"Neal's throwing rocks through the window!"
As I turned to see the broken holes, I shivered with fear. Serge and I
scrambled against the wall, frozen in uncertainty.
"He's lost his mind!"
"My windows! Eve got to stop him."
"Should we go down?"
As another rock sailed in, Neal's voice shouted up to us, "Hey, what are
you guys doing up there?"
That, at least, made him seem approachable, and I dared to yell down,
"Are you insane? You're destroying my house. Stop."
"Then come down."
Concern for the house overcam e my fear of the lunatic outside. I went
downstairs and sat in the living room. Serge followed.
"You broke my windows!"
"Well, I felt lonely down here by myself."
"How will I fix them? What am I going to tell Lino?"
"What were you two doing up there?"
"Nothing."
"Why couldn't I come?"
Serge took no part in the discussion and shortly fell asleep. That's what
always happened when he took a break from fixing cokehe fell right to
sleep, anywhere, anytime.
"You should have let me come with you," Neal continued. I glanced over
at Serge's sleeping form. How could he desert me at a time like this? "Or even
if you lo ck ed the door, I w ou ld n 't have com e up if you didn't want me
to."
"Oh, sure." I answered sarcastically. My heart still pounded from the sound
of it and I didn't seem able to slow it down.
 The argument went on and on. Apolon's roosters began their morning
ka-rock-a-doo, and Neal carried on still, and I still hadn't been able to calm
down. Neal sat too dose to me. He leaned even closer and questioned me. I
was furious at Serge. Look at him sleeping so peacefully.
"Stop already. Enough," I said, moving to the other side of the room. Neal
followed. "Leave me alone. I'm tired. I want to sleep." I lay down and
closed my eyes. Neal sat beside me. "Shhhhh. I'm sleeping."
He giggled. "You're not asleep yet. I keep you company till you fall
out. We didn't finish our talk."
"This talk is going nowhere." Again I moved, this time to a spot under
the platform. In a minute Neal was at my side with the glass block. SQUEAK,
SQUEAK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"Want a toot?" SQUEAK, SCRAPE, SCRAPE.
"No. I want to sleep." But of course I took the line.
I lay back down. Neal's voice went on and on, and I gave up trying to
sleep. "I CANT STAND THIS ANYMORE! I WANT TO BE ALONE!"
I grabbed my family-sized aspirin bottle, which had been full of coke but
was now almost empty, and went flying up the stairs. As I turned to slam
shut the doors, I saw that Neal wasn't following me, but my apprehension
didn't lessen. Frantically, I tried to connect the m ism atched doors. They
slammed against each other and swung open to crash against the wall. Neal
giggled hollow. I kicked again, and again they bounced back and slammed
against the wall. The crashing sound increased my panic. I threw my whole
body against the doors. Finally they connected. I shook so much it was
difficult to slide the bolt over. I ran to the bedroom to check the outside
door. Like the windows that faced the sea, it was boarded up against the
monsoon. A quilt of palm fronds was wired against the outside frame. If I
pushed the door real hard, I could see a silver of lightening morning sky. I sat
on the glass-covered mattress and snorted some of my stash. Sleep that's
what I needed. If only I could sleep. I lay on the bare mattress and tried to
ignore the glass fragments biting my skin. It was hot up there. I couldn't
sleep. I snorted more coke and prowled around. There was nothing up
there. Nothing. I was bored. I CAN'T STAND IT! My head raced
uncontrollably. When would Serge waltz up and rescue me? Too much
energy. There's too much energy in my hock. My body won't he still. Pin so
bored. GET ME OUT OF HERE. I want to sleep. If only I could find a few
Mandrax stashed under the mattress. The only thing under the mattress was
an empty Valium pack and a piece of hash. I turned the mattress upside down
to see if anything was hid me
beneath the carpet. An old fetter. I'm going crazy up here. I can't stay Acre.
And I can1 go downhe's there. I've got to get out. I looked again at the
weather-sealed door. Impossible to get out that way. I lay down and closed my
eyes. I paced. F rantic, I slam m ed at the boarded door. The bottom I
couldnt budge, but the top pushed out two meters. I had to get out. I had to. I
pulled over the carved statue I'd brought from Bali. Balancing on two toes, I
tried to squeeze my head through the opening at the top of the door. Panic
gave me strength. I stepped on the brass Krishna doorhandle and wiggled
my upper body through the palm-frond protection. My head was out! Clutching
my precious coke bottle, I managed to squeeze the rest of my bones out and
climb on the roof. Wow, daylight! I wasn't accustomed to such brightness. It
had stopped raining for the moment, but the clouds seemed only inches
above. No time. I had to get away. I had to flee. I crawled over the roof and
vaulted across to Apolon's roof. I hoped his family wouldn't investigate the
noise I made. I hoped N eal couldn't hear it. The tiles slipped beneath my
knees. I jum ped down and ran. The wet sand sprung from my fleeting
steps. U nfam iliar m orning flitted past me, thick and soggy. I ran. Past the
field. Past the buffalo. Past deserted porches. No one was behind me, so I
stopped! The dark-green plains waved against the dark-blue sky. How beautiful.
I gripped my treasure bottle dose and noticed my arm grim y grey streaks
against the dirty dress. Oh, my. So filthy! Look at the stains on this dress! I
ran. Past the Monkey chai shop. Past Saddhu George's. Up the steps.
BAM, BAM. I pounded on the door. BAM, BAM, BAM. "Sasha!
Sasha! Let me in!" BAM, BAM, BAM. "SASHA!" I hoped my friend was
still there. Weeks before. Serge had mentioned that Sasha was still in Goa,
trying to leave the monsoon. "SASHA!" BAM, BAM, BAM.
"Who is it?" a sleepy voice with an Austrian accent said at last.
"Sasha? Help, Let me in."
W hen he opened the door, I fell past him into the un illum inated room
and groped to hide somewhere. My hand took hold of a piece of material, and
I pulled whatever-it-was over my head. "Oh, thank you. Quick, lock the
door! I'm flipping out here."
"I can see that."
He closet' the door and swung open the wooden shutters to let in the
morning light. "What time is it?"
"Early. I'm sorry I woke you. It was an emergency."
The thing tthrown over my head turned out to be a shirt, and I moved
aside a hanging sleeve to peer out cautiously. Keeping one eye hidden, I held
 the sleeve under my chin. Sasha made no comment about my camouflagehe'd
probably done the same thing in his own bouts of Coke at neck. He sat beside me on
the mattress and turned to his smoking paraphernalia, which lay near the
bed. I waited patiently until he had hadafewbhongs. A person had to get his morning
dope before he could think of anything else.
"Want a bhong?" he asked eventually, placing the bamboo pipe in front of me. As he
held the match to the white powder, I closed my eyes and let the soothing drug fill my lungs.
Social amenities over, I explained, "Youre saving my life. I was flipping out."
"Feel better? Here, have another bhong."
"Thanks." I did feel a mite bettersafe enough to remove the shirt from my head. "I need
sleep. Id be fine if I could just sleep a little. Do you have any manthes? I have coke. 1trade you
some of this bottle for a few manthes."
Sasha's eyes popped when he saw the bottle. Everybody had smack Coke was a luxury.
Especially this time of the year, when most of last season's money had long since been
spent. He jum ped up.
"I should have a few somewhere." He tore through piles of junk Oil the
window ledge. Papers flew to the floor. A basket of jew ellery overturned.
"Here's a couple of Valium and one manthe. Wait, I'll find more." He searched under the
woven palm mat but found nothing. "Well, start with these at least," said Sasha "Maybe
something else will turn up."
After he handed me the four pills and a glass of yesterday's coconutjuice, he pounced on my
bottle. He could barely restrain himself and toll me, "It's been weeks since I've had a decent hit of
coke."
The few downs I swallowed were not going to do much, but at least it was a start I
felt better just being away from the house. Then I remembered. "My shot! My shot! I must
have my shot!" Sasha was absorbed in plunging coke throughhis syringe and barely heard me. "I
must have my vitamins. Let me think What did I have yesteaday? Was it the calcium? I can't
remember. Sasha, I need my shot"
"What?"
"I have a calcium deficiency from the coke. I have to take calcium and vitamin B shots.
WhatamIgomgtodo?Iheytebackatthehouse.''"Mmminmmmmm. "
"Sasha, clo you have calcium or vitamin B by any chance? I guess
 even calcium pills would be better than nothing. Sasha?"
" Uh, yeah. I have vitamin B3 ampoules somewhere. I'll have to look."
"Really? Great. W ill you give me the shot? I m ust have one every
day"
I waited for him to clean the syringe, and then he went searching once
more through the clutter.
"Here it is," he declared, handing me an am poule. "I don't have
another needle, though. Y oull have to use this one."
"Oh, but that's an intravenous needle. That won't work in the ass, will
it?"
"No. It's not long enough. I take it in the arm. It's not bad. Gives you a
neat rush. Sometimes I use the vitamin B instead of water"
"Are you sure you can take it that way?"
"I do it all the time. It even says so on the label."
I checked. He was right. It said good for intravenous or intramuscular.
Still, I was uncertain. Though I'd watched people stick needles in their arms,
I'd never had one in mine. But I needed the shot. Oh, well. I guess I didn't
have a choice.
"Okay. Will you do it for me?"
"Sure."
He broke the neck of the ampoule with a can opener and drew the vitamin
B3 into the syringe. I wrapped his tie around my arm and pumped my hand.
W atching others, I knew the vein had to be fat and ready. It was actually
exciting.
"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 jum ped 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 Im in." "Please,
no."
But the banging went on, and eventually Sasha rose to answer the door.
I threw my body on the m attress. "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 m aterial 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 inv side.
"I know what you need to make you feel better," Neal said. I heard him
ru s tle h is b ag an d tak e o u t h is g la s s b lo c k an d ra z o r b la d e . SQ
UEAK, S CRAPE, 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, 'v e 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 u n til I could rid m yself of the energy that seemed about to explode
from m y 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, am azed 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, th e n stop a m inute 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 com pletely 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 m ade m e lau g h . W e w ent to sleep in each o th e r's arm s.
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 DO N T WANT TO SEE YOU. I
HATE YOU."
Of course he w ouldn't go. He'd patiently wait out my tantrum, and after
a h alf 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 rem em ber again that I hated Neal.
Sometim es, 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 m orning I woke up alone in the living room. I guessed Serge had
woken early and left.
Then I stum bled on the note. It protruded from the m outh 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!
F rantically 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 roam ed 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 wrong, you know where to find me, the note said. W here? 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 fem ale. Fuck him. I w ouldn't even
consider tracking him down. Iran m ight be great if you could rid it of
Iranian men; until then, it w asn't the place to bunt for a runaw ay boyfriend.
No. Fuck him. Love Neal?
W hen 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 FA U LT 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
slam m ed the door with such force, the Goan across the way came to
her window. W hat 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 m eet me in Bombay?"
"GO
"Okay. Im 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 D O N T TRUST YOU. I LL N EV ER 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. W aves slamming
against the beach. Hey! I could feel the house shake from the force of
them. I could hear the thw ack o f rain hitting the roof and outer Walls.
W ater streamed down the window. I could hear that too. It was the quiet of
the house...The house was now silentan empty, dead silence. The floor
jo lted from another Herculean wave. Now it was ju st 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, tin 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 W ANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN."
I m oved farther into the house to get away from his words, hut 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 w ouldn't last the night. I had
dim flashlight tired batteries would also not survive till morning,
w as c o m p le te ly o u t o f w a te r, b e e n no ice fo r w e ek s, b u t one Coca-
Cola rem ained in the ice box. Not an encouraging picture. My drug
situation looked beak too. I had two grams of smack, a few tolas of d o p e , an d
n o t ah a w fu l lo t o f c o k e . 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. W ith 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.
W ould 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
answ ered when he'd said that? I couldn't rem em ber. 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 m yself into. Fucking Serge. Did he really
think I'd follow him to Iran? Was that where he m eant when he said I knew
where to find him? I had no idea. I m issed 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 didnt 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 tim e the light w ent out. The flashlight would
ju st about get me through the rest of the night if I was aw akened by an
unexplained noise and wanted to investigate.
Now what would I do in Bombay? I bad little money Left, Id 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. Id go West, make money, make m yself
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 m yself around
the world on my own. D idn'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 m yself together. As
I settled in for the ride, escaping the empty beach turned to hopeful
anticipation of the future. I was heading W est. 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. W here 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 m inute 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. W here 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
le a v e . It's c h e a p e r th a n p a y in g fo r y o u r ow n ro o m . B e g o o d . I
prom ise."
"I don't trust you. Come on. Give me two hundred rupees."
" I'll g iv e you th e m oney, b u t stay a w h ile. H ave a few lin es
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. 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 while 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 13 ampoules, the
Indian seemed to get the picture. He sm iled and nodded and m otioned 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, M ental 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.
Could it be?
I stretched out a hand to touch his back. He turned to me, surprised.
"You're not going to believe this," I said. "I don't believe this."
"What?"
I studied his face. "My goodness."
"What? W hat is it?" he asked.
"I can't understand."
"What?"
"I think I love you again."
He shook his bangs and smiled. "Oh."
I touched his hair. "Does this mean I always loved you?"
"I knew that." He giggled.
I wrapped an arm around his neck. "Was Serge right, then? I don't
understand anything."
The rest of that day, plus the two following clays, were wonderful. Neel
and I were together again. When he went out, I couldn't wait for him to
return. I jum ped on his skinny body every chance I had.
One day, w alking hand in hand past a traffic circle called the
Fountain, we suddenly remembered our old scam.
"AUNT SATHE!" I wailed. "We never found out what happened to Aunt
Sathe!"
We rushed down the block to American Express to check for mail. We
found a telegram from Aunt Sathe. A very distressed telegram. It had been
lying there a long time. "Oh, shit."
"What does she say?"
"It's from Bermuda. She doesn't know what's going on. Lila didn't show
up at the airport. She's going nuts thinking something happened to me. Oh,
no. Didn't we send a telegram to Bermuda?"
"Didn't we? I don't remember. We should have."
"Oh, poor Aunt Sathe. I feel terrible."
"We sent one to W ilkes-Barre. I remember that."
"She w asn't sure who was com ing, me or Lila. She m ust have
thought I'd been arrested."
 "I wonder what happened to Lila, then. Do you think she ran away with
our suitcases?"
"What a mess. I have to write Aunt Sathe right away. What do I tell her?"
He put his arm around my shoulder to comfort me, and we kissed in the
lobby of Am erican Express. Then we returned to the hotel to kiss, snort, and
shoot our vitamin B cocktail.
The next day we fought.
How had happened? We were finally alone together and in love we
shouldn't have been fighting. Why was he doing little things to make me
angry? W ith no Eve, no baby, and no paddy field to trudge across, he now
found other ways to provoke me. And when he'd have me furious, with a great
gulf between us, he would, as usual, seem satisfied.
He giggled and pulled at his beard. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE,
SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
This time there was no making up. The passing hours only made things
worse. Inevitably, when I'd soften, he'd manage to say something to renew
my wrath.
It was not going to work. It was not possible.
By midnight I couldn't stand it anymore.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Away. I can't bear this another minute."
"Don't go. I'll be good. I promise. I won't say another word, okay?"
But I knew him better than that. I left.
I went to Bentley's Hotel.
"Tee hee, you're crying," commented M ental when he opened the door.
I told him my sad tale and slept a bit in his armchair. Staying at the scruffy
Bentley signified hard times. Mental's finances had been dwindling in
Bombay as he attem pted to organize a trip to buy smack in Thailand and
sell it in the West.
"Smack's safer to carry than hash, tee hee," he told me the next afternoon.
"Powder is smaller in quantity and lighter. You make more money. If you're
looking for a run, look for someone with powder. Try the Birmingham
Boys."
"The Birmingham Boys! No, gross! They drink alcohol. About carrying
heroin . I don't know. You think I could do that?"
"The Birm ingham s aren't into booze anym ore. Now they're doing
smack. They're nicer than before. Really, tee hee, the Birmingham Boys are
mellowing."
 The phone rang.
"Hi there cutie," said Neal when I answered it. "You weren't easy to track
down." I didn't respond. "CleeeeeeeeOOOOO?"
"What do you want?" I asked coldly.
"Are you coming back?"
"Never."
"Don't be like that." He giggled. I didn't answer. "Then m eet me
somewhere. We can work this out."
"Its over."
"No, it's not. Come meet me. We have to talk." But I knew that's not what
would happen if we met. Knowing he couldn't see them, I let two tears run
down my face. "I love you," he continued despite my silence. "I want to be
with you. If I can't have you, though, I'll go back to Eve and the baby and
devote m yself to them."
My tears immediately dried up. I hung up on him.
W ithin moments the phone rang again. I answered it: "I don't want to
speak to you."
He laughed over the phone. "You don't like my mentioning Eve. I
d o n 't love her. It's you I w ant to be w ith. B ut they n eed -a baby needs
me. I love the baby. It's the only child I've ever had, probably will ever have.
I'm her father, and maybe at least I can do that right. I'll Stop the dope and
clean up. If I can't have you, go back to them. It's your choice."
I hung up.
I was miserable yet at the same time relieved. Fuck them bothNeal and
Serge. I was better o ff w ithout them. I'd have a great m onsoon on my own.
M aybe I would do a heroin trip. Make a packet of money. I'd show them all.

Ji *
-;@r :&
'it' yvv 'jj

"Sure, love," said Birmingham Bobby when I bravely knocked on his door
and asked for a job. "We can always use another runner." Gold jewellery
circled his neck, wrists, and fingers. He wore a gold Rolex watch and lit my
business-deal-sealing bhong with a gold D upont lighter. Not a drop of
liquor could he seen anyw here. W hile far from being a Freak, this
Birmingham Boy did indeed seem to have mellowed.
 Associating with the Birminghams was not my idea of success, but at least I was
taking a positive step toward something and, most important, removing myself from
Neal. The thought of transporting powder worried me less than the thought of
returning to him.
Later, while Neal ate ice cream at Dipti's, I put my bags out of his room at the
Ritz and into the Sea View Hotel with the Birmingham Boystwo
Birmingham Boys, Birmingham Timmy and Birmingham Bobby and their two
English girlfriends. I stayed in Bobby's room.
"Over there, love," said Bobby. "Park your body in the bed by the window.
Me and my bird sleep in this one."
Being with the Boys, I shared their stash and joined in their visiting; and the
dope and coke flowed nonstop from all directions. If the flow slowed, we visited
someone else. Crowds came to our room, too.
"Here, matt.," Timmy would say, opening his gold cigarette case and offering
hash joints to his guests. "You won't get better shit than this from nobody."
But, of course, what had happened to everyone else had also happened to
Timmy and Bobbyin the bustle of Bombay they had forgotten about business.
When two weeks went by, I started to have doubts about the scam. I heard no
mention of plans. No business conferences. No tickets or reservations. The Boys
played poker, socialized, and got high. Period. Yup, it was the old Bombay
Syndrome. When another week went by, I doubted anything would ever go down.
Sometimes I met with Neal on neutral territory, such as the hotel rooms of
Mental or Giuliano, one of the Italians at the Nataraj. I still loved Neal but
refused to return to the torture of being with him.
"When are you sending for Eve and the baby?" I asked him once in Giuliano's
room, where we were the only two speaking English.
"I'm waiting to hear from my connection in California," Neal answered.
CLICK, GUCK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. "I have to do business before I
do anything else. And I'm quitting the dope. Maybe I'll stop next month."
Neal hated the idea of my running for someone, especially the
Birmingham Boys. "I wish I could fund you in your own scam," he said, "but I have
money troubles myself at the moment." He giggled and our eyes met. I wanted
to touch his purple satin leg. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, but I
didn't. "Are you sure those Birmingham characters are okay?" he asked.
I nodded yes, lying. I didn't tell Neal the truth because I was afraid he'd
convince me to move back with him. No, I no longer felt the Birmingham
Boys were okay. Along with their Bombay Syndrome, they were developing Coke
Amuck.
Since the time Id moved in with the Boys, I'd be taking my up and-coming
 business venture seriously, but they hadn't. After the Taj salon had creme-
rinsed the knots out of my hair and I'd washed off the Goan red dirt, I'd been
sleeping every day and keeping reasonably sane. I realized that coke-bingeing for
long periods without sleep caused hallucinations and paranoia. While I'd geared
my brain for the scam at hand, though, the Birmingham Boys strove only for
pleasure. They seemed to have erased the financial endeavour from their
memories; but worse than that, as weeks went by, they seemed to have also
forgotten my role in their fives. They looked at me as if wondering what I was
doing in their rooms and why they were keeping me in food and drugs. A thorn in
their sidenot a rosy situation for me.
Then one day, Birmingham Bobby scored an ounce of smack and was so
coked-out he had trouble weighing it. He and Birm ingham Timmy must have
weighed the bag six times, and they came up with a different measure all the time.
They eventually decided that half of it was missing and that Bobby's girlfriend and
I had stolen it.
Oh, d ear. One sh o u ld n ev er be su sp ec te d o f rip p in g o ff a
Birmingham Boy. Especially not a Coke Amuck Birmingham Boy.
Finally, after weighing it a few more times, they decided they'd been
mistakennone had been stolen after all.
I was not reassured. By this time, my good sense told me that the scene
with the Birmingham Boys had soured beyond hope. If I were to do a heroin
run, I wanted to be certain there'd be no stupid problems somewhere. Heroin
could land you in jail for a long time. The Boys seemed so wired that even if
they put the scam in motion right away, I no longer had faith in them.
I made a decision. I had to escape the Birmingham Boysbut without going
back to Neal. Where could I go? Giuliano had mentioned he needed a runner for
his powder trip. Maybe I could work for him.
Coke Amuck had everyone watching everyone else suspiciously. Even the
Boys side-stepped around each other.
I waited till everyone was away from the hotel, then dragged my suitcase
across the corridor and plopped it down the stairs one step at a time. BUMP,
BUMP, BUMP. What a racket. I didn't want to take the elevator
for fear of running into a Boy. Meanwhile, heads popped out of doors at every
launcher I clattered passed. In the lobby I concealed the suitcase behind a
potted philodendron while I went to hail a cab. W hen I ran back to get the
case, the doorman looked askance at me as I accidentally broke a leaf from a
plant, maybe I had a touch of Coke Amuck myself? I leapt into the cab and hid
on the floor.
"Nataraj Hotel," I told the driver, who twisted back to peer down at me.
"Go. Go." I shook my hands feverishly at him. "Go!"
Fortunately, Giuliano still needed someone, and he welcomed me to the
spare bed in his double room. Whew! Safe from the B irm ingham Boys and
from Neal.

Giuliano was in the process of reconstructing a suitcase. His plan

entailed building the secret com partm ent to hold the smack, then going to
Thailand together to buy dope. Hiding the dope in the suitcase would be a
simple procedure, after which we'd fly to Europe. Meanwhile, the case sat
on a chair in the centre of the bathroom, occupying the entire space.
Giuliano kept it there so it wouldn't be spotted by the room -service waiters
whom he called constantly to the room . Tubes of glue formed stacks 00 the
toilet seat, lining material draped the bathtub, and tools lay scattered on the
sink and floor. Using the toilet required acrobatic feats, and baths had to be
taken in another room.
When friends came to the door in the continuous stream typical of
Bom bay, G iuliano gave them a tour o f the bathroom so they could admire
his craftsmanship.
"Shambo, man, how're you doing?" said Kadir when Giuliano opened to
his knock.
"Ciao, Kadir. Have you seen my suitcase yet? Come this way, I will show
you."
"Mm, very nice."
"Thank you."
W hen Kadir heard I was headed west, he suggested I take some of his
silver jewellery to sell for him. I would receive a percentage of the profit. I
agreed, and he returned later with five pounds of silver and ivory trinkets.
Giuliano worked on the suitcase every day. During periods of glue drying,
we partied. Though I made an effort to sleep every now and then, this activity
didn't interest Giuliano in the least. The flow of visitors continued nonstop,
twenty-four hours a day. When I felt I should no longer stay awake, I'd
swallow my magic dose of Valium and Mandrax and come into bed. Needless
to say, the bright lights never ceased glaring down at him, and no fewer than
two people sat on the edge of my bed at all times, In spite of everything, I
somehow managed to snooze a few hours a day.
"Morning, cutie," said Neal one evening as I awake from ti Tour-hour nap.
CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. I le headed me the glass
block. "Here's breakfast. Are you taking your vitamins?"
"Yeah, but in tablets," I answered. "Can't go through airports with
needles and a syringe. I'm gaining weight. Look at this arm. It doesn't look
like it came from Biafra anymore. M ust be the Peach M elba from room
service. How are you?"
Neal shook his hangs in the manner I found adorable. "Dandy," he said,
"but I'd be happier with you."
I knew I wouldn't be happier with him.
After another week in Bombay, Giuliano actually did buy tickets to
Thailand. Hallelujah! I'd begun to doubt any of us would get out of India that
year. Giuliano and I were m ore-or-less clean, and after I took the nose pin
out of my nose, we left together and sat together on the plane. How
exhilarating to land in Bangkok. I was actually doing something! And I'd
broken away from Neal!
I missed him terribly.
Upon our arrival, Giuliano and I split and went to different hotels. It
would be better if we weren't connected. The M alaysia Hotel was definitely
out too hot to do business from that place. N evertheless, Bangkok was
so full of Freaks that it soon became another party scene.
Thailand at that moment had political problems and was under martial
law. Anyone found on the streets between midnight and 6 A.M. would be
shot. At first I thought it would dampen the nightlife. But instead of everyone
going home early, we stayed out all night. A Goa Freak rented an apartment,
and it was packed with friends during curfew. Martial law's taboo time was
electric. In the hour before m idnight, we'd scramble to dress, leave, then
dash back to the hotel room at the last second for a forgotten object. In the
apartment we'd bump, shuffle, and bop while occasionally peering through
the curtain at the deserted street and the patrolling soldiers. Hey, martial
law was fun!
"Who has the mirror?" someone would ask.
"Over here. What's the soldier doing now?"
"Standing in the same spot. Picking his nose."
"Close the window! You're letting out the air conditioning."
 In the afternoon, i'd visit Giuliano. Time was passing, and again I seemed
to be stuck. No longer doing coke, Giuliano now spent his days smacked-out
and nodding off. He worried me. One had to be careful in Thailand. This was
not: India. Thais were strict about drugs. Serious penalties existed. Thailand
was one of those countries where, if they arrested you, you disappeared.
They were especially concerned with smack trafficking. If you were caught
with any quantity, you were executed within five days. No embassy could
help. There was no time to write a Senator.
However, by following basic guidelines, it was relatively easy to avoid
hassle. You had to act like a tourist. Simple. Carry a camera. Dive in the Pool
once a day. No problem. Then there were situations to be staunchly avoided.
M ost im portant: DO N O T HANG OUT ALONE IN YOUR HOTEL
ROOM ALL DAY AND ALL NIG H T. Only ju n k ies did that. It was
com m on know ledge that Thai hotel em ployees received bonuses for
reporting drug suspects. Loose tobacco in an ashtray, a cigarette filter lying
around, or, worst of all, a piece of cotton or a bent room -service spoon
forget it. Next thing, you knew, there'd be a knock on the door. These little
things could be w atched out for, though. All it took was a quick inspection
of the room before leaving and the barest awareness of appearances.
But Giuliano was not concerned with precautions. He never left his room.
Every time I went there it seemed I'd ju st woken him up. Often, he
ordered room service and let the waiter into a room that was so dark, the
waiter could hardly find a table on which to set the tray. In the middle of the
afternoon! And Giuliano never went to the pool. With his skin so pale, he
looked albino next to everybody's tans. He was skinny. He looked like a junky.
No question. Someone seeing him for the first time would never mistake him
for a tourist.
I, m eanw hile, had gam ed enough w eight to look like a normal person.
My period even returned. I must have been too debilitated in Goa to menstruate. I
also had enough sense to realize that the arrangement with Giuliano was
another bad one. Oh, no would I have to make another getaway?
Yes. HeroinI'd decided to carry heroin! I could not do that with a nut
case. Better to be adrift penniless in Bangkok than in jail. To continue to
associate with Giuliano was suicide. I had to disengage from him too.
I wondered how these nutty people succeeded in the Goa life when they
seemed disarrayed. Though periodically scatter beam ed, they reunited
from the monsoon to five like fat cats. How did they manage it? I didn't
ponder the question too deeply. I accepted the paradox as validating the
superiority of our chosen path. That's what I cherished m ost about the
Goa Freaks their abstract extremism. We were interesting, tolerant, exotic,
and lucky. We were the Goa Freaks.
But I knew I had to be careful and not be too wacky. I'd allowed
m yself to go Coke Amuck in the monsoon with Neal and Serge. Now I had
to consolidate my wits to protect my future. I had to take care of myself
and watch my step.
I moved to another hotel, a cheap guest house, and sent Giuliano a
message that I was out of his scam.
My third escape of the season: first from Neal, then the Birmingham
Boys, and now G iuliano. T errific a free person, but bankrupt in
Bangkok. What would I do for food?
Gould I sell K adir's silver?
I took to the streets with it. Alas, Thailand had its own hill-tribe
handicrafts, and nobody cared much for my wares. One sidewalk vendor
bought two rings. Another made a lengthy exam ination of every item
before deciding he wasn't interested. When I returned to the guest house, I
discovered three earrings and an ivory Ganesh had been stolen.
Free but hungry, I worried for another week.
Then I met Canadian M itchell, a Goa Freak I h a d n 't know n b efo re. I
had recently arrived in Thailand and shared a room with, surprise,
G iuliano. I le too was planning a smack run and said Giuliano was helping
him build his suitcase.
"You're staying with Giuliano!" I exclaimed. "You'd better watch out. He's
not sane these days."
"I know. As soon as he finishes the case, I'm out of there."
M itchell needed a runner to take the case to Canada. He said he'd give
me ten thousand dollars. GreatI had a job again!
Another surpriseM itchell was ready to go within days. We met at the
airport to exchange luggage and were soon airborne. Since the world
recognized Thailand as a drug depot, we figured it would be safer not to fly
west from there. We went to Sri Lanka.
 Sri Lanka Im m igration. Sim ilar to India's but worse. Total ch ao s. The
m ass o f arriving passengers bunched around two Immigration officers, with
no organization whatsoever. I had to push through the heaving crowd to show
the Immigration officer my luggage and then accom pany
him back to his desk so he could stamp my passport. M itchell and I had flown
together and sat side by side during the flight, but once we landed we
pretended we'd never seen each other before. I almost had a problem when the
Immigration officer wanted to see money. You had to declare a certain amount
before being allow ed to enter the country. I had zero rupees and zero
dollars. Somehow, I m anaged to signal M itchell as I pushed my way
through sweaty bodies (no air conditioning, of course). He slipped me a
wad of hundred-dollar bills, and the officer sm iled through this gold teeth
as he stamped me in.
We stayed at the Sheraton while we planned our next move entering
Canada.
"Out-of-the-way airlines have nifty flights," I said. "They stop over in
tiny countries you've never heard of. They're also the cheapest."
"W ell, let's look at this m ap and see w here w e're going," said
Mitchell.
"I'd like to stop somewhere, anyway. It doesn't cost more, and the
country's stamp will look good on my passport, make me seem like a
touristespecially some little country that's never heard of drugs."
"First we should find out which airlines go through Sri Lanka. There aren't
many."
"Oops, I hadn't thought of that. Aw, probably only Air Ceylon, and that's
it."
"I saw an Aeroflot office on our way in."
"AEROFLO T!" I shrieked. "The R ussian airline. I w ant to go
through Russia! 'I7hat's it! That's it! That's the one! Perfect! I've been dying
to see Moscow. I can't wait."
"Don't get exited yet. We have to see how the flights go."
"No, no, it's perfect. For sure flights leave Moscow for everywhere. And
coming from Russia, the last thing the Canadians will look for is dope. A.
Communist maybe, but dope never! Oh, how wonderful!" I jum ped on the
bed and started hopping up and down. I jum ped to the next bed and then to
a stuffed chair and back to the bed.
"Quit it, will you?" said Mitchell. "You're messing up my bed. Jump on
your bed, why don't you."
I sang, "I'm going to Russia wu wu Russia ... "
 "Cool it. We have to check it out first."
It checked out fine. Not only was it the cheapest flight, smuggler wise
it was the best strategy. Who would check me for drugs disembarking from
M oscow? As I'd anticipated, the route to Canada called for a two-day stop
over in Moscow. Yowee, I was going to Russia.
We didn't stay long in Sri Lanka. Mitchell still had most of his marbles,
and he realized that every day on the road m eant m ore o f our import
business was inhaled. Between me and M itchell, we consumed over two
grams of dope a day.
Soon, I was once again dressed in the boring-beige outfit, with my hair
teased two Inches above my head, a dumb bag over my wrist, silk stockings,
pearl earrings yeck! Somehow, though, that look brought approving nods
from ticket clerks, pilots, stewardesses. Those people had no taste.
had no problem anywhere. The nice Russian Customs man gave me
no trouble. Oh, boy Russia! A eroflot lodged me at the Intourist Hotel in
the centre of Moscow. I arrived late at night and couldn't wait for morning
to go exploring. I had to keep my hair in the bird's nest, so I slept carefully.
As soon as I awoke and had a snoot, I left the hotel.
But Moscow was no fun (was it because of my hair?). I found it tense and
frustrating. Accustomed to being fawned over as a foreigner, I was unnerved
that everybody was dose to rude. Gee, I only asked for help with minor
things! Where can I buy postcards? How many stamps do I need? W hich
way to the Red Square? Everyone I beseeched for this secret information
seemed harried, irritated, and impatient. They seemed to be hurrying with
im portant things to do. I'd heard about a famous department store and
headed for it with a pocketful of rubles. It was big and impressive, but what
impressed me most about it were the lines. To buy anything, one faced a
line of twenty or thirty people. Nobody spoke to me anywhere, and I didn't
see anything vaguely resembling a Freak or a hippie. Russia was a bore. Not
disappointed to leave for the airport, I disposed of my rubles in a tourist shop.
I had no problem entering Toronto. As usual I received a pass-through
card and, POOM, I was stamped into Canada. A successful drug smuggler once
again. Now a heroin smuggleroh, how exciting!

I found M itchell waiting outside the doors of the baggage area. I

stayed overnight in his hotel room, and the next day we went to Iris connection,
known in Toronto as the Jewish Connection. Jewish Connection was living in
his parents' high-rise while they were away somewhere. He told me I'd receive
my money in a few days, as soon as enough dope had been sold. Before
M itchell dropped me off at a hotel near Young Street, he presented me with a
stash.
 I had a colour TV and ten dollars worth of American candy, plus a soda
machine and an ice machine down the corridor. What more could anyone
want? I popped a peanut-butter cup in my mouth and turned on "The
A ddam s F am ily."
When I didn't hear from anyone by the next night, I called Jewish
Connection.
".Mitchell's out of the city," he said, "and I don't have money for you yet.
I'll let you know when I do."
I didn't want to be a pest, so I decided to wait as long as I could
before calling again. Two days later I ran out of dope. I had to call. The phone
rang and rang. No answer! After a few hours of trying every fifteen minutes
or so, I panicked. I was out of stash! Oh, no! Help! I drove the hotel operator
bananas calling over and over. By the time Jewish Connection answered the
phone, very late that night, I was sweating and freezing.
"I don't have your money yet," he said.
"That' what I'm calling about. Im sick."
He sighed and there was a pause. "Okay. Come by in the morning." "I
can't wait that long!"
He grunted. "Okay. Come now."
The taxi took forty m inutes to reach the out-of-the-w ay apartm ent
long enough for me to worry about the situation. W here had M itchell
gone? Was he going to disappear on me? W hat if no one answered the
door when I got there?
Jewish Connection did answer the door. I alm ost fell into the room in
relief. After a few snorts, I asked about Mitchell.
"He left the country."
"Oh ... W hen can I get my money?"
Jewish Connection's voice dripped with impatience. "As soon as I get it. I
told you I'd let you know."
"I can't wait here forever. I'm going to be sick again."
"Here, take this packet, but that's it," he said, herding me toward the door.
"I can't support your habit. I call you, okay?"
I waited another few days, until the last speck of powder ran out, and then,
an anxious wreck, I called again. Canada was no longer tutti-frutti.
"Tomorrow afternoon," Jewish Connection said, his words slow and
precise and bursting with annoyance.
"I can't wait that long."
 "Tomorrow afternoon, take it or leave it." "Alright."
I considered calling Esther in M ontreal but discovered I didn't have my
address book. By the time I was en route to the apartm ent, my legs were
killing me. I alternated between sweating to the point of dehydration and
shivering with goose bumps. I didn't like it one bit. I worried again whether
anyone would be there when I arrived. I wanted to shoot Mitchell.
Jewish Connection answered the door. "I have some money for you, but
I'm not giving you any more dope."
. "Please, I'm DYING! Look at there goose bum ps."
He made a face but went into the other room. He came out with a
little supply. "But this is IT." He gave me five thousand dollars. "You'll have
to wait for the rest," he said. I was overjoyed to receive that mach. I'd
started to doubt I'd ever get anything. "I'll call YOU when I have more,"
he added.
My spirits soared. I was no longer sick. And I had money!
F irst, I w anted to tell my friends everything had w orked out.
Actually, I should now help those who'd not been so fortunate that monsoon
that was the Goa Freak way. As soon as I returned to the hotel, I sent two
telegram s one to N eal and one to M ental, both in care of Dipti's in
Bombay. Both telegrams said the same thing, if they still needed money to
put a trip together, I could send two thousand dollars. I included the phone
num ber of the hotel.
Then I w ent shopping. I bought clothes and took a stroll down
Young Street. Nightspots lined the sidewalk. Perhaps I'd go out later and
mingle with the natives. I also needed a way to score dope. How ridiculous.
I'd had a pound of it only clays before.
On a comer I found a headshop. Goa Freaks loved gadgets, and at the
start of each season they fussed over the latest inventions brought from the
West. Odd smoking hardware made great gifts. The colourful bhongs in the
headshop window caught my eye. In India the Freaks used bamboo bhongs to
smoke smack; here I beheld plastic ones in creative designs. Apparently
bhongs were coming into style in the W est for smoking marijuana.
I left the store loaded with packages. W ait till the Anjuna gang saw my
red ceramic Buddha bhong! The bowl sprouted from the Buddha's fat belly.
Later that night I went to the Gaslight, one of the clubs I'd passed that
afternoon. I recognized the regulars right away. Instead of sitting at
tables, they hang out in the hack. Those were the people I had to meet.
Nobody would know where I could find a dealer.
Oh, look at that blonde. Exquisite! His face was perfect. What a nose.
I positioned m yself among the regulars, leaning against the back
benches the way they did. I spoke to a Person or two, not Perfect Blonde,
though. He was so perfect I could only watch him from afar and let my eyes
h o n o u r the form o f his pale yellow No one p ick ed up on my gentle
questions about drugs. After a few hours I suspected I was in the wrong kind
of club.
When I accidentally found myself next to Perfect Blonde, I felt so
overwhelmed it took me ten minutes to smile at him. He barely acknowledged
me. A while later I tried again. "Um. Excuse me," I said. He didn't turn
around. I tugged at his suspenders. "Yoo hoo." Ugh, that wasn't what I'd
wanted to say. He half turned in my direction. I stepped closer to him.
"Um. Do you know where I can score, by any chance?" That wasn't what
I'd wanted to say either.
He faced the dance floor. For a mom ent I thought he'd ignore me, but
finally he said, "Maybe. I might know someone who could sell you a lid."
"Ah ... no, not marijuana. I'd like to buy smack."
"That stuff? No." Still looking away from me, he shook his head.
"Nothing like that."
Uh! I felt his disapproval. Anyone who looked as healthy as he did could
only disapprove. Stupid me. Why had I mentioned it? He gazed at the
dancing forms with a crinkled mouth. Now he hated me. We spoke no more
during the next two minutes, and then he moved off without a farewell.
All was not lost, however; I did manage to find a dealer at the club. The
dealer didn't hang out at the rear but sat at a table. He too was blonde and
nice-looking, but we united on business terms only. He didn't have anything
on him, and we made an appointment for the following afternoon in the same
place. Terrific. Just terrific. I returned to the hotel satisfied with the night's
accomplishments.
The next morning I received a collect call from Bombay.
"Hello? Tee hee."
"Mental? Mental! How's it going?" "I just got your telegram. Tee hee, thanks."
"No problem. Everything line there?"
"Well, tee hee, you know there's trouble with Giuliano, don't you?"
"Giuliano! No. What kind of trouble?"
"You don't know? He's after you. He's angry."
 "At me? I don't understand. W hat happened?"
"I can't explain now. I tell you when I see you. He hasn't caused
you trouble there? That's good, tee hee."
"What? Mental, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later. Just be careful. Tee hee, you gonna send me the
money?"
W e m ade arrangem ents for two thousand dollars to be sent to
Thomas Cook's. When I hung up the phone I was uneasy. Why would
Giuliano be after me? Why was he angry?
C aution got the b e tte r o f me and, after I cabled the m oney, I
checked out of the hotel and into another one using a different name.
Since I was now in America, I didn't have to show my passport to register, and
since I was paying cash in advance, I didn't need identification. What kind of
trouble could Giuliano cause?
W hen I went to the G aslight Club to m eet Dealer, it was still daylight.
My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark interior of the club, and I banged my
hip against the comer of an unplugged cigarette machine. When I finally
got my night vision going, I saw chairs hanging upside down from tables.
A vacuum cleaner sat in the centre of an aisle, and there was no one in
sight. Oh, no. Was this how we were supposed to meet? It didn't seem a
subtle way to make a drug transaction.
W ith no place to sit, I stood by the door. I h alf expected to be
throw n out as soon as som eone saw me. B ut there was no one. No
Dealer, either.
Even after he was a half hour late, I hated to give up and leave. He'd been
the only contact I'd made and I'd soon be out of dope again. I continued to
wait. W hen Dealer came through the curtained opening from the street, he
walked right into me, treading on my feet.
"Oo. Hey, is that you?" he asked. "I'm sorry. I couldn't see. Are you
okay?" I was okay and very relieved. "Here, let's sit," he said, pulling a
chair off a table and setting it on the floor.
He didn't have anything on him, but we talked a bit, and I toll him who I
was and what brought me to Canada. Then we walked to his nearby
apartment, and he turned Inc on to his personal-use dope. He said he
wouldn't have a gram to sell me until that night. Feeling expansive I also
asked for a gram of coke. Why not? I was a successful drug smuggler,
wasn't I? M ight as well give it up. The prices were exorbitant. Well, just
this one buy of coke. We arranged to meet later at the club.
Perfect Blonde didn't come near me that night didn't even look my
way. But I wasn't interested in the club people anyway. I spent the hours
watching the door for Dealer. He hadn't given me a time. He'd just said
"tonight." As it got later, the club filled, and I had to keep moving out of
people's way. Where was Dealer?
When he finally arrived, again he had nothing on him, and I had to go
with him to score the smack. This was getting to be a pain.
It cost five hundred dollars for one gram of smack; in Goa it cost
fifty. Outrageous! By the time I had the powder in hand, I was exhausted
from the effort of acquiring it. The coke wasn't available yet.
By the next afternoon I'd sniffed away the whole weak gram. This was
a drag. I was also still concerned about what Mental had said. Just speaking to
Mental on the phone wasn't cool either. Maybe someone had been listening at
one end or the other. Had my cab from the other hotel been follow ed?
M eanw hile, if N eal tried to call me, he'd be told checked out. Oh, well.
M aybe not hearing from Neal right away meant he'd left Bombay. Anyway,
with my costly expenses, it didn't look as if I'd have money left to send him.
Extra cautious, I checked out of that hotel too and into one a few
blocks from the Gasfight Club. Yet again I invented a new name for
myself. I called Jewish Connection to let him know the new phone number.
He had no news for me. He would call me.
I went to Dealer's apartment early to score more dope. Eek, this was
costing a fortune, and it took more hours of running around to finally get it.
"You're wasting so m uch by snorting it," D ealer advised me. "It
would last you longer if you shot it."
The only times I'd fixed anything was the vitamin B shot with Sasha and
the vitamin 13 and cocaine shots with Neal. I didn't like the idea of doing it
here. Somehow, being in the East had made those occasions less junky-like.
Everything there was exotic and special.
I made a face at Dealer's suggestion. "Yeah, w e ll. . . In any case, I only
have one vein. " The more I considered it, though, the better it sounded,
really lasts, longer? It would make it stronger? W ell, okay. Why not. Can
you do it for me?" It WAS exciting. "Did you hit the vein?" I yipped
nervously as the needle pricked my arm. "Are you in?"
But I didn't feel anything. What a disappointment.
"I guess I didn't give you enough," said Dealer. "Next time I'll use
more dope."
The coke he wouldn't have till later that night.
Again, I spent the time at the club watching the door for Dealer's
appearance. None of the people who spoke to me interested me in the
least. I just wanted my drugs. God, did I hate waiting! When Dealer did
arrive, it was only to tell me he hadn't gotten the coke yet.
"I can't stand waiting here any longer," I told him, frustrated. "I
could bring it to your hotel," he proposed.
" W e ll. . . okay." Discouraged, I despaired he'd ever come through with
the goodies.
Surprise! Not long after I arrived in the room, he delivered. He also
brought a few friends. And had invited more. Pretty soon I had a party. I
recognized people from the club.
Hey, this was great! Others also had stashes, and a cosy gay-together
developed with dozens of people crowding in. Wow, I felt like part of the
Toronto scene. E specially with the expensive hotel room my guests
treated me like a V.I.P.
And then, big surprise! Perfect Blonde turned up. I could tell he was
impressed, too. He didn't do any smack, and I could sense he was against it,
but he had a hit of coke and positioned him self next to me on the bed. I
made sure he kept near me, and he didn't seem to mind. I inched closer to
him. A fter a while our shoulders touched. His arm had such a nice slope.
Those light blonde hairs! I smiled at him.
By morning, people started to leave. Perfect Blonde stayed. He was still
there when everyone had left. Then, with sunlight streaming on the bedspread,
we made love without taking off our shoes. OOOO, Perfect Blonde! After all
that time he'd ignored me! Ooo, 000, Perfect Blonde.
Over room-service scrambled eggs, we discussed the expense of hotel
living. "I five outside Toronto on a farm," he told me. "A bunch of us share
a house."
"I always wanted to five on a farm."
"You can come visit, if you want. Or you can stay there. That way you
won't have to spend money for a hotel."
Stay there? Had Perfect Blonde invited me to five with him? I couldn't
believe it. "I can stay with you? Really? That would be fantastic."
 Perfect Blonde didn't work, and I wasn't sure what he did for money.
When he asked to borrow fifty dollars, I thought he wouldn't have trouble
living off women who'd be thrilled to support him. On our way out, I stopped!
at the hotel's safety deposit box and gave him the fifty.
"I'll pay you back in a day or two," he said. "I hate to borrow."
I didn't mind. I doubted I'd get it back, but he was worth it. And I was
going to five on his farm for free, wasn't I?
We arranged to meet that night at the club. Meanwhile I needed to
purchase more dope. It was a good thing to be moving out of the hotel.
Between that and the dope, I'd soon be broke.
I spent the afternoon on D ealer's doorstep, waiting for him. Ho
hum, humdrum, growl, growl, growl. Using drugs in the West was definitely
annoying. When Dealer finally showed up I asked him to fix me again.
"How soon should I feel something?" I inquired when it was over.
"You still didn't feel anything? I gave you a lot that time. You have a
habit, lady."
I sighed. "Oh, well, I guess if it just prevents me from getting sick, it'll
have to do till I return East."
I left to m eet my new love, Perfect Blonde. Would he be there? Had he
really meant I could stay on his farm?
Yes. Perfect Blonde entered the club after I a.m. He helloed his way
through the crowd, found me, and asked, "All set?"
He had a beautiful red Sports car. What a match with his blonde pair.
After collecting my luggage it took two hours to drive to the farm. Farm? It
looked like a regular-sized house to me. No one was awake when we arrived.
Perfect Blonde carried my suitcase and led me, whispering, through a
h allw a y and up some stairs. The second-floor landing was small and
narrow and confirm ed my im pression o f "just a house." He opened a door
and led me to a tiny room barely wide enough for the mattress on the Floor,
which was all it had.
We slept most of the next day and awoke in time for dinner. In the
living room, I met five others who lived there. More people came and
went, and I was never certain who lived there, who was visiting, or who was
with whom.
I didn't know how I was supposed to fit in. A few of them cooked the
meals together. Was I supposed to help? Meals weren't my thing. I decided to
 act like 2 guest. They were polite and friendly.
Uh-oh. I spotted a round red thing being chopped. Egads a tomato. Of
course. I should have realized they'd eat vegetables on a farm. Oh. wellit
might be better this way; if I couldnt eat the food, no one would. I expect me
to cook it or wash up after it.
We sat around a wooden fable in the kitchen, and everyone thought it
an oddity that I didn't eat vegetables. I had a slice of pum pernickel bread,
and someone found me salami. It was tres countryish. At the end o f the m eal
they took out a bhong used exclusively for marijuana and discussed, at
length, the quality of Panama Red and Acapulco Gold. I groaned inwardly
as they recounted a groovy high they'd experience once on grass brought
from Tijuana. Oh, please!
Now I had a different problem. I had to return to the city to score
dope. I hoped Perfect Blonde didn't plan on staying at the farm for days. It
was an okay place to sleep, but I didn't want to spend all my time there.
"We can go into town if you want," he said. "Or we can hang out
here."
"I'd like to go in. I have to see someone."
I told him about needing smack.
"Are you addicted?" he asked.
"In India it's practically legal. You should seeopium dens on every
comer. Here there's only garbage dope."
I told him my vocation.
"PROFESSIONAL DRUG SMUGGLER?" he exclaim ed. "A rent you
afraid of being arrested? That's a serious crim e."
"IT SHOULDNT BE A CRIME!" I shouted emotionally. Perfect
B londe's rem ark unleashed a tirade, spurred by feelings I'd been holding in.
I hated how it felt to be a smack user in the West, very different from in the
East. "Drugs shouldn't be against the law! Look at this arm," I wailed, "it's
full of holes! That's what happens when you make it illegal! It becomes
impossibly expensive! That's why people rob and mug. Only the M afia benefits
from those stupid laws. Those laws make gangsters rich! And gangsters don't
care what they cut their product with! The result is garbage dope that people
com m it burglaries to afford and gives their arms full of needle holes! Now,
that's the crime!"
I believed drug laws were evil evil structures that made evil people rich
and condemned innocent users and independent entrepreneurs like myself to
the status of law-breakers.
 W hen we drove to town, I left Perfect Blonde at the club w h ile I
went to D e a le r's . W e re tu rn e d to the farm at the com pletion of my
errand.
 It soon became apparent that farm life wasn't for me. Talking to the
residents didn't please me in the least. Not my types. And what was there to
(10 on a farm? It wasn't a real farm, anyway. No crops, no animals. What
kind of farm was that? Ugh, and I didn't want to sit through more of these
dinners, either.
No, not for me the country. Driving into town every day was a hassle. By
the time we got going I would already feel sick. Since I'd be anxious about
scoring, I couldn't be charm ing. Poor Perfect, he didn't deserve my
irritability. I wouldn't feel like conversationju st GET ME TO THE CITY!
And the cash was almost gone. This couldn't go on. I called Jewish
Connection.
"I still don't have your money," he said. "You have to wait." "I
can't."
"I'll tell you what. I can probably give you your five thousand at the end
of the week, but if you want, I'll give you four thousand today instead. But
then that will be it. Five thousand next week or four thousand today."
W hat a choice! I would spend a thousand dollars for two days of dope.
I accepted.
I bought a couple of grams from D ealer and m et Perfect with the news
that I was leaving Toronto. We spent one more night at the farm (ugh!), and
the next morning Perfect drove me to the train. He even paid back the money
he'd borrowed.
I couldn't wait to say goodbye to Canada. Even New York had to be
heuer than that. Half a day later, I arrived at Grand Central Station and taxied to
Momsy's. It was great to see her, and we chatted excitedly for a while.
"Oh, Momsy, I wish you could see my house in Goa. I have a safe
behind a picture, a Laotian wedding canopy over my bed, and my toilet
flushes. Stairs .. "
"You didn't notice," she said, pouting and waving her arm in a peculiar
fashion.
"What?"
"My new ring! How do you like it?" She see-sawed her hand. "Onyx and
diamonds in gold."
That evening I pondered the problem of finding a dope connection in
New York. I needed one fast. What if I couldn't contact the guy who'd helped
me last time? Uh-oh!
"I forgot to tell you," came M omsy's voice through the door of the
 bathroom, where I sat rationing myself a sniff of dope. "You had a phone call
last night. That's why I wasn't surprised to see you. I knew you couldn't be a
liar."
"Who was it?"
"MENTAL!" I flew Out of the bathroom. "Oh, Momsy. This is
important. Mental is here! Where? Oh, please say you know where."
"I have his phone number."
"Oh, Momsy. You saved my life! Where's the number? Where's the
number?"
I called im m ediately. The num ber was of a hotel. I asked for the name
Mental had given Momsy.
"Hello? Tee hee."
"Mental! I can't tell you how glad I am to hear your voice. I'm desperate
here, you have no idea. Im dying to see a fellow Goa face." I told him I'd be
on the next flight to L.A. Saved!
I kissed Momsy and told her I was sorry I couldn't stay longer. I call Aunt
Sathe. I'd already written her an apology for stranding her in Bermuda. I still had
no clue about Lila's disappearance, and I didn't want to hear the details of
Aunt Sathe's harrowing journey. Within hours I was airborne.
M ental had given me the name of a hotel near his. As I taxied from the
airport, I dreamed of a snoot of real dope. I couldn't wait. I'd inhaled my
last crum b on the plane and fervently hoped M ental would be in his room
when I called.
He was. I leapt on him as soon as he entered my door. "MENTAL! I've
never been so happy to see anyone in my life!" I kissed him hello. "Got any
dope? I'm dying!"
"Tee hee, of course. You paid for it. Comes from Chiang Mai."
"You can't imagine the garbage I had in Canada," I told him, "and it was
probably the dope I'd brought in myselfcut three times. I low discouraging.
Oh, heaven! This tastes so good. Tell me about Giuliano."
"Giuliano's out to get you for ripping him of. He ... "
"RIPPING HIM OFF? I did not!"
"That's what he says. Tee hee, said you took his suitcase."
"That's RIDICULOUS! I hadn't even SEEN G iuliano for weeks before
I left Bangkok. How could I have taken his case? I had Mitchell's case."
"Tee hee, then maybe Mitchell took Giuliano's case. Somebody took it."
 I gasped. "Mitchell and Giuliano shared a hotel room. Mitchell must have
taken Giulianos case and told me it was his. But I had no idea."
"Tee hee. Whatever. G iuliano's upset. He's blaming you."
"I would never rip him off!" f
"Don't worry about it. Tee hee, there's not much he can do."
M ental considered me a partner. I hadn't realized when I'd seen him the
money that I was investing in a scam. To me, I was helping a friend. But I
certainly needed help myself at that moment. If I'd had another few days of
the way I'd been spending money, I couldn't have afforded the airfare hack
to India. Here was a Goa friend treating me like a partner in his successful
scamneat-o.
He left me a generous stash, and we planned to meet the next day.
It wasn't long, however, before I realized things wouldn't be so easy.
Mental wasn't called Mental for nothing.
The next day, the two of us set out to prepare our product. Since
M ental had carried the dope into the country stuffed up his ass, it had
compacted into cylinders as hard as rocks. Each one had been encased in
several layers of condoms, and while he'd already disposed of the outer layer
(thankfully), each cylinder was still sheadied in two rubbers. Mental spread
newspaper on a table, and we began to unwrap our treasure.
"Don't you have something better than newspaper?" I suggested.
"Tee hee, it'll clo."
"W hat if th e pow der absorbs ink? Nobody will want inky black
smack."
"Don't worry about it. Man! This stuff is really hard."
I poked at the oblong roll of powder Mental had freed from its rubbers.
It was impossibly hard. "This is like granite," I said. "I can't believe your body
took our nice soft heroin and turned it into sleet balls. How long did it
spend inside you anyway?"
"Tee hee, eons. I drank a bottle of diarrhoea medicine to make sure I
wouldn't have to shit."
I laughed loud. "How much time was it that you didn't go to the
bathroom?"
"A lOOOOOOOOng time. Maybe a week."
As each load came out of its rubber package, it maintained its shape
exactlywe had eight white forms, each in the exact shape of a turd. I fell
sideways on the carpet laughing. "Wasn't that uncomfortable?" I asked.
"You're telling me! I couldn't wait to crap. Tee hee, that's all I
dream ed about on the flig h t in . . . " I bent double w ith laughter as
M ental continued. "As soon as I got to the hotel I ate a box of Ex-Lax. Most
have spent five hours on the toilet the next day. W hat a relief, tee hee. Aren't
you going to help me with this?"
Barely able to sit up, I looked again at our concrete-like product. "I think
it's petrified." My next guffaw New a dost cloud from the turd ball nearest
me, and I fell to the carpet in hysterics again.
Now M ental laughed too. "It took a day to clear the stink from the
bathroom ," he said. "No wonder the maid forgot to clean the tub. Tee hee,
I bet the people next door moved to another floor."
M irth soon left me, though. "We have a real problem here," I said.
"This stu ff isn't crumbling like it ought to. It's remaining turd-shaped."
"People like rocks," said M ental. "That m eans it's pure. M aybe
they'll like it better this way, tee hee."
"These aren't rocks, they're boulders. And they're shaped like shit."
"Yeah, and we have to make it powder to cut it." He retrieved a shoe from
under the bed.
"Uh-oh. W hat are you going to do with that? No, no . . . M ental, w ait
. " I jum ped as M ental slam m ed the heel onto a tu rf-ball. "NO .. . " The
ball shattered into pieces, spraying fragm ents in all directions. "No, M ental
... The dope's flying away, and not with your dirty shoe "
BAM. "It's working, tee hee, see?" BAM.
"You're losing too muck
"It's okay." Mental folded the newspaper over the dope and whacked it
again. The newspaper ripped, and our precious smack spewed off the table
into the rug.
"Wait! At least let me find a plastic bag. Maybe there's a shower cap in
the bathroom
Eventually I limited him to gentle taps, and an hour later we had the stash
in more-or-less powder form. We spent the rest of the afternoon digging bits
out of the carpet and snorting layers off the curtain and nearby furniture.
"Now we have to weigh it," said Mental.
"Do you have a scale?"
"No, I guess buy one tom orrow. I'd like to know how m uck is
here, though . . . Maybe I can weigh it somewhere . . . Tee hee, maybe a store
 "A store? W hat are you going to do, go in and ask to borrow their scale
so you can weigh your heroin?"
"There's a heaIth-food place around the comer. Let's go."
 I wasn't sure what he had in mind as I followed him out of the hotel.
"Mental, what exactly are you planning?"
"Youll see."
At the health-food store. Mental strode briskly down the aisle. He
circled a vitamin counter, peering this way and that, picking up packages of
seeds, and scrutinizing the other entities.
"I don't see what you can possibly do here," I said as he peered over the
top of a display. "Let's get out of here."
"Tee hee, there's a scale at the end there."
"That's for weighing produce, and it's in the middle of the store. You can't
use that!"
"Why not, tee hee." He marched to the scale and plopped his see-
through plastic bag of heroin right on it.
"MENTAL!!" I rushed to his side and tried to block the sight with
my body, but there were people on all sides of him. "Are you insane?"
"Shhhh. just watch for shoppers. Tell me when someone comes."
"Comes? They're already here. There are people all around you."
"Seven ounces and a little more."
"Okay. Now put it away and let's go."
"Tee hee, one more minute . " He left the powder on the scale and went
to tear a plastic bag from the vegetable display.
"Oh, no . M ental, no! Someone will see you!"
He came back and proceeded to measure an ounce into the vegetable bag.
I thought I'd the. I looked frantically at the other shoppers, but no one
seemed unduly concerned that we were weighing something. "Will you
hurry up?!"
"I'm alm ost finished." He poured more in and used a nut scooper from
the nut display to scoop some out. "Now I need something to cut it with. Tee
hee, where's the sugar?"
I was relieved to see him leave the scale, but my alarm grew again as I
spied him tearing into a box of confectioners' sugar. "What are you
DOING? Don't open that here! Mental, we're carrying; we've got to be a little
cool, you know. Stop! Buy it first, take it home, and then open it."
Flabbergasted, I watched him return to the scale and weigh out con
fectioners sugar from the ripped-open box. Still using the nut scooper, he
scooped the sugar into another vegetable bag. This time I stayed a few feet
from him so I could walk nonchalantly away when the guard came to arrest
him. But no guard came. Eventually Mental strode off, leaving the torn box
 sitting an the counter. I followed.
"I'm finished. Tee hee, it worked didn't it?"
"Put it away, now. Put it away!" I said in a strained voice as I noticed the
plastic bag of powder still in his hand.
Sweat coursed down my cheekbones as we finally walked toward the exit.
Now Mental was headed for the door! I tried to stop him. "Mental! We've got
to buy something. We've been in here half an hour. We can't just walk out
with nothing."
'But that's ju st what he had in mind. He was already past the wrong side
of the checkout counter, and he kept going right out of the store. "Tee hee.
See, you got all wrought up for nothing."
It soon became apparent that business with M ental would not be a
simple undertaking. He was even having trouble with the great connection he
allegedly had. Three days later he still hadn't made contact. The situation did
not look prom ising. I certainly didn't trust M ental's ability to make a new
connection. We needed someone who could handle quantity, and that was
harder to find than your run-of-the-m ill street dealer. Oh, dearthis was not
going to work.
When another week went by without a sale, I decided to convince Mental
to let me take the dope to Canada. I knew Jewish Connection was a good
connection, how ever unpleasant our relationship had been, and felt
confident I'd have no trouble disposing of the stash in Toronto. It would
also be a relief to remove m yself from M ental. I didn't wart to go to jail
because of his dumb shenanigan.
Mental was not pleased with the idea, but it was obvious even to him that
something had to go down soon or we w ouldn't have a product left to sell.
The only way this business worked when you had your own habit was to
fly in, sell quickly, and return pronto to where the dope was cheap and
plentiful.
Swearing I'd be back in four days, five at the most, I boarded a plane to
Toronto. I, too, carried the cargo inside my body, but lucky for me, females
have a neater, m ore-accessible pocket, so I didn't have to shove it up my
ass like M ental. B ecause I'd left Canada only two weeks before, I worried
that Immigration might find it suspicious. I fashioned a sad face and told the
man at the counter I'd flown home for my m other's funeral. He smiled
sympathetically and stamped me in.
As soon as I checked into a hotel, I called Jewish Connection. Sorry, he
inform ed me, he couldn't handle m ore dope, because he still hadn't sold all
of M itchell's load. Uh-oh. Now what? I tried Dealer, but he was no help
either. He deaIt grams, and I was selling quantityM ental had
turned the original amount into a pound with the confectioners sugar. Dealer
introduced me to someone who wanted to buy an ounce, though, and I agreed to
deliver it that night.
The last thing I wanted was to parcel the stash into ounces, but it was the
only start I had to begin a bigger connection. I delivered the ounce m yself to the
buyer and his girlfriend. There was another guy there, and they decided that, after
trying the dope, they'd take me to the World's Fair, which was in Canada that year.
Buyer picked a rock and put it in his spoon. Though Mental and I had done
a good job smashing it up, there was still a difference between the size of the dope
and the size of the sugarthe rock was dope. Buyer did his shot, said it was fab,
and we piled into a taxi to set out for the Fair.
We weren't more than a block away when he slumped over onto his girlfriends

Oh, shit.
She called his name and slapped his face, but he didn't respond.
Oh shit shit shit! He was going to die of an overdose, and I had all that dope
in my room! What should I do now?
The commotion in the back seat alerted the driver that something was amiss.
"Take us back," the girlfriend told him.
It took all of us plus the taxi driver to carry Buyer back into the apartment. I
decided I couldn't leave in the middle of a crisis, though my instinct was to run to the
hotel and move my cache. I'd wait and see what happened. If he then or was placed in
an ambulance, then I'd go. For the moment, I tried to act like the helping friend, not
the killer dope dealer.
We spent the next hour walking Buyer around the apartment, propping him
under the shower, and keeping his eyes open. When he finally enabled and sat up
by himself, I figured he would survive and that I could leave the apartment
without seeming rude or uncaring. Boy, was I glad to go. By that time they no
longer viewed me as Santa Claus.

I made another connection Vinny and Vanessa, two city-style Junkies.

They lived in a basement apartment on a quiet street. It was obvious when I
arrived that I'd awoken them from a nod. Their works were spread out on the
kitchen table, and they couldn't wait to shoot a sample of my product. Then, while
we discussed business arrangements, quarter-gram customers came and went, most
of them taking a shot at the kitchen table before leaving. To clean a syringe, water
must be squirted through it. Vinny and Vanessa's sleazy custom ers cleaned
their syringes at the table, squirting their bloody water in the air. Traces of the
descending pink liquid could be seen in numerous trails covering the refrigerator
door. Yeck!
I didnt trust Vinny and Vanessa one bit. I decided to sell them a few ounces at a
time, collecting the money first and leading them to believe I had more than I
really did. I figured they wouldn't rob me as Long as I was an ongoing source.
The dope was good-quality, and they were getting a good deal, so I felt
reasonably sure that I could do business with these shady characters and not lose
everything in the process. Vanessa took me to buy an expensive scale that I
promised she could have when I left. I also gave them, for free, four grams I'd
ruined. On the flight in, I'd hidden a travelling stash in a container of scented
deodorant powder, and the smack had acquired a disgusting Arid Extra Dry flavour.
When I snorted it (thankfully I didn't have to fix it anymore), the smelly stuff
grossed me out. Since Vinny and Vanessa fixed it, the deodorant filtered out with
cotton.

I did have the occasional doubt, though, that I could survive the
machinations of those two street-smart, manipulative, always-plotting, sleazy
junkies. I calculated every move, every weak spot, and kept promising that there
was more, oodles more, available.
I felt incredibly happy when I completed the last transaction and held the
money I was supposed to havewell, I had a decent amount of it, anyway. The
trip had taken longer than expected, and I'd frittered away a sizeable quantity of
dope on personal use and on bribes to instil good will in Vinny and Vanessa.
By the time I had changed the tens and twenties into hundred-dollar bills and
arrived back in Los Angeles, Mental was disgruntled. When I divided the money,
fifty-fifty, he became angry.
"Twenty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!" he whined. "Is
that all I get? Impossible! It's got to be more than that!"
Over and over, we calculated how much our daily habits had eaten out of the
original stock (quite a bit). We figured out how much Mental had taken for
himself when I'd left, how much I'd consumed or given away in Canada, and
how much we had now. The price I'd received in Canada, five thousand an ounce,
was standard, and the numbers matched. But Mental was dissatisfied.
"This is fucked up!" he said loudly. "I should be getting more than twenty-
one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!"
"That's it. That's how much it comes to."
 "Can't be right. It's fucked up!"
A bit unfair, I thought, given that he could have starved in the monsoon in
Bombay if I hadn't sent him the original two thousand dollars, not to
mention the probability of his being arrested if I'd left him to his own devices
in Los Angeles.
lo me, the scam had been a terrific success. I'd started the summer with
nothing and ended it with a fair am ount. Surviving Vinny and Vanessa, I
felt, was a tremendous feat in itself. But to Mental it was not enough.
I couldn't wart to escape his unappreciative ranting. As I started to leave.
M ental decided that somewhere along the line I'd ripped him off. He shouted
at me. I ignored him and left the room. He followed me to the hallway. When
I entered the elevator, he shouted at me still.
"RIP OFF!" he yelled as the doors closed, leaving him, thankfully, on
the other side. How em barrassing the elevator was full of people! I was also
hurt. Then I w orried he'd run down the stairs and catch me in the lobby and
make a scene. W hen the door opened, I dashed out. I moved to a different
hotel and bought a ticket to India. What a monsoon!

"This time I went back via the Pacific route. I chose a Korean Airlines flight
and transited two days in Seoul. Wow, Korea! Hadn't there just been a war
there?
A hotel employee told me how it felt to have his country divided in half.
Apparent the border was not far from Seoul, and the people on either side
were the same people.
"My cousins," he said, resting his foot on a laundry cart. "They live on
other side."

Landing in Bombay, I felt like the Great Adventurer. I'd made it

through another monsoon and arrived with escapades to recount. Rich once
more, I took a room at the Sheraton- Oberoi and went to Dipti's.
Everyone turned in their seats to say hello, and Bila gave me a welcoming
smile with my scoop of mango ice cream.
"How was your monsoon?" asked Shawn.
"Terrific! Just got in from Seoul. Did you know that Seoul is only twenty-
five miles from the North Korean border?"
 A m sterdam Dean slid into my booth with a greeting and said, "I heard
you were in jail."
"Me? No! W here'd you hear that?"
"It's all over the beach. Some problem with you and Giuliano."
"Oh, no. Not Giuliano again. I don't know anything about this problem
with Giuliano. I did rip him off!"
"That's the story. That you were arrested somewhere, and so the police
went to your house in Goa and tore down a wall to get in ... " "My house!
The police were in my house?"
"That's what I heard. They tore down a wall and searched the place and
were asking questions about you. They picked up Alehandro and Bombay
Brian for inform ation ..."
"What happened to my house? They tore down a wall? Which wall? It's
open? My
"I don't know the details. W hy don't you ask Brian. He should know."
I swallowed the last spoonful of ice cream in one gulp. My "See you later"
sounded like "Zaiwuf urrfm" as I hurried out.
Bom bay B rian worked in a carpet shop three doors down from
D ipti's. I found him sitting cross-legged and drinking tea. "Hi, Cleo. How
the hell was your monsoon?"
"What's this about the police at my house?"
"I heard they goddam n tore it down to get inside and that they found
stacks of goddamn drugs and porno films. Hell, they've been looking
everywhere for you."
"Drugs! There were no drugs there. Except for a few tolas of opium. And
a horrible gram of m orphine . . . two tabs of acid at the most. Oh, and an old
kilo of useless border hash. That's it! They're looking for me? Here? In
Bombay?"
"All over," said Bombay Brian. "Shit, they came to ask ME." "The
police came HERE? W hat did they say?"
"They wanted to know where the hell you were. You better get yourself a
goddamn lawyer."
I couldn't believe the normally unconcerned Goa police had actually come
looking for me. They never bothered with Goa Freaks. Not unless they had a
com plaint. W hat did they do to my house? My beautiful house. I was
frantic. It was my world, my palace, my fantasy. My home.
"Why me?" I asked Brian.
"Something to do with Giuliano. They busted the goddamn jackass,
 and he gave your name."
"Giuliano's been busted? Where?"
"Bombay International. He's still in goddamn jail as far as I know."
Well, that was good news of sorts. At least the creep was out of the way. I had
not ripped him off. He had no reason to cause me trouble.
Brian convinced me to hire a lawyer to find out why the police wanted me. In the
meantime I had to move out of the hotel, where they could easily find me. He said I
could stay in his apartment on Marine Drive. I rushed to check out, peering around for
lurking cops.
Bombay Brian was an American with blue eyes and greying hair and had been
living in India for nobody-knew-exactly-how-long, but a long time. The story was that
he'd been a member of Hell's Angels and that because of a nobody-knew-exactly-what
problem he was afraid to return to America and was now a permanent resident of
India. Aside from his house in Anjuna Beach, Brian had a Bombay penthouse with
a round living room. He was savvy to the workings of Bombay and directed me to a
law office.

The lawyer I commissioned was young, fat, obviously well-stationed in India

society, and too complacent for my liking.
"My house! My home! It means everything to me. Please help me with my
house."
The lawyer shook his head from side to side and said, "First you want to
inquire as to what the charges against you are. Then you can worry about your
house."
"How long will it take?"
"Weeks only."
"Weeks! But I must hurry home right away. If it's been smashed open,
anyone can walk in and take everything. Oh, my wonderful house!"
"These things take time. This is India, not America. I will go to Goa. "
"You have to go there?"
He leaned back in his chair, which made a loud squeak, and did that Indian
shake with his head again. "How else can I find out what is going on?"
I didn't mention the telephone, realizing the man was seizing this opportunity
to have a vacation at my expense. Another Indian lawyer would do no differently.
I sighed. This was the Indian way.
"Perhaps I will be able to leave here at the end of the month," he
said.
"End of the month!! No sooner?"
He raised a hand in the air where his gold rings glinted in the forty watt
light. "I am a busy man."
 Back at the apartment, Brian and I discussed how it w asn't terribly cool
for me to stay in Bombay with the police perhaps w aiting for my next visit to
Dipti's. I couldn't go to Goa, either.
"Why the hell don't you go to Poona?" Brian suggested. "I've been thinking of
visiting a friend there: We could go together."
"Poona! Isn't that where the ashram isRajneesh? W here orange people
come from?"
Apparently orange was a spiritual colour, and the R ajneesh zealots wore
nothing but orange clothes and a picture of their guru, Bhagwan Rajneesh. I
remembered how Mushroom Jeffrey had dyed his clothes when he became
Swami Anand Geet. I'd seen orange p eo p le pass through Goa. Did I want to
surround myself with them? S pirituality was the last thing I desired at that
moment.
"Poona! Well, at least Ill be safe there. No policeman would think of looking for
me near an ashram. Oh," I groaned, covering my face. "AH that orange."
Since Brian could only be away from Bombay for a weekend, it wasn't
until Friday afternoon that we climbed into a taxi at C hurchgate Station.
Three other passengers (all Indian) climbed in too, which m eant four of us
squeezed into the back seat of the small car. It was a seven-hour drive, and after
we left the city, an endless stream of dirt blew at me through all four, wide-
open windows.
By the time we arrived in Poona, it was night. The driver took everyone
else to their homes before he dropped us at the address B rian had given him.
Hungry, dirsty, dying for a toilet, and exhausted, I was not in the mood
for the cheerful liveliness of Brian's friends.
"Brian!"
"Hi, Lydia. How the hell are you?"
"No, no," said the happy, frisky voice. "My name is Vanya now. Bhagwan
named me Prem Vanya. It means love, sturdy as a forest."
I groaned inwardly as I slid my suitcase across the top step and faked a
smile at my hostess.
"Come in, come in," she bubbled in her halo of orange ness. Three more
orange shapes buzzed from behind her to whisk my suitcase from where I'd
dumped it at my feet. I gave Brian a sidelong Look. I didn't
 think I was ready for this.
All topics of conversation that night centred on Bhagwan: this person's
dilemma resolved by a "vision" from Bhagwan, that person's insight into his "past
life" acquired during Bhagwan's lecture, and someone's else's "astral projection"
through the ashram guided by Bhagwan. Brian and I periodically sought each
other's eye for a comforting look of "How did we get ourselves into this?"
"My company in Vancouver exceeded my expectations last year," Prem
Vanya told us, "but then Bhagwan called me to Poonatranscendentally, I mean,
the way he brought you two here today."
"Uh . . . Oh . ? Is that goddamn right?" Brian answered, refolding his arms
around his knee and staring in seeming fascination at the orange rug on which he

The long night ended only because everyone wanted to wake up early for
"Dynamic," a meditation at sunrise.
"Why don't you two do Dynamic with us?" suggested Prem Vanya. "Then
you'll be there for Bhagwan's lecture at eight."
I waited for Brian's (I hoped) negative reply. It came.
"Ah . . . well, actually I'm goddamn tired. I think I sleep late
tomorrow, if you don't mind."
Saved!
"Fine. I'll pick you up at noon, and we'll lunch at the ashram cafeteria. How's
that?"
Trapped.
Prem Vanya brought me a blanket (orange, of course) and ensured I was
comfortably installed on the mattress that also acted as a couch. Brian slept on
the floor at the far end of the room, and an orange person unrolled himself a
sleeping bag in a spot near the window. As my eyes closed on the orange-painted
walls, the orange-draped table, the orange flowers in a nearby bowl, I wondered if
my fate at the hands of the Goa police would not have been better.
Fortunately the orange people were gone when I awoke. I found Brian in
the kitchen, eating toast with orange marmalade (of course). "What have you
gotten me into?" I asked.
Framed by an orange wall, he took a bite, and orange jelly caught in his
moustache as he said, "It is too goddamn much, isn't it?"
"Must we really go to that ashram for lunch? I think I had enough of Bhagwan last
night."
"What the hell, it might be a gas," Brian answered sarcastically, rolling his
eyes to the orange ceiling.
I looked at the tattoos covering the arm that reposed on the orange table and
 thought: If an ex-Hell's Angel can stand it, I can stand it.
At noon, Prem Vanya bubbled into the apartment and bubbled us out the
door into a waiting rickshaw. As we drove through town, I noticed that half
the people on the street were foreigners dressed in orange. The boutiques that
lined the sidewalks displayed wares in one colour onlyorange.
"There it is, that's the ashram!" yipped Vanya ecstatically.
I could have guessed. The street had become impassable, clogged with
knots of orange people. Numerous units of two and three pressed together in what
looked like a hug. We climbed out of the rickshaw some distance from the ashram
entrance and shouldered through the motionless bodies.
"Vanya!"
Prem Vanya encountered someone she knew and was engulfed in one of
those lengthy embraces. Brian and I stood there until the hugging came to an end.
We hadn't gotten much closer to the ashram when Vanva met another acquaintance
and entangled herself in another Bhagwan hug. When this happened several times
more, Brian exhibited impatience.
"C'mon, c'mon. Let's get the hell inside already."
With the next people Vanya met, she limited the hug to a few seconds only,
and we eventually made our way into the ashram.
The inside revealed lush greenery polka-dotted with gigantic flowers.
Orange people were everywhere, strolling down paths, sitting on the lawn,
entering and exiting various buildings. I moaned when I saw the cafeteria. It
looked like it belonged in a high school in Iowa somewhere, and of course it
served only vegetarian food. I should have known.
The weekend passed quickly, and Brian and I actually had a good time
laughing over the orange-flavoured exuberance. We engaged in an especially good
giggle as I recounted my first experience with a Bhagwan hug. Apparently the
appropriate response was to hang on tig h tly and squeeze back; the
occasional m urm ured "Mmmmmm" was optional. The hug- was to continue as
long as possiblethe longer held, the greater proof of possessing Bhagwan.
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? Ill
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.
HHHHHnuummnimmm . C'mon! FIELFIHRtnnunnunmm . . . "
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 hugand
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. 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 1p.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 throughbut 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 comer 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 K undalini, consisting of fifteen m inutes of frenzied
shaking, follow ed by fifteen m inutes o f dancing, then fifteen m inutes sit
ting in quiet meditation with out- eyes closed, and finally with 15 m inutes lying
flat out. Unfortunately, I never remembered the mosquito repellent until the
m editation part. Every m osquito 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 san-
nyasis lived at the ashram, and recent arrivals from the West stayed in Poona's
hotels and apartm ents, 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-G oa 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 assignm ent B hagw an gave Sam bhava
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."
M eanwhile, what was happening with my wonderful house? W hat 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 A m bassador Hotel so I could say
hello to friends. The crowd of Freaks made room for me at their table. "H o o ,
b o y lo o k at y o u !" e x c la im e d N o rw e g ia n M o n ic a ,
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. W ould 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 con
tretemps!"
"Did something happen to Kadir?" I asked. "I have silver jew ellery 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 exclaim ed. "Poor Kadir. He m ust be going crazy.
Stuck in ja il for two years and so far from India. It's terrib le 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."
"O h ..."
"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 H eathrow p u lled her out o f tran sit. She's in F lollow ay 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 c a u g h t.
T h ey k n o w a b o u t G oa. D o n 't e v e r tr a n s it in E n g la n d . 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
ex ch an g ed tips re g ard in g b o rd e rs, airlin e s, and tra n sit L ounges:
"Sw itzerland 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 som ething. 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. D on't w orry about that. Goa Freaks never inform on each other.
She didn't tell."
"So what happens when she gets out?" I asked. 'W hat 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, M onica passed me the turquoise box of smack that
was circulating the table. "I must kick this soon," she said. "They don't call
me Norw egian M onica anymore. Now they call me Smack Monica."
"I'm never quitting," I told her. Over the sum m er 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
m yself again by trying to stop or letting m yself 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 . "HHHHH m m m m m . ." N ext cam e "T antra" three days of sex,
from m orning 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 m eet your goddamn lawyer in
Calangute."
Ah, yes Fat Law yer, 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 S E A S O N IN GOA
I977-I97 8

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 intactas securely closed as when I'd left. I explored
the surrounding wall, turning the corner into the bathroomeverything looked normaland 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.
M i7MOVIES!!
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 m aid 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.
S o o n er 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 outonce 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..."
"Did you hear the news?" asked Georgette, accepting the bhong I held
out. "They're bringing electricity to the beach."
"Lino, my landlord, told me," I answered. "I'll believe it when I see it. It'll
be like that bridge they're building under construction for the next fifty
years."
"No. They're already stringing wires," said Norwegian Monica. "I've seen
them."
"Electricity! It'll ruin the beach," Paul stated forcefully.
When I left Alehandro's, I headed inland to Gregory's restaurant. I ordered
the day's misspelled speciality, Lobster Stew, and joined some friends at a
wobbly table. At the end sat Ashley wearing a straw hat with a two-foot-long
feather.
"Gregory would have served you a crustacean without the stew if you'd
asked," said Dayid with a lobster in front of him. "Do you know, a sea anemone
is not really a flower, but is composed of solitary polyps grouped together?"
I flicked a caterpillar off the table and settled down to eat. I almost choked
on my mashed potatoes when I saw who sauntered in.
"Hey, hey! Narayan!" shouted someone at another table.
Ashley and I exchanged looks.
 "Looks like your nemesis from Bali," said Dayid. They knew my story
with Narayan. By this time Dayid who snorted smack heavily, and the
thought o f N arayan's tossing my pound o f it into the ocean was enough to
m ake him forget the lobster claw in his hand.
N aray an sat at a table opposite us. When he saw me, he offered a lopsided
sank.
M y fu ry at him returned full force. The wrath and frustration he'd caused
had not subsided one Speck. I'd never gotten revenge.
W e were seated facing one another, and our eyes kept m eeting. I wanted
to squish my potatoes up his nose with the pointy end of a fork. That w ouldn't
m ake for a tranquil season, though. How would I deal with Narayan?
I pushed m y plate away. "Enough of this! W ho's ready for a nice snoot
of smack?"

I didn't wear the orange sannyas outfits long. I never wore much of
anything in Goa, and what I did wear wasn't orange. Since the mala didn't feel
right o v e r blue or green, I stored it in the safe, using the blowtorched hole
as a door.
Settled into A njuna life, I went to meet Inspector Navelcar of the Panjim
police.
The Panjiin police complex consisted of low buildings framing a
courtyard of shrubs. I clim bed creaky wooden stairs, as directed, and
introduced m yself to Inspector Navelcar. He didn't leave me standing in the
hallway, as was ty p ic a l of Indian bureaucrats. If the lawyer had
accom plished nothing else, at least he'd paved my way to respect in India's
system of caste and status.
While Inspector Navelcar and I chatted, half the police force found a reason
to poke th eir heads in the doorway to peek at the "hippie." The inspector and I
got along well, though he never believed a word I said. Apparently they'd read
the letters in my safe, some of which had been rev ealin g -o f scams, drugs, and
illegal money. Stupid me, I should have learned that lesson in Australia. What
could I say to the Inspector? He'd learned my se c re ts. I could only be, and be
obviously in order not to offend him.
"Oh, I m ade th at up," I said to his query of a Canadian scam I'd written
about. "It's a fantasy." I twinkled at the Inspector to let him know I knew that
he knew th e truth. I shrugged a shoulder to convey my apology for having
no alternative but to be. I didn't want to appear to be conning him. He seemed a
nice man. He was ju st doing his job. I didn't want to hurt his Feelings.
"Ah! A fantasy!" he twinkled back. "The part about making twenty-
thousand dollars from selling hash in Australia, a fantasy?"
"Yes. I wanted to impress my friends back home."
He paused. I shrugged.
"You are telling me this is not true, then?"
"Right. I never did that. I made it up."
I smiled foolishly at Inspector Navelcar, and he smiled back.
"About Laos and a tube of toothpaste ?"
"I invented everything," I answered, raising my eyebrows to beg
forgiveness.
"So, you are saying you did none of the things written in the letters?"
"Right."
We smiled at each other.
There was no point in going further. He ordered tea for me, and that was
the end of that.
"Can I have the movies back?"
"Yes, yes. A simple formality."
I'd already been exposed to what Indians called "simple formalities" and
sighed as I realized the ordeal coming my way. Dam n G iuliano.
E ven sim ply paying the fine was not simple, since no one knew
exactly where the form was or who had to write it up or what I was being
fined for. I spent all day at the station. I spent quite a few days at the station.
Mostly it was a question of finding the right room, or the right person, or
the p erso n w ith the rig h t stam p, or the rig h t day for th at particular
person, or the right day for a particular procedure. And then, when
everything WAS righthey, where did he go? He has left. Personal business.
Come back tomorrow.
Somehow, miraculously, I eventually recovered the movies (e x cep t the
porno), and Inspector Navelcar and I became friends in the process.
"Hi," I said, knocking courteously at his office door. "I want to let you
know I have the films. Thank you for your help."
He smiled broadly and stood up. "So, it is finished now?"
"Yes, thanks again. You've been very nice. Bye."
After only three and a half weeks in Goa, I had to do another ride
 to Bombay for cash. This time I withdrew four thousand dollars from the safety
deposit box. Uh-oh at this rate my cache wouldn't last long. Mental had not
been wrong thinking that twenty-odd thousand dollars wasn't enough. Our
habits could gobble that up in a flash. Okay, Cleo, I told myself, maybe it's time
to slow down on the coke.
My house became a major hangout. It had space and lots of satin covered
mattresses, and I always had drugs. I felt super. Friends and strangers gathered
around me. Even Dayid and Ashley joined my group. On the way to an indoor
party or a beach party, Goa Freaks stopped at my house for preparty lines of
coke and to add sparkle to their faces.
"Would you apportion some glitter over my eyes, please?" Dayid would
ask. "And disseminate a bit in my hair too."
Rumours about me abounded that year. First there'd been the story that I'd
ripped off Giuliano. Even those who heard my version seemed to remain
unconvinced of my innocence. But then Mental arrived on the scene, and that
really cinched it; the second person with a tale that I'd ripped him off. Try
proclaiming guiltlessness now!
Indignantly disturbed, I tried to explain. It became evident, though, that I
couldn't erase all doubts once such accusations began. Then I looked at it
differently. Imaginethey believed that little me had ripped off two well-
connected guys. And got away with it. Not an insignificant accomplishment. That
would take shrewdness. Realizing I'd never be able to convince everyone
otherwise, I decided to enjoy the reputation.

I flew to Bombay to pick up five thousand dollars. When I saw the diminished
pile left in the box, I promised myself I wouldn't buy another gram of coke. At
this rate. I'd be penniless before the end of the season.
Back in Goa, I scored a gram before returning to the house.
e

N eal and Eve and the baby returned after an uneventful and
nonlucrative monsoon. Neal hadn't been able to send money to reserve his
house, and his landlord had rented it to someone else. The only place they could
find was a dark room at the north end of the beach on the other side of the
road. Inconvenient and ugly, it became even uglier because of their continuing
indigence.

"Wow, Mahara's grown so big!" I said, entering the hovel.

Eve stared into space and whispered, "She can't pronounce Mahara. She
calls herself Ha."
"Hello, Ha," I said, stepping over a trail of ants that led to a discarded
mango pit. Something floated legs-up in a glass of lemon water
Neal looked at me. Magic sparked between us still. Butfriends. We would
be friends. I'd sworn to keep my hands off him, and he'd sworn himself to Eve
and the baby. We would only be friends.
He seemed distressed. "I was so glad to get your telegram from Canada
asking if I needed money," he said. "We were in a bad way. But when I called
your hotel, they said you'd checked out."
"Oh, no! Pin sorry. Mental called first and said Giuliano was after me.
So I moved." Oh shit! I'd let my friend down. "You didn't do any business
during the monsoon?" I asked.
Neal shook his bangs. "Nothing. I'm still hoping to hear from the
connection in California. As soon as I do, I start something."
"I'm sorry I switched hotels," I said, feeling like a traitor. "I waited to hear
from you, then figured you'd left on a scam." Something was crawling up my
leg, but Eve was watching me, so I ignored it. Bad form to get excited over a bug.
"I called as soon as I received the cable," Neal told me.
"Oh!" I stamped my foot, hoping the thing would be shaken off. "I'm so
sorry!" The creepy-crawly held on. "What bad timing!"
A depressing visit. I hated to see Neal in such dreadful straits. I missed
his happy laugh and jolly storytelling. And as I crossed the paddy field to return
home, I realized that Neal hadn't offered me a line of anything. Not once had I
heard the familiar CLICK, CLICK of the razor blade on his glass block.
After that, I went often to see Neal and turn him on with my drugs. On
one visit, I heard Serge's voice on the porch. Serge! I'd been waiting half a year
to see him. I couldn't have Neal, and I couldn't have Narayan, but Sergemy
Serge was back!
"Hello, Miss Cleo."
He tossed his pink scarf over his shoulder. So cute. He sat next to me.
Oh, those big, brown eyes! I wanted to pounce on
"I just got in last night," he said.
"Did you have a nice monsoon?"
"Yes, and you?"
"Yes, I went to Moscow and Korea."
 "That's nice."
We giggled.
"How's your house?"
"Fine."
"I'm glad."
We smiled at each other and giggled some more. "How
are you?"
"Fine."
"T hat's good."
Then I asked where he was staying, and he told me about the
Frenchie.
"I'm here with a French girl," he said. "She's never been to India
before. I met her in France, and she helped me get over missing you. You
know, I was very upset because of you. She helped me through it." My
Serge had a girlfriend with him! I couldn't say anything, could only stare at
him. "You made me so unhappy when you didn't show up," he continued. "I
don't know what I'd have done without her." I wasn't going to get my Serge
back. He would use the Frenchie as a shield against me. "I owe
her a lot. Miss Cleo." Oh, my Serge had a girlfriend! "I really needed her to
get over you."
Get over me! He got over me. Like last year's bout of flu.
A crow m ode a noisy landing on the porch, looking for food to
snatch. When Serge's eyes shifted focus, I released the lungful of air I
didn't know I was holding in.
I picked up my silver stash box and asked, "Everybody want a line?"

I made another bank trip.

The event o f the season was the wedding o f Gigi and M arco. For
years French Gigi and Italian Marco had been living in one of the grandest
houses in Goa, situated ori the road between Anjuna and Calangute. Gigi
and Marco already had a five-year-old daughter, and no one understood why
they wanted to marry. Freak weddings were rare. As a matter of fact, Gigi
and Marco's was the only one, ever.
 A government official performed the ceremony in Mapusa. I filmed it. I'd
been filming all important Anjuna Beach affairs.
That night there was to be a feast. Sima and Bernard and Bernard's
French friends slaughtered lambs one after the other, all afternoon, in the
courtyard at the centre of the house. They skinned the animals by inserting a
bicycle pump into slits in the bodies so the pumped-in air blew the _ hide off
the flesh. The dead beasts inflated to grotesque size as the mosaic floor ran
with their blood.
Serge, the presiding chef at barbecues, came early to start the fire. I
hated to see him. I couldn't bear being in the same place and not being
with him. He smiled at me with eyes outlined strikingly in kohl. Oh.
That night people flocked in from the other beaches. Dancers and
p e o p le s ittin g on m ats p a c k e d th e a re a in fro n t o f th e h o u se .
"BOMBOLAI!" The Anjuna crowd hogged the inside.
The attention outdoors centred on Serge and the dozen lambs he was
roasting over the fire. They seemed to take forever to cook. The later it got,
the better they sm elled, and the more everyone com plained of hunger.
"Come on, Serge, old boy. We're ravenously awaiting the victuals," said
Dayid.
"Hoo, boy what a smell," said Norwegian Monica.
"Let's get the goddamn food on a plate, for christ sake," said Bombay
Brian, who'd flown down for the occasion. "Hey, Cleo, what happened to your
goddamn orange clothes?"
Finally the anim als were rem oved from the flame and placed on
banana leaves. We had to figure our own way to cut meat off the carcasses. I
borrowed someone's pocket knife and squeezed into a circle where the people
elbowed each other for a slice. One person had hold of a leg. Another,
pulling in the opposite direction, struggled with the neck.
"Here, cut you a piece," said a voice.
Serge. His curls were smoky and covered in ash as he leaned in and
grabbed the haunch. I wanted to touch him and couldn't steer my eyes
from the flowing red silk on his back. He stood up and handed me a
chunk of meat. Juice ran down my arm and dripped from my elbow as I
took a bite. He was very dose to me.
"How is it, Miss Cleo?" he said softly.
"Mmmmmmm," I m urm ured, thinking more about him than about the
food. Som eone asked him for the knife, and he bent over to cut another
piece. "I don't know about this lamb," I told him when he turned back. "Isn't
it too raw?" His scarf brushed my arm.
 I

"Well, everyone complained they couldn't wait to eat another minute."

Soon his presence was called for elsewhere. I knew his Frenchie lurked
somewhere nearby. I didn't want to meet her. I went inside the
house and piled a mirror high with coke; then I joined the bhong circle; then I returned
home miserable, thinking of Serge.

I made my last bank trip to Bombay. All gone. I left the safety deposit box
empty. There went the plan to run my own scam next monsoon. Worse than that, the
little money I took back to Goa guaranteed I
couldn't buy one more snoot of coke. I wouldn't be able to afford smack much longer,
either.
One day, I heard that Junky Robert and Tish had returned. Hallelujah.
They owed me money from my investment. Saved! I ran to their house.
They were still unpackingor rather Tish was unpacking. Robert
was teetering with his eyes closed and his arm about to drop a pile of clothes.
"Hi. How was your monsoon?" I said, coming in.
a new window," exclaimed Robert, suddenly waking up. "Who
did?"
"Hi. Heard about the runner?" asked Tish. "No, tell
me,"
"She was stupid," said Robert, awake now. "We shouldn't have hired someone
who'd never carried before. What an idiot!"
"What happened?"
"She got scared. Decided she couldn't do it," explained Tish.
"AFTER she boarded the plane. When she landed, she rushed out of the airport,
leaving the suitcases going around the baggage wheel." "You're kidding!"
"Tish was there to meet her. I never made it out of Bombay." One of Robert's eyes
started to dose again.
"I watched the cases go around," said Tish. "The other passengers collected theirs,
and ours kept circling. What could I do? I was outside the Customs area, watching
through the glass partition. I couldn't get them."
"That must have been frustrating." "Failure. I would've claimed them myself if I
could have."
"So what happened?"
"The police picked her up at the hotel the next day," said Robert,
struggling to open his eye. "w hy?"
 "The dumb twit. The cases had her name on them. Of course the authorities
were suspicious when no one claimed the bags. They searched
'em."
"So she was arrested anyway?"
"She would have been fine if she'd just done what she was supposed
to. They never would have opened the bags."
"Did you get her out of jail?" I asked Tish.
"I visited her. Brought her five hundred dollars and hired a lawyer. So,
anyway, we don't have your money."
Oh no! I wasn't saved after all. "What about the second woman?" "She went
through no problem," said Tish. "Her run covered my
expenses, but we didn't make a profit."
By this time Robert had both eyes closed.".
"We'll give you back your original investment," Tish assured me. "But not
now. We have just enough money to last the season. Maybe in a few months. Don't
worry, Cleo. We won't forget you."
Robert's head fell forward, plunging him back into consciousness.
"Where is what?" he asked.

The Three Sisters' restaurant had the reputation of being the only place in
Anjuna Beach with chocolate pudding. This tasty delight cost less than a meal at
Gregory's restaurant, so I began trekking there for a pudding dinner. I entered the
restaurant and sat opposite Canadian Jacques.
"How's the pudding today?" I asked.
"A little runny, I think."
Suddenly I was struck by the graceful image of Jacques's waist-length hair
cascading over his shoulder as he leaned toward his bowl. He wore velvet clothes in
deep green. Silver jewellery fell from his neck and wrists. For an after-dinner snort,
he used a rhinoceros-shaped silver spoon to 4; into a matching rhinoceros-shaped
box. Jacques had style.
 We teamed up. I spent my days at his place. No longer indulging in coke, I
focused solely on the bhong. So did Jacques. The two of us hardly budged from the glow
of the petromax, which lit the bhong area and little else. On arising we'd rush to the
well for a hurried bath so we could rush back to the bhong. We were perfectly suited for
each other. Neither of us wanted to be more than two feet from the dope. Nourishment
came from quick trips to the Three Sisters' restaurant, after which we'd rush back
for a smoke. When one of my gold inlays fell out, Jacques mode the supreme efibrt
of coming with me to the dentist in Panjirn He refused to accompany me, though, to the
Panjim police station when I went to say hello to Inspector Navelcar.
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, boythis 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 stuffas 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. Id 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 guestsonly 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 M onica, 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 problemunlike a syringe, the LV. setup was not structured to
reg ister a vein was hit (or m aybe we ju st 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 m atters 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 m iracle o f elec tricity 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 my
house. 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.
W hen my elatio n had subsided, I noted, "N ot terrib ly useful,
though, is it? It doesn't do what it's supposed toprovide 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 M apusa 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. Im m ediately 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 m ultitude of
 eager noses had stopped visiting. I missed the attention. Why not have a Movie
Night?
I invited everyoneeven Narayan. With Narayan and I living on the same
beat. It, I decided to treat him as a friendor 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-styledong."
"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 W aiya were, like, far out," said Trumpet Steve.
"Yo, dornt 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 rem em bered 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 M ental had crawled under the bedbut 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, piliows, 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. Quepasa?"
We strained to interpret the answer: "mmfdm nmmd, tee hee .. . mmdt
tee hee, tee hee . dmsmsm alright."
Alehandro planted him self 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 rockint. 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 whyI 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.
"W here 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. Fam iliar 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. N either could
N orw egian M onica, I noticed. In the past M onica had been a conspicuous
figure, dancing wildly till dawn at every party.
"Monica, you leaving?" I asked as I saw her heading for the rocks. "You
used to dance all night."
She winked at me. "Now I smoke bhongs all night."

From then on I hardly ever left the house. As long as I had opium I
preferred to stay home and read. Neal would leave in the afternoon and come
back at night to find me in the same spot.
"Have you been here all day?" he asked once. "You haven't moved from
that pillow for weeks. Are you okay?"
He was worried about me.
W hen I heard that someone taught Tai Chi every evening at sunset, I
decided to Ion" The Tai Chi I'd seen at the Rajneesh ashram had awed me
with its slow beauty. Now I left the house every day for an hour. At
 least Neal stopped looking at me as if I were a vegetable that had rooted in
the living room.
Som etim es I relished having N eal in the house. O ccasionally he
joined me downstairs while Eve spaced out upstairs and Ha played by
herself. W e'd chat. I loved the way he shook his bangs and peered
through them laughingly. He always seemed bursting with am usement. We
had him even in the absence of the GUCK, CLICK chopping of the powder we
could no longer afford.
"So, cutie, how's your momsy?" he'd ask as we looked deeply at each
other and sat dose.
"M om sy's fine. I ju st got a letter from her on ancient T iffany
stationery with our old address gouged into it."
Sometimes he'd brush my hair and I'd brush his.
Still, having Eve and the baby there irked me endlessly. Around the time
I began to think I'd strangle Ha or throw her out the window at the very
least, Neal decided to head for Bombay. He and I made a tour of Eve's
belongings to retrieve the things she'd stolen, and then they left. W hat a
reliefthough I was sorry to lose the opium.
Meanwhile my last rupee had left too. Forget about putting a scam
togetherhow would I eat? Or pay the maid? The situation was critical. I
lived on credit. I had a bill at Gregory's restaurant. I had a bill at Joe
Banana's. I had an enormous bill with the maid's family on top of what I owed
her in wages. I had to do something immediately.
I met John.
"Is it true you have a flush toilet in your house?" were the first words he
said to me. We were at Dayid and Ashley's, where I sat waiting to be passed a
bhong. John, a small and skinny American with two braids hanging to his
waist, had an intensity in his eyes that blazed across the room. Smart. This was
one intelligent guy. Adorable too. We became inseparable. The first time he
came to my door, he had an apple in his mouth and a dumb crocodile on his
shirt. So I named him Applecroc.
Applecroc shared a house on the other side of the paddy field with
L ittle Lisa. Little Lisa had recently turned eighteen but had been living in
Goa since she was eleven, after being abandoned by her m other in
Kathmandu. She and John had turned up, and John had been taking care of
her ever since. She certainly didn't seem to need someone taking care of her
anymore. Dealing with Little Lisa required extrem e caution; no one would
describe her as mild mannered. Sometimes I slept at John's, which wasn't
comfortable, because I'd have to face Lisa the next day.
 "HEY, JOHN," came her grating voice first thing in the morning from two
rooms away. "Where the fuck is the herbal shampoo?"
"I don't know. I didn't use it," he answered.
"Then who the fuck did?" Her head speared the strings of glass beads in the
doorway, and she glared at me. "Did you take the fucking shampoo?"
"Hope, hasn't me."
"Then where the fuck did it go, man?"
I liked it never when John stayed at my placebut then, of course. Little Lisa
would soon drop by.
"HEY, JOHN," would come the voice through the window, not waiting for me
to open the door. "I thought you were coming right the fuck back. Where's my
kerosene?"
"I forgot about it. Sorry," John said. Then he added, "Well, get it yourself."
"Fuck you, man. The fucking light ran the fuck out of kerosene in the middle
of the night." She laughed. "Look at my foot, man." Her whole leg came through
the window bars. "Covered in fucking wax from the goddamn fucking candle I had to
use." Theirs was one of the houses that hadn't yet been electrified.
Despite Lime Lisa I found John terrific, and the fact that he needed a runner for
a trip he planned sealed the relationship into a partnership. Since we were,
romantically involved, the proceeds would be split fifty- fifty, and meanwhile I shared
the dope he had with him.
Saved after all! Maybe I wouldn't be the last one off the beach this
year.
In no time I packed up the house, and the three of usyes. Little Lisa came
too-moved to Bombay.
"HEY, JOHN, will you get the fuck over here and Lift this goddamn fucking bag off
the goddamn fucking baggage rack."
Unlike others, John didn't get hung up in the Bombay sceneno Bombay
Syndrome for this guy. And, unlike everybody else, he didn't tell his business to the
whole world. John was smart. Within days we flew to Bangkokwithout Lisa,
thankfullyand John contacted his Thai connection. He bought a kilo of heroin, which
came packed in a plastic bag with the logo of the heroin's brand name "Double-UO
Globe": two lions on hind legs holding the world.
John had a clever method for carrying cargoinside the plastic Frame of a
paint kit. The kit's prize feature was that it was hollow and had an air hole.
Now the work began, shoving powder through the tiny opening. It took three
days. One of us held a paper funnel to the hole while the other poured the dope and
pushed it through. A long and tedious job. A perpetual cloud of while dost hung over
the room.
During this time I polished my story for Customs in case they questioned me.
It was wise to be prepared, especially when coming from the East. I invented a new
angle(hat I was returning to the States after travelling with my fiance, an
entomologist. I figured that since etiologists voyaged to strange places in search of
strange insects, it would seem plausible that one's fiance had visited the countries
stamped on my Passport. I'd once hitchhiked with an entomologist in Israel, from Tel
Aviv to Nueba. He had stopped every few miles to scamper through the bushes with
a butterfly net. It took two days to make a journey that could have been done in
hours. A memorable character.
Crossing borders in the past, I'd always carried my portfolio of modelling
pictures to give myself legitimacy. Now I added the part about helping my fiance by
accompanying him in his work and drawing pictures of his insects. Every day I
went to the library to look up bugs and copy them. By the time we were ready to
leave Bangkok, I had a booklet of them, intricately drawn and coloured, neatly
catalogued and described. There was Monochamus notatus, Phyllium scythe,
Linognathus v itu li. . . I was prepared for any Customs' question.
John and I did stay in Bangkok longer than absolutely necessary. But after Goa,
one always desired to indulge in the luxuries of civilization: Peking dock,
Toblerone, cheese fondue, air conditioning. Now THAT was living. John and I
capered through the American-style supermarkets like tourists at the Louvre. We'd
stop and pokepicking up an instant mix, a pretty jelly, a flashy box. Squeezing,
smelling, shaking. Look at this! Wow! W hat a cute label. So many brands of
cereal. Oo, oo ketchup!
Thailand also had American TV programs dubbed in Thai, with the English
soundtrack on the radio. "M.A.S.H." on TV and ketchup on my hamburgernow that
was civilized. John and I cackled over a new American sitcom called "Soap."
Finally it was time to leave the comforts of Bangkok. With the paint kit filled
to capacity, John sealed the hole with glue and covered it with a circle of green felt
designed to stick to the bottom of lamps to prevent them from scratching table
tops. The kit looked good, really good. Still
 reasonably light, and if you knocked on it, it sounded hollow. Perfect.
But we had a large amount of dope left over. What to do with it?
"We can't take it with us, and we don't want to throw it away."
"Maybe we could leave it somewhere for next time. And the bhong. What do we
do with the bhong?"
"Gould we hide it?"
We looked around the room for inspiration. Hmm. Behind a curtain? Under the
bed? The hotel maid was sure to stumble across it. John checked the bathroom "Hey,
c'mere. Look at this," he said. He'd found a compartment in the wooden frame encasing
the bathtub. A door in the wood opened to the space beneath the tub. "How about
leaving the dope in there?" he asked.
"The inaA might find it."
"Why would anyone look inside this thing?"
"What if the tub clogs or something?"
"The pipes aren't under here. There's nothing but dirt. We could push it way in
the back. It's so dark down there you'd only be able to reach it by feeling around. It's
better than throwing the stuff away. Even the bhong will fit in there."
"We must remember what room this is."
So we left the bhong and a couple ounces of dope stashed beneath the tub of
room 409 at the Royal Hotel. Instead of heading directly to it
we thought it would be more cool to go via Nepal. I'd never been there
and looked forward to seeing the place Petra and my old boyfriend Chic from Bali
considered home. We'd fly separately to Kathmandu, with me leaving first and John
arriving a day later. I booked a flight at a time of day deemed advantageous for
passing through the airport without being hassled.
As usual I thrilled at visiting a new country. The mountains! They rose
unbelievably high. As we neared Kathmandu, though the plane was above the clouds,
one mountain in the distance rose higher than the plane. Hey, wowI'm in the
Himalayas!
I checked into the Woodlands Hotel and set out to find Freak Street, which I'd heard
about. For transportation I took a bicycle-rickshaw, sitting on a tarn plastic seat as a
Nepalese pedalled through town. We passed under an arch painted with one large
eye, a religious symbol. A compound of stu p a s turned out to be my destination, and
the driver showed me the way to Freak Street from there. Stores catering to for
eigners lined the road. But the only place vaguely resembling a hangout was a cafe
called Don't Pass Me By. Was this the fabulous Kathmandu? Freak Street
disappointed me. I didn't run into anyone I knew. Nor did I find the flourishing
Freak scene I'd expected.
I waited for John. A few days went by. Then a week. Where was he? Every day I
checked Poste Restante. Nothing. Every day I checked Reception. No calls. No
inquiries. No telegrams. My personal stash ran out, and I had to break into the paint
kit for more. Then I ran out of cash. Shit, I'd have to sell some dope to pay for the
hotel. Where was Applecroc?
I'd met few people. My best contact was an American woman, Nikki, who
lived in a guest house with her sexy Nepalese boyfriend. I sold Nikki a couple of
grams. Sometimes I hung out in her room. But actually, Kathmandu seemed dead
to me. Where was that great Freak scene I'd heard about? Maybe this was the
wrong season? What had happened to John? I was worried.
Another week went by, bringing with it a crazy holiday where people threw red
paint and water out their windows. Two blocks from the hotel an entire bucket of
water landed on my head. I didn't find it nearly as amusing as the people in the
street, my rickshaw driver, and the desk clerk at the hotel. Applecroc, where are
you?
Finally, after I'd begun to panic over John's disappearance, I spotted his
familiar braids bobbing down the street. "APPI,ECROC!" I yelled, jum ping on him
and taking a bite of pigtail. Oh, my Applecroc. "Where've you BEEN?"
"I was delayed in Bangkok waiting to hear from Lisa," he told me, "but I've
been in Kathm andu three days. The desk clerk at the Woodlands said you
weren't registered there. I've been looking all over for you."
"The moron! How typical."
"Bastard!"
John had a room in another hotel, and I moved in with him.
"I brought you a surprise from Bangkok," he said, pulling his taps recorder out
of a suitcase.
"What, what?"
"I taped the last episode of "Soap" for you. Wait till you hear. They arrested
Jessica for murdering the tennis pro."

John had been in Nepal before, so he knew the scene better than I did. He
took me to a suburb called Swayambuh, where the Freaks hang out.
Now Kathmandu was much better.
For my birthday we went to the fancy Yak and Yedi Hotel. A fountain
bubbled outside, and John handed me a Nepalese coin. "Here, make a birthday
wish."
"Oo, okay." I hell the coin and considered what I wanted. What could I
wish for? I had everything. Everything I'd ever wanteda wonderful home in a
fantasy paradise, a wonderful Freak community to belong to. My life was the
best. To wish for more would have been greedy. I gave the coin back to John.
"Applecroc, I already have it all."
Soon I was on the move again. While John flew directly to Bombay, I
returned to India by way of Benares, the most sacred spot in the country and
an inconspicuous point of entry. In my role as tourist I stayed a few days.
Interesting place. Benares was where, if possible, Indians went to die. No
bigger than a large village, its streets were lined six deep with dying bodies. Some
lay side by side on cots; some sat up, holding themselves as if in pain; others
coughed thickly. Many of those prostrate in the sun looked as if they'd already
made the transition to corpse. Matter of fact, they looked liked they'd been dead
for days. I wondered if a government official periodically searched the prone
masses to remove those who'd achieved their holy aim.
John and I timed it so we arrived in Bombay the same day.
"IIEY, .101 IN, tank you goddamn long enough to get the Puck back!"
Back in Bombay with Little Lisa.
Since John didn't want every Goa Freak knowing the details of his business,
we didn't go hotel hopping. We avoided the Bombay social scene. Instead our
days were filled with food and comic books. And Lisa. Lots of Little Lisa. The
only person who discovered our location was Gigi.
Gigi and her daughter were in town while her new husband, Marco, conducted
business in Europe. Meanwhile Gigi had started fixing coke; in fact, she seemed
to fix it compulsively. Whatever money she'd had on arriving in Bombay had been
spent on coke, and she now rushed from hotel room to hotel room hustling turn
ons. She looked disarrayed. Gigi had gone Coke Amuck.
It was amazing how coke crazies discovered sources and acquired coke
whether or not they could afford it. Gigi's finding us in Bombay proved her
mystery.
"John, you can give me a stash for later?" she asked on a visit to our
room.
John did, but he turned down her request for a hundred rupees. John,
Lisa, and I were short of cash.
Since we needed a chunk of money to finance the trip West with our product.
the inevitable long stay in Bombay did materialize. For weeks John and I loafed
in the room, eating Danish pastries from the Taj Mahal Hotel and reading Asterix
comics that we rented from a comic book store on Marine Drive. Alas, Lisa paid a
daily visit. For dinner John and I went to a Chinese restaurant in Colaba, and, of
course, Lisa came with us.
"Stupid goddamn buffs, man," Lisa would exclaim loudly "buffs" being
short for buffaloes, a derogatory term for Indians. "I told the goddamn fucking
b u ff to bring me ONE GLASS OF ICE and ONE BOTTLE OF CAMPA
COLA. SEPARATELY! And look at thisevery fucking time, man. The stupid
buff pours the goddamn soda IN to the goddamn fucking glass! Now I'll have a
goddamn watery fucking cola by the time the fucking food arrives."
Once, while returning from the Chinese restaurant, we spotted Gigi through
our taxi's window. We watched her run down the street with her little girl as if
chased by demons. "That reminds me," I said. "I have to pick up the movie of
her wedding."
J u s t as o ur tax i tu rn e d the co m er o u t o f view , we saw leap a
curb, her legs opening like scissors. The little girl fell.
"Hey, John, she's probably on the fucking way to your room to hustle more
coke," Lisa speculated.
"Again? She was just there this afternoon."
After a month of pastries, crispy wonton, Lisa, Gigi, and more comic books
than I'd read in my life, money arrived from somewhere, and we were set to
forge ahead.
I Chose Portugal as my midway point, since I'd never been there and it
seemed an innocuous country. I'd stop there for a new passport. We didn't have
money for my entire trip, so the plan called for Lisa to arrive in the States first
and cable me funds in Portugal. John would meet me in New York.
Arriving in Lisbon, excited over seeing a new country, I checked into a
pension. Next I found a candy store. Then I went to the embassy. I presented
them with my old passport covered in red nail polish.
"I'm sorry, look what happened in my bag," I said. "Mail
leaked on my clothes too. Ruined everything."
While waiting for the money from Lisa, I explored the City. I joined a
b u llfig h t tour and buried my head in my bag to snort dope. The Japanese
tourist next to me never noticed. Oho.
A week tater, my travelling stash of dope ran out. I had to break into the
paint kit again. Luckily I had a supply of the green things to cover the hole. I'd
learned that in Kathmandu. After another week, the money ran out. Where
was Little Lisa with the funds? Soon I could no longer afford the pension.
Now what? I needed a free place to stay. How long would I be stranded in
Portugal?
W hen I'd first gone to the embassy for the passport. I'd met two
Marines stationed there. They'd invited me to visit the Marine House, an estate
where they lived and threw parties. I accepted their invitation and heard about
a bar frequented by American servicemen. Now I decided to visit the bar in
search of someone to put me up. Maybe I could stay at the M arine House.
M ight be interesting.
W ithin an hour of entering the bar, I found m yself an attractive
Marine. For sure, he wasn't my usual typehair only an inch long, jeepersbut
som ething about him stim ulated me anyway. Though his he- man attitude
partly turned me off, I was also turned on. That night I went home with
my M arine, and the next day I moved into his apartment.
Little by little I told him about of my life. India. The Freak scene. Drugs.
Soon, M arine realized he'd gotten more than he'd bargained for. "You
have WHAT in that paint kit?" he asked, a look of shock on his
face.
Poor M arine.
But not long after that, the money arrived. I'm sure he was relieved to
see me go.
Hair fashioned ladylike on top of my head, paint kit sealed with a new
green thing, I boarded the flight to New York. Once upon a time I'd cautioned
m y self never to fly directly into the States, since that was my home country
and that's where Customs would be hardest on me Oh, well.
On reaching the New York Customs table, I knew I was in trouble. "Where
are you com ing from?" the Customs man asked.
"Portugal."
He glanced quickly, w ithout really looking, at my passport. "You haven't
been to India?" he asked next.
"No."
 Shit! He knew! He wouldn't have asked about India if he hadn't
known I'd been there. How had they found out? They knew . . . about
India, yes, but what else? Maybe not everything.
Try not to be the enemy, I told myself. I changed my story. "Yes, I've been
to India."
He still didn't open my bag. A bad sign, since they were opening
everybody else's. "Why did you tell me you hadn't been there?" he asked.
"Well, uh, you see, I've been living in the E a s t. . . " I scrambled to invent
something plausible. "My fiance works there. He's an entomologist. I draw
his insects want to see?" The inspector didn't look the least bit interested.
"Uh . . . well, anyway, every time I've come back to the States I've had a
hard time going through Customs. I'm always detained for HOURS. So,
since I had to get a new passport, I thought I could ju st skip that part about
travelling in the East, so I wouldn't have to spend the whole day here." I tried
to look foolish instead of terrified. "I'm sorry. I guess it was an asinine idea."
I didn't notice him signal anybody, but guards suddenly flocked
around me. He still hadn't touched my bag.
"You changed your passport in Lisbon?"
"No, no! My old one got destroyed. A nail polish bottle opened in my
bag and ruined it. It ruined other things too. That's when I thought of the
idea to say I came from Europe. Really, I know it was silly, but you've no
idea how much trouble I have at airports when I say I'm coming from the East.
Here, let me show you the insects."
I didn't get the chance to display my artwork. The Customs official
handed my passport to a man in uniform.
"Take her to the back room. You go with him."
Airport security officials surrounded me, and one picked up my suitcase. I
followed them to an area most passengers never see, a room with a metal
counter along one wall. My luggage was piled there and opened. One man
and one woman remained with me.
Oh, shitI was dead.
Be cool, I thought to m yself. D on't adm it anything u ntil you
absolutely have to. Maintain. Hold on to it. Don't lose it yet. See where it goes.
Internally, everything trembled, but externally I managed to hold my
 pieces together. I had control over my body. It didn't shake. I didn't wring my hands. My
face didn't look petrified. I looked apologetic, resigned and understandably concerned Sighing
audibly, I made a wide gesture and placed one hand on my hip while leaning suavely against the metal
counter. I shook my head, pursed my lips, and gazed at the floor, "I did a dumb thing, I know," I said.
"Where is he?" one uniformed person asked the other.
"He's coming."
"Uh-ob," I tried to say in a joking manner. "Who's coming?" "The Carver."
They were joking back at me.
Half-heartedlythe woman feigneda search through the luggage, but obviously the real deal
would happen with The Carver, whoever that was. She ran her finger over some clothes and unzipped
my make-up kit She moved aside a pair of shoes. She examined the outfit on my souvenir
matador doll. Her hand encountered the paint kit. And then moved on. The kit hadn't caused her
to register the slightest alert Her body hadn't stiffened in suspicion She'd come upon it and moved
beyond.
"You wart to empty this suitcase now?" she said. She wasn't asking a question. "Put everything
on the side there."
Panic was in me. I felt it But I didn't let it express itself. I remained poised and responsive. She
hadn't flashed on the paint kit. Now if only I could continue to keep it firm their awareness. They
mustn't notice it.
I removed items from the case, listening to their voices behind me. They were talking to
each other and only half watching me. To stall, I folded articles as I took them out and stacked
them neatly on the counter. I concentrated on the sound of their words and waited for them to be
aimed in another direction. The moment came. If their eyes pointed where their voices
projected, they weren't looking at me. Keeping the paint kit covered with a velvet dress, I
lifted it out and placed it among my other belongings.
"Here he is! Here's the man himself."
Unmistakably The Carver, the man came in holding a knife. "Here I am," he said.
"A-ha," I said lightly. "Now you must be The Carver. I can tell." I smiled at him.
"The Carver? Is that what they called me?"
Though halfjoking with me, he was serious as he set to work on my poor suitcase. He
demolished it. Cut it up. Ripped the lining out. Made sweeping stabs at its defenceless sides.
The thing was in shreds, dappled with see-through holes and protruding slivers of wood.
But The Carver didn't find anything. They appeared disappointed "Theres nothing here. You
can pack up."
"I can go?"
"You can go. Im sorry about the suitcase. Only doing what I get paid to, youknow."
 "Oh, that's okay," I said, feeling Bom Again. "Hey, listen, I deserved it Shouldn't have lied
about being in India Stupid of me."
The Carver probably thought the other two had carefully searched my things, and they
probably thought the man a the Customs desk had done the search. I couldn't pack fast enough.
No neatfolding now. I did use caution with the paint kit though It was not too late for someone to
flash on it if it were seen. Again I listened for the direction of the voices behind me, but I could tell
they weren't paying me any attention.
Somebody helped carry the mass of tom leather and wood tha no longer functioned as a
suitcase. In the taxi leaving the airport, I released the emotions I'd been holding in.
Oh my godthat was dose!
I was supposed to meet Johnaa nearbyairport hotel I stayedthere overnight but in the
morning decided to wait for him a Momsy's. The room rates were high aid those timed
encounters never seemed to work I bought a new suitcase but kept the slaughtered hulk so I
could show John what the Carver had done.
In front of her frosted antique mirror, posing with a leg on a chair and an arm curled
before her, Momsy asked me, "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Can't you tell? Look a this muscle! I joined a health club. What do you think?"
In the four days I stayed with her, she never noticed the shipwrecked-looking suitcase.
Though I'd left a message for John at the hotel, I phoned every day to check if he'd
arrived. From the Kathmandu experience I'd learned not to trust desk clerks. American desk
clerks proved to be of a different character, though for John did get my message and phoned as
soon as he had registered.
"Hi," came the warm voice from a face I could tell was smiling. "Applecroc! I
missed you."
"I low are you? I low was your trip?"
"Urrible! W ait till I tell you."
 W hen John picked me up, I showed him the leftover shreds of the case.
"They were waiting for me," I told him. He caught his lower lip with his
teeth and raised his eyebrows. "They knew I was coming from India. How did
they know that?"
Both of us lifted our shoulders and shook our heads.
"Computer?" suggested John. "They probably have us all in a computer."
"Did you have trouble getting in?"
"No."
"So! And I wasn't coming from the East. I came from Portugal. A harmless
little country. I don't get it."
"Did anybody in Lisbon know what you were doing? Maybe somebody
informed on you."
I thought of M arine, but he knew where the dope was hidden. If it had
been him, they'd have gone straight for the paint kit. "No, I don't think so.
Besides, they weren't looking for powder. They were looking for hash in the
exact place I used to carry itbuilt into the sides of the case. Too bad for them;
they were two years too Tate."
"That girl you sent who went down at Heathrow. You've been writing her
in jail, haven't you? They might have your name from that."
"Lila! Her cases did have hash in the sides. Maybe. Anyway, I'm finished in
the West. I can't run this route anymore. Not even to Europe. H ow ever it
happened, they know me now. I only go East. A ustralia's probably okay.
Anywhere but here . . . Unless I use another name..."
John's connection lived in W ashington, D.C., and that's where we went.
Or rather we went to a Sheraton outside of W ashington. Way outside. In the
sticks. I hated it right away.
"What a boring place," I complained. "How Long are we going to be here?"
"U n til I sell the dope. A few w eeks. T hen we can go to San
Francisco."
"San Francisco! Great! Ive never been there. Can't wait."
The weeks in W ashington dragged on and on. W hat a horrible, pokey
place. I grew irritable. "I hate Washington," I said every day. "Why would anyone
want to five here?"
"Actually we're in Maryland."
"Figures."
Another week. Then another week. I was sick of the hotel room. I was
sick of John's doll friends. I was sick of the train ride into town.
"Listen," I said to him one day. "Why don't I m eet you in San
Francisco? I can't take this place anymore. Besides, I've had an idea. I want
a passport in a different name. It might take time for me to get one, so I should
start right away."
Much of the dope had been sold, so John gave me my share of the
earnings. I spent two days turning tens and twenties into hundred-dollar bills.
John accompanied me to the airport. He laughed because I'd hidden my
stash inside my Body.
"This is America," he said in a mocking voice. "They don't frisk you for
weapons here. Especially not on dom estic flights. They use metal detectors."
He smirked. "Welcome to the developed world."
"Oh, right. I forgot about the metal detectors. Force of habit."
We kissed goodbye a thousand times. I would miss him. "You'll he coming
soon?"
"Maybe the end of the week. Call me?"
"Every day."
In San Francisco I checked into a skyscraper in the centre of town. Now
this was a place to five! Not like M aryland ugh. This place had everything,
and I wanted to do everything. I found a frisky club to hang out in at night. I
found a connection for cheap and excellent brown dope. I bought two films to
show in Goa, The Blob and The Thing That Swallowed the Earth. I planned to have
the elephant tattoo on my foot coloured in.
John didn't arrive at the end of the week. Not the week after.
I started proceedings for acquiring a passport under a different name.
I'd come across the way to do it in the novel The Day o f the jackal. First I had to
find the name of someone who'd been born near my birth date and who died
shortly after, before developing a history. Then I had to apply for a copy of
the birth certificate. From there it was a matter of building identification.
I began at a cemetery. I perused tombstones, checking dates. When I passed
a man walking the other way, we looked at each other sympathetically. I chose a
girl who'd died at the age of four.
Next stop was the newspaper office. To find my "parents'" name and
m aiden name, I exam ined old editions around the date of death. That done,
I needed identification. I applied for a library card under the girl's name. A
receipt for the cleaners
W hen I'd collected a few such pieces, I went to the Records Office and
asked for a copy of my birth certificate. "My m other can't find the
original," I told the helpful clerk. "We've looked ALL over the house. Searched
the entire attic twice!"
I was amazed when he actually handed me a new certificate. I couldn't believe
how cosy it was. It had taken less than an hour.
But I needed more identification than that for a passport. A driver's license
would be good. I didn't think I remembered how to drive, though, and anyway,
that would take too long. Someone told me about a non driver's license,
specifically for identification.
"But they take forever to get," the friend told me. "Five or six weeks. Unless
you go outside the city. I knew someone in Oregon who got one the same day."
I called Oregon. Yes, the phone voice affirmed, I could acquire a nondriver's
license the day I applied.
First thing one morning, I flew to Oregon. Cute little state. Very efficient.
W ouldn't want to five there, though. W hen I boarded the evening flight back to
San Francisco, I had a new piece of identification. It had my picture and
everything. Neat.
Now, in possession of the proper materials, I went to apply for a passport.
Unfortunately something blew into my left eye on the way to the government
office. I stopped in a doorway to pluck it out but couldn't find it. The nasty thing
pained me mercilessly, and when I turned in the application, I was holding a tissue
to my red and runny eye.
"I need the passport as soon as possible," I told the official. "Must meet my
fiance, the entomologist, right away in Paris. It's at emergency."
The man accepted the documents and said he'd have it ready by the end of
the week.
In the meantime I frequented the frisky club, spoke nightly to John, and
contacted an old friend in Los Angeles.
"Why don't you come visit me," she said. "San Francisco isn't far from
here."
Great. Who knew how long I'd have to wait for John? I told her I'd be there
Friday, as soon as I picked up the new passport.
Thursday night I received a warning. I received a warning but didn't pay
attention to it. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And I'd always been so heedful of warnings!
It came from the hotel desk clerk. He called me. Said he thought I should
know that two F.B.I. agents had been asking questions about me. A superb
'warning. I should have listened to it. I should have checked out immediately and into
another hotel under a different name. I should have stopped everything and
reassessed my every involvements. I should have. Two years earlier I would have.
But I didn't.
 On Friday morning I packed an overnight bag to take to Los Angeles.
Out of habit I inserted my travel dope inside my body. I remembered the metal
detectors. Oh, well.
I deposited the bag in the lobby to be picked up on the way to the airport,
then went to the passport bureau and turned in my receipt. "Is the passport
ready?" I asked.
The man looked at the slip of paper and told me to have a seat. I'd be
called. Before sitting, I left the room for a kiosk I'd noticed down the hall to buy
myself a Three Musketeers.
Candy in hand, I turned around with my change and saw three men in suits
charging down the hallway. They stopped when they spotted me, looked
relieved, and strode over waving badges.
Oh, shit.
"Is this your application?" One man had my passport application in his
hand. He also held the nondriver's license with the phoney name and my real
picture. No use denying anything, was there? My body tingled as fear coursed
through it. The air became thick and difficult to breathe. "You have the
rig h t to rem ain silent "
Oh my god. Time turned weird, and in slow motion one of the men held
my hands together and fastened them with handcuffs.
As the air and my body returned to normal, I found myself being led
through the lobby of the governm ent building. H andcuffed and surrounded
by three men who looked like presidential bodyguards, I thought I'd the of
embarrassment as people turned to watch us pass. I was wearing a blue knit top
with two-foot-long fringes. With difficulty I manoeuvred the fringes until they
fell over my arms and hid the handcuffs from view. By the time the four of us
squeezed into an elevator, only a fringe-covered bulge could be seen in front of
my body.
We alighted to an area I never imagined existed in that building. After
passing several guards and metal doors, I was led to a section of barred cubicles
and was locked in an empty cell. The place felt deserted. No sounds of shuffling
or shifting came from the other cells. It would have been more comforting to
have someone to talk to or an eye to catch through the bars. I tried to engage the
guards in conversation when they came to look at me, but it seemed they
wanted only a brief ogle and went eager to return to their own company to
discuss me among themselves.
My brain now seemed to be working too fast, and I couldn't think or
plan or form a strategy maybe because there wasn't anything to plan? The
future next week, tomorrow, the next five minutes was blank.
For lunch they brought me a delicious sandwich I couldn't eat. My stomach
wasn't working either.
Eventually a man and a woman came and collected me like a piece of
baggage. They signed for me, ushered me down corridors, and talked about
me as if I were an inanim ate object to be shipped. The elevator took us to a
parking lot, but before placing me in the back seat of the car, they added a
chain around my w aist that fastened to the handcuffs. Though we were in an
unmarked car, I felt that every person in the street noticed me, the chained thing
in the back seat. Was I breathing?
They escorted me to a tall building and propelled me into a w hirlw ind
q u estio n s, fin g e rp rin ts, an ap p earan ce b efo re a ju d g e th at happened so
fast I had no idea what was said. When they took my picture I tried to regain
m yself by striking a dram atic pose head cocked, lips pursed like Marilyn
Monroe. Someone giggled, but someone else said we had to do again, and
this tim e w ithout my th eatric s. M y belongings were searched, taken
somewhere, and searched again; then I was placed in a tiny cubicle with
another woman prisoner and toll to undress.
"Now what?" I asked my fellow captive, as she seemed experienced at

"Body search," she answered. "If you have anything inside you, you better
get rid of it. It'll be worse for you if they find something."
Shit! As it was I couldn't believe the good fortune that my stash hadn't
been in my handbag. And luckier still, I had a good-sized supply of dope with
me. W hat great tim ing that they'd arrested me on the way to the airport, and
that I had unnecessarily and out of habit stored a travelling cache of
goodies inside me. I had no intention of flushing it down the toilet now.
Drugs were not involved in the situation so far. For me to get dope sick would
change the nature of the crime. I had to save the stash.
In a hurried frenzy I dog it out of my vagina and shoved it up my ass. If
M ental could do that, so could I. OW! Hey, that hurt. How in the world had
Mental stuffed half a pound up there?
When they body-searched me, they found nothing. They couldn't search
that o ther compartment. Next I was given ugly, horrible clothes. Pants, of al
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 d eten tio n
 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.
W ithin minutes m ealtime 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 W estern food still impressed me enormously. "WOW!" I exclaimed to
those at my table. "This is dinner? Hey, this is fantastic. Oh, yum. M m m m .
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.
"00," 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 im patient noise.
"Your crime. Was it federal or state?"
My face went blank. Either they were from Mars, or I was. T hey decided
it was me.
"Look at her bracelet," one said in exasperation.
They looked.
"Shes federal."
I could tell they were impressed.
"What are you?" I asked the least-intimidating one.
"I'm state."
"Oh,"
Id heard Stories about women crim inals, and I now w ondered if
me m ight 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 fe lt
sa fe r. S om ehow g o in g sp ac e d -o u t was a good d efen ce . 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 w histled 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 m yself be
adopted by his wom an and her tough-looking friends. W e'd sit together in
front of the TV. Sometimes she had her arm around me, but at due tim e did
m ake 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 M onday I was inform ed 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 o f tow els. "Hi, I'm Henry," he said
when we were alone. "Actually, I'm not your lawyer. I'm a tax law yer and
friend o f John's. We have m any people in common. You know my wife
from GoaMadeline. 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. W hen 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 so o n . I ju st w anted to check if you needed
anything."
"I have a stash, thanks. When can I get out?"
"As soon as they lower the bin its at fifty thousand now."
I moaned. "I don't understand how this happened. Do you? W hat went
wrong?"
"I heard that an official becam e 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
"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 thou
sand, 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?" W hen I nodded he sighed. "W ell, w e'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 assum ed name? Oh, I ju st thought it'd be fun a while. W hy 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
travellers 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 planet? 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 huggedalter 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
 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 thinkingmy 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
corridorshey, 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 apartm ent
the day we m oved in I heard a fam iliar French accent. "HelP, 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 hut 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 Henryevery 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. K nock,
kn o ck . "A re you coming out?" I would say, rem inding them of my
presence. "I've really got to go."
"Just one fucking more hit. W e'll be right the fuck out after this one."
The conversation would continue in the same unhurried tone. Water w ould
run in the sink. T here was a rum bling sound as to ilet pap er unrolled.
Knock, knock. "Lninsaaaaa," I'd sing. No answ er this time. Same
conversation. Something else dropped on the floor. A match struck. K N O CK ,
K N O C K !! "LISA ! Com e on! only be a m in u te, 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 . "W ILL YOU
LET .ME IN! I HAVE TO PEE!" BAM , BAM, BAM.
The tone of their conversation didn't change. W ater 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 m yself with a line of coke. W hen Lisa and Henry would finally
come out, they'd stand outside the bathroom door im patiently, 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 apartm ent. 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 him self 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! W here'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 jum ped. "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 com fort 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 softer
voice demand, "Hey, fuckface. Give me that."
"What?" he'd ask in an aggravated tone.
"That goddamn bag right next to you."
"The law yers trying to reduce it to a lesser charge so I can get another
judge, but
"What the Puck 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. Unsm iley had succeeded in placing me
before another judge, this one known to be easy. The charge against me had
been reduced to a m isdem eanour--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! W ide letters proclaim ed: The
U nited States of Am erica 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. Hereme! Against the UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA! Isnt that absurd?"
 He frowned at the disbelieving grin on my face, shook his head, and
said, "That's what happens when you commit a crime. W hat did you
expect?"
"No . . . I mean . . . but . . . isn't that incredible?" He ju st didn't
understand.
The spectators in this courtroom, too, enjoyed my appearance. I d come
fully armed to convince the judge how upright and reputable I was. Unsmiley
presented him with my modelling portfolio and my packet of drawings.
"What is this?" asked the judge, holding sheets of paper.
"Um, I believe that's Euproctis sirnilis," I answered, motioning to a
mothlike creature. "And that one there is Kosciuscola tristis. The male
Kosciuscola tristis."
"No. I mean, what are these ." "Insects."
"I can see that. I mean, why are you
O N E OF CLEO'S INSECTS
showing me these?"
"Well, you see, my fiance is an
entomologist, and he travels the world to
investigate new species of insects. I go with
him and help by drawing and cataloguing his
discoveries. But see, he usually travels in the
East, and lately I've been having trouble
coming back to this country. You should have
seen w h a t th e y d id to m y s u itc a s e at
Kennedy Airport! I thought if I had a passp o rt
in another nam e it w ould m ake it easier.
Som etim es I'm detained for hours ..."
Unsm iley told the judge this was my
first offence and pointed out that my attempt to acquire the passport was
amateurish.
"On the contrary," the judge argued. "The way she went about it was very
professional."
Unsmiley then explained how I'd come up with the idea from reading The
Day o f the Jackal. I'd followed exactly what the character in the story had
done.
"The Day o f the jackal? By Forsyth?"
Unsmiley laid before him a copy of the book he'd spent all weekend going
through in order to find the right passage, but which, unfortunately he never did.
 "Where in this book?"
"It's in there somewhere," I offered. "We just haven't found it yet. It's a big
book."
The judge then delivered a tiradeagainst drugs, against drug running,
against people who left their country. He ended by saying something to the effect that, if
I didn't want to be in this country, then I wasn't wanted here. His words were so forceful
that my body prickled, a prickle that crept to my brain and compressed everything I
heard.
"... thenwedontwantyouhere
Whatever his final decree was, I didn't grasp it. I didn't even know when it came,
and Unsmiley had to steer me out of the courtroom.
"So what happened?" I asked in the corridor.
"What do you mean what happened? You were there; you heard what he
said."
"No, I missed the last part. What'd he say?"
"You have to pay a fine."
"Probation?"
"Didn't you hear him? He practically told you to get out of the country because
you weren't wanted here."
"RRRRW VRR!" I made an ecstasy noise and jumped on Unsmiley, swinging
him until his heel collided with a metal ashtray. After he pried me loose I danced
right there in the corridor of the Federal Building. I started with hops, a kick, and a
pirouette; then I threw my bag on the floor and attempted a Mexican hat dance
around its edges. "La cucaraCHA, la cucaraCHA ..." I was beginning a cancan
when Unsmiley pulled me toward the elevator and pushed me in.
"I can go back to Goa?"
"You can go anywhere you like."
I restrained the hug that was bursting inside me. "YahOOO!" I yelled quietly as we
descended to the Lobby.
Now I just wanted to get out of there. Out of San Francisco. Out of the States.
Away from Little Lisa. Away from the mob. As it was I'd spent way too much money
in the West.
When I told John the judge's decision, he moved the base pipe aside to
congratulate me with a kiss. Then he told me the news, "Gigi is dead." "Gigi? We just
saw her in Bombay."
"Marco's in jail in Europe."
"Oh, no! What about their daughter?"
"With Marco's sister."
"Poor Gigi. She never saw her wedding movie. I'm so sad. How'd it happen?"
"We don't know the details," said Richard, "but she'd been pretty out of it. All
that smack you guys are doing." Though Richard Loved coke, he was as antismack
as he and Narayan had been years before in Bali.
 "It's NOT the smack," I said defensively. "It's the coke. You have to be careful
with coke. You should've seen me last monsoon. Now I sleep every night and take
calcium and vitamin B. That reminds m e-I should go buy vitamins, since be
heading East soon. I want to leave this week." I turned to John. "You coming to
India with me?"
"I'll meet you in Bangkok. We can pick up that stash."
"Oh, right! At the Royal Hotel. I'll send them a telegram to reserve the room.
What was it, 409? I hope nobody found the dope and called the police."
The rest of the night we smoked farewell bhongs to Gigi.

I bought a plane ticket and cabled Thailand to reserve room 409 for my
"wedding anniversary." This time I flew China Airlines and had a two-day
stopover in Taiwan.
When I arrived at the Bangkok hotel and requested the room, however, the desk
clerk exhibited bewilderment. Ah, yes, Asian desk clerks. Remember them? I should
have known.
"I made a reservation specifically for room 409," I wailed. "My husband and I
spent our honeymoon in it last year. Now it's our anniversary and I want to surprise
him. He'll be arriving tomorrow."
Oh yes, there it wasthey had my reservation, but sorry, room 409 was
occupied.
"When was it taken?" I asked.
"Yesterday, I am very sorry."
"But I sent the telegram last week!"
The desk clerk shrugged. "We can give you 407 next door, then you can have
409 as soon as it is vacated. Or maybe you can convince the occupants to switch with
you."
"Who's staying there?"
"Two Canadian lathes," he told me after checking the register.
I grumbled and cursed and made faces at the bellboy on the way to
the room I didn't want. I'd been worried that the police might be alerted, and meanwhile, no one
had even paid attention to the reservation request. Or had they? Were the dope and bhong still
under the bathtub? I had to be cautious in case theyd been discovered and the police lay in ambush
for whomever tried to claim them
As soon as my bags were in room407,1 fashioned my face into a sincere look and knocked
at409.
"Hi. I really hate to bother you, bu t. . . " The woman at the door was not pleased
Apparently her friend was ill, and there lay the friend in bed under the covers, watching me with
wilted eyes.".. .1 sent thema telegram reserving the room but someone made a mistake"
"My friend is sick" said the occupant of409. "I dont want her out of bed."
"Its SO important to us. We came back to Thailand for our anniversary. Please, I know its
inconvenient, but the other room is just next door, and III help you move, move everything
myself. Oh, please, please."
She couldn't say no. The sick one dragged herself out of bed and collapsed into the bed
next door. Her friend and I carried the luggage, the toothbrushes, the drying underwear, from
one room to the other. It took less than five minutes.
"A zillion thanks. I can't tell you how much this means to us."
Alone in 4 0 9 ,1 dashed to the bathroom removed the door under the tub, and plunged my
ann into darkness.
I felt aplastic bag! It was still there!
I dog it out with such anticipation that even the mouse droppings were a welcome sight.
The powder had absorbed moisture and smelled slightly musty. Sniff. Miriiniri. But still good.
Sniff, sniff. Mmmm.
After an hour of good pipefulls, the bhong lost its mouldy taste.
A thought bit me: I should have delayed claiming the treasure foratleast a day.
That would have been wiser. I'd known I was at risk for a Narcotics raid but
had disregarded it. I'd take It a dumb chance. "Two years before I'd have waited it
out. Two years before I'd have been smarter.
Oh, dear. First I'd ignored the warning that the F.B.I. was looking forme;
now I'd partaken of dope left in a hotel room when waiting a day would have
been the safe thing to do. My caution and good sense had definitely left me.
But my hick still held, and nobody came banging at the door. The
next morning I checked out Fortunately I didn't recognize the deck clerk and didn't have to explain
the change of plans. I checked into the hotel where I was to meet John
Days passed with no John. The more days passed the more irritated I became, remembering
Little Lisa and the twenty-four-hour mob scene John encouraged I waited two weeks past his doe
date, then decided to move on It lt d been so long since fdbeen withJohn alone that I knew I wouldn't
miss him I flew to India by myself.

Arriving in Bombay at the start of a season excited me as much as ever. It was still early
in the year, and the monsoon was dribbling to its end. Again I felt like a successful warrior
returning from battle as I entered Dipti's. Maybe I'd had rough times over the summer, but I'd
survived and made it home with both money and dope. Now I really had stories to tell.
Dipti's booths were fully occupied. Everyone waved and welcomed me. Cleo. How
was your monsoon?"
"Great! You should have seen what they did to my suitcase at Kennedy Airport
tt

I only wanted to stay in Bombay long enough to buy things for the house. I needed new saris to
hang finm the ceiling and new carpets. Ialso wanted a dog.
I knew Crawford Market had an animal section, so I taxied there, stopping at an Opium den
on the way. At the market I was deluged by market men. I picked one so I wouldn't have to keep
fighting them off.
After I told him what I wanted, the market man led me past women in saris who dangled
things in my ike. I followed him around baskets ofjackfruits and custard apples and five snakes. I
docked to avoid a water bucket suspended from a pole. He directedme through mountains of
fish paste and beyond the black-market Coca-Cola stallthe Indian government had
recently kicked Coca-Cola out of the country and now an eight-ounce bottle cost two
dollars on the black market and was highly valued among the Freaks. We arrived at the animal
section. The marketman pointed.
Form a dilapidated cardboard box, buried in straw twice his height, tiny
halt of fuzz yapped at me with such force that he somersaulted backwards. I
loved him on sight.
 A pedigree Pom eranian, three weeks old and five inches long, the little
creature become a part of my life. He was beautiful, white and fluffy. He
rem inded me of smack. There was only one name for him Bach, after the
beautiful boy in Amsterdam who was the first person I met who did smack.
At the Ritz H otel the desk clerk grim aced at Bach and made me prom ise
to keep him in the bathroom and off the carpet. Oh, little Bach. I hated going
out and leaving him. I cut short my visits to Dipti's. On one visit I ran into Neal.
"NEAL!" W e k issed and hugged and h eld hands as we told our
monsoon stories.
Neal was doing badly. He hadn't been able to do business during that
monsoon, either the second in a row. He had no money, no dope (one always
managed to get habit-keeping dope; "no dope" m eant not enough to enjoy),
and no place to stay. He asked if I could shelter Eve, him, and Ha until they
left for Goa.
Of course. Again I was happy to help him. I even told him I'd give him
half the supply of dope I'd brought from Thailand, so he could make money
selling it and we could put together a scam.
At the hotel I laid one of the m attresses from my twin beds on the floor,
and the four of us slept wall to wall. I chose the floor mattress to be near Bach.
Though I'd had him only two days, he laid his furry self by me. Ha, of course,
went crazy for him.
"Bakt!" she giggled. "Keo's dog!"
Neal, Eve, and Ha eventually went not to Goa, but to Poona, where
Bhagwan's ashram was. I left for Goa, taking a cabin on the boat. My load of
purchases filled the entire space. The wonderful puppy slept by my face,
despite the bugs I could see crawling on his skin. In the morning, as we docked
in Panjim, I attem pted to remove the shit he'd deposited on the pillow but
gave up and hid the pillow under the sheets.
FO U R T H SEASON IN GOA
1978 - 1979

NORMALLY CRACKED, DRIED, and Med by the sun, the paddy field was
sprouting four-foot-high rice plants. Green grew everywhere: on the paths,
the space betw een my house and Graham 's. Even the garbage dump
bloomed with growing things.
Bach loved it. The first time we crossed the paddy field on the wav to
Gregory's restaurant, I lost him in the grass. He'd jum ped off the road
somewhere along the way.
"Bach?" I called when I turned and saw emptiness. "Bach! W here'd you
go? Aloha, Bach. Where are you?"
The tiny thing had disappeared amid the stalks. It took me forever to track
him and he left muddy footprints on my neck.
I took Bach with me everywhere, though not everyone liked having him
as a visitor. Since the Goa Freaks socialized around mattresses on the floor, the
floor also served as a table top, which gave Bach access to peoples sacred
possessions. Open containers of coke and smack and silver trays of tobacco
occupied a hallowed space in the centre of the floor. To Bach it was a space
to sniff through and explore. His chin would be flecked with tobacco and
his nose powdered with white before I'd have time to scoop him up.
I could always tell when Bach had sniffed coke. He'd be so cute. He'd
become hyper and run from one end of the room to the next, picking up
 one thing, seeing another, dropping the first, and picking up something else.
Since everything was bigger than him, he'd trip over whatever he attempted to
carry.
He came with me to the beach too. W hen I'd go for a swim, he'd follow
to the water's edge and bark when I left him on shore. Up and down the
sand he'd run, crying and barking. I'd have to come out and carry him into
the surf with Inc.
Now that I had my own dope, I could spend time with Canadian
Jacques without feeling as if I were with him for drugs alone. My private stash
was not going to last long, though, especially since I'd given half to Neal. I
contem plated making a run to Bangkok to supply m yself for the year, but I
lacked a connection, a person in Thailand to sell me dope. Thai connections
were .cherished and guarded, probably the only secret that Goa Freaks kept.
Goa Freaks favoured scam talk above other topics of conversation, and
one day, while I was discussing runs with Jacques, he referred to his contact in
Chiang M ai, an employee at a certain hotel. "You can go to him , if you he
said. "M ention my nam e. He knows me w ell."
I couldn't believe what Jacques had so casually given me. Speechless, I
felt as if he'd handed me a family heirloom. People paid money for that
inform ation or grovelled for it. "Oh . . . hey, thanks," I said, memorizing the
name and place and making Jacques a bhong. Wow I had a Thai connection.
I felt Big Time as I imagined flying to Thailand to buy my own load. If I
bought a sizeable quantity, I could party for the whole season without scrounging
from friends. I could sell a portion and keep m yself solvent.
I decided to include Neal in the plan in order to ease his financial
troubles. Though I hated leaving Bach, I made an overnight trip to Poona
to see Neal.
What a shock! I'd known in Bombay that things had gone awry for Neal,
but I hadn't realized the sorry state he'd sunk to. I found him in the pigpen he'd
made of his hotel room.
"This place looks like a suitcase exploded," I said, gazing at the mess.
"Don't you let the maid in?"
"Never let too much lying around," he explained. "I could never collect
everything I'd need to hide from her."
No, he hadn't sold any of the dope I'd given him; in fact, what I'd given
him was just about gone.
sat on the messy bed and noticed I was the only one sitting.. With
the curtains shut, Neal and Eve shuffled through the dimness like characters
from The Invasion o f the Body Snatchers. Ha followed suit. The three of them
reminded me of windup toys, moving awkwardly in separate orbits.
"What are you doing in Poona, anyway?" I asked Neal.
"Um know. Not much. The usual, w hatever that is." He giggled. "Do
you go to the ashram ?" None o f them were wearing malas or orange
clothes, I noticed.
"No. Not really."
"Then why did you come here?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time, and
now we're just here." Another giggle and he circled the bed. He took hold of a
piece of paisley m aterial w ithout seeming to notice it. He cleared a space on
the cluttered bureau, looked around, paused, shoved a candle into the space, and
strolled to the other side of the room. "It's not bad here," he said. "Kind of
peaceful. We don't go out muck" He picked up a yellow lungi and dropped the
paisley. He back stepped to the bed, wrapping the lungi around his arm before
letting that drop too. "Want a toot of coke?" he asked, after discovering his glass
block beneath a pile of debris.
"Uh, sure," I said, wondering how he afforded coke.
I le attem pted to chop some. CLACK, CLATTER, CLINK. The razor
blade slid from his grasp and fell among a hodgepodge collection of Eve's little
objects. Rather than bunt for it, he continued chopping with th e ja g g e d end
o f a b ro k e n b a llp o in t p en . T H U N K , T H U N K , THUNK.
"Uh . . . Neal. Let's put a scam together. I want to go to Thailand and
bring back enough dope to last me the year. I'm tired of buying it from other
people."
"Okay," he said, stopping to look at me a moment. He put down the block,
then shock his bangs and examined the ceiling fan. "Whatever you want to do."
He scratched his head and sauntered off, bumping into Eve, who ambled
sim ilarly in the other direction. Now he was in the bathroom, using the piece
of pen to rub at a streak in the sink.
"I think I have enough money for a pound of smack," I continued. "I'll
split it with you when I get back."
I watched Neal grab a syringe and aim it at the ceiling fan like a
m achine gun. Aha! Syringe. They were fixing coke! No wonder they were
so spacey. They had to be doing a lot of it to be that weirded-out.
 How were they paying for it?
N eal tu rn ed to lo o k at me fo r an o th er h a lf-se c o n d and said,
"Thanks, cutie." Then he placed the syringe on a tilting stack of papers and
came to sit beside me and resum ed chopping. THUNK, THUNK.

Back in Goa, I prepared for the trip. I'd meet Neal in Bombay in two weeks.
I had ju st enough time to take Bach to a veterinarian for shots and a check-up.
In addition to fleas and ear mites, the poor thing had a stomach infestation.
"Where did you buy this animal?" asked the vet.
"Crawford Market in Bombay."
He wrinkled his nose.
I hated to leave Bach while I made the run. I asked Laura if she'd take
care of him. She agreed. Laura and Trum pet Steve hadn't been together since
Bali. They took turns with their son, Anjuna. After Steve had returned from
San Francisco with the boy, Laura had taken charge of him. She and Anjuna lived
in a house behind Joe Banana's. My heart was heavy as I dropped off Bach on
the way to the airport.
I found Bombay crowded with people returning from the monsoon. Neal
wasn't at the Ritz Hotel as he was supposed to be, and I had to call him twice in
Poona before he showed up. He, Eve, and Ha took a room down the hall, and it
soon resem bled their room in Poona dark and overwhelmed by disorder.
Room-service trays accumulated one on top of another by the door.
"Why don't you put the frays in the hall?" I asked. "A forest is growing on
the roll at the bottom."
"I will." Neal giggled. "I always mean to."
One d ay I arrived at Neal's door at the same time as an Indian with a fat
stomach and a sleazy air. We entered together, and the Indian moved the
rubble from a chair and sat, one foot crossed over a knee.
Neal thanked him for coming and told him my name.
" Rachid Biryani," the Indian said, leaning forward to shake my hand.
"Nice to meet you, darling. Want a line of cocaine? I have quality
pharm aceutical. The best.'"
"Um . sure."
Rachid handed Neal a packet before opening another to make me the
line.
 Neal told him, "Add this to my bill, okay?"
"It's getting quite big, my friend," Rachid answered, grinning with only
half his face and then winking at me. "Pretty soon you will owe me a Mercedes."
He chuckled aloud and slapped Neal on the thigh.
Aha! So that's how Neal was getting coke. On credit from this cretin.
Rachid asked me, "How's the cocaine, darling? The best, didn't I tell you.
W henever you want cocaine or heroin, you come to me, Rachid B iryani.
give you a good price."
I turned to avoid his leer and spotted a metal mound. "Oh, Neal!" I
exclaimed. "You said you'd put those room -service trays in the hall.
Instead, you have twice as many. The kitchen is going to run out soon."
By the end of the week, I concluded that Neal had lost his Barbies. He
wasn't losing them; they were gone. One afternoon he stopped dead in the
street and yelled at the top of his voice to whomever had the m isfortune of
being behind him at the time. He continued shouting as a crowd gathered.
"I pleaded with them to go away and leave us alone," he told me laterthat
day, explaining the incident. GLATTER, SQUEAL, CLA.CK, CLATTER,
SCREECH. "I held up my kid and begged them."
"Begged who?" I asked.
He paused before answering with a senile, "The C.I.A." Theo he added,
"The D.E.A. The F.B.I. You know. AH of those."
"The C.I.A.'s been following you around Bombay?" I asked in a
mocking tone.
I le became serious and told me, "For a long time now. Everywhere I go,
they're there. Every time I walk down a street, they're behind me. Every
time I sit in a restaurant, they're at the next table. I couldn't stand it
anymore and decided to let them know how I felt. I wanted to tell them what
they were doing to my kid. Want a toot?"
I did the line of coke, hoping to ease the bad feeling I had about our
upcoming scam. But the bad feeling got worse anyway. The next day Neal
caused a scene with the hotel m anagement by complaining about people on
his balcony.
"Neal," I reasoned with him later, "your room doesn't have a balcony." "They
were there. I saw them. I had the desk clerk come up and see for
him self." SCREECH, SQUEAL, CLANK.
"Oh, no!" I shook my head and laughed. "Are the people gone now, or
are they still clinging to your window?"
Neal laughed too and shook the bangs out of his eyes. "I don't know.
Why don't you look."
As I opened the drapes, a piece of sunlight reflected on ice-cream -
coated room -service spoons. His window faced the busy avenue in front
of the hotel. "Neal, all you have out there is a window ledge."
And then som etim es he'd stop in the m iddle of a sentence, bring a
finger to his Tips, tiptoe to the door, and place his ear against it.
"There's nobody out there, Neal. Come back here."
"Sssshhhh . . ." He'd kneel to peer through the eighth of an inch of
space beneath the door.
"Oh, come ON."
After gesturing for me to be quiet, he'd turn into a statue, rump in
the air as he squinted at dust balls and imagined the feet of the C.I.A.
W orst o f all, though, was what he did to my scam. He took it over.
First he insisted that I shouldn't carry the dope myself, and he found me a
runnerNikki, whom I'd met in Kathmandu.
"But Neal, I'd rather do it m yself," I argued. "I know I can get
through Custom s easily. The B angkok-B om bay run is nothing. They
don't search you for drugs coming into Bombay. They search you for cassette
players. The risk in B angkok is BEING in Bangkok, and so the more
people involved, the bigger the risk. And the expense. It's a waste of m o n ey ,
c a rry it."
"Absolutely I will carry it."
Then he insisted he was going to Bangkok with us.
"THAT'S RIDICULOUS," I protested. 'T here's no reason for you to
go. It's increasing the risk and costs too much money. I can't pay for three
of us!" Neal was adamant. I was enraged. "There's nothing for you to do in
Bangkok," I said. "And look at you. You can't go to Thailand like this."
"I'm fine."
No matter what I said, he fought me.
I was furious. He'd taken charge of MY scam, which I'D organized
with MY money and MY connection. His basket-case m ind made mayhem
of my plans, and he wouldn't listen to a word I said. I was enraged, not
only at but also at my friends, some o f whom took his side. N eal made no
sense. He was a lunatic. But apparently I was the only one who thought so.
Every person who heard us arguing took his side. I'd leave his room in
tears every time.
Sometimes I continued the discussion later in my room with one of the
bystanders w hod argued against me. "BUT NEALS OUT OF HIS
 MINID!" I yelled, my throat sore from hours of debate. "I CAN'T G() TO
TH A ILA N D W IT H TH A T M A N IA C ! WE W O U L D N T LA ST A DAY
THERE."
He's alright, love," said Birmingham Phillip. "Hell pull him self together,
you'll see."
"HE IM A G IN ES G R EM LINS ON THE W IN D O W LED G E!!" "T hats
ju s t the coke. Be cool, love. N eal's okay you're the one who's hysterical."
I'd storm out of the room, slam the door, airless stairwell fuming in frustration.
Neal and I fought for a whole week. He overruled every suggestion I made.
Every one. About my wanting to go alone; about my not wanting to share a room
with Nikki; about which hotel we'd stay in. He always thought he had a better
way, and I couldn't win. Logic cannot defeat lunacy.
W henever I'd rush out in tears of failure, Neal would follow. He'd bring me
coke to cheer me up. He never yielded to my judgm ent on a single issue, though.
"I low much money do you owe this Indian, Rachid, anyway?" I asked one
day.
"No problem , our scam is going down soon, and then I'll be able to pay
him."
Departure day arrived, and, having surrendered on every issue, I left Bombay
with Nikki. I liked Nikki. She'd been living in Nepal for years, .but she'd never
done a run before, and I hated the thought of entrusting my money and possibly
my future to her. She was also expensive. I had to pay for her round-trip ticket,
plus food and half a hotel roomthe expensive hotel room Neal insisted on.
In Bangkok Nikki and I checked in and waited for Neal to arrive. How had I
enmeshed myself in this situation? Neal was such a fruitcake, how could he not get
the three of us arrested? You couldn't get away w ith telling a Thai desk clerk there
were C.I.A. agents on your window sill.
But then days passed without Neal showing up. Maybe he couldn't think
clearly enough to come. That was what I hoped.
Since he wouldn't be involved in the purchase, I finally decided to leave for
Chiang M ai in northern Thailand. I left Nikki in B an g k o k . Having her stay
behind to wait for Neal was a good excuse to go alone.
The morning I arrived in Chiang Mai, I took a rickshaw to the hotel Jacques
had told me about. A ctually, the driver said there was no hotel
the exact name he'd given me, but there was one that was dose. Good
enough. I let the rickshaw go when I went to speak to the receptionist.
Who? No, the desk clerk had never heard of Jacques's friend. No,
Chiang Mai had no other hotel with that name.
No contact? No contact location?
I died. Right there in the suburbs of some little village in Thailand.
Now what? My plans lay in ruin. There I was in Chiang Mai with no
connection. I had Nikki in Bangkok in an expensive hotel, waiting for me to
pay the bill. I had a madman on my hands who was who-knew-where. I had
no idea what to do next.
My brain w ent on strike. It becam e an em pty, quiet space. No
thoughts passed through. Nothingness. As my feet left the hotel, my eyes
lingered on the pinkness of the flowers in the garden. My feet moved me
forward, but I had nowhere to goI was outside of town without a rickshaw.
I left the hotel grounds and faced an empty, unpaved road. But I wasn't
healed anywhere. My feet just went, and I followed. When they came to a
neighbouring garden, they directed themselves inside. A man in a Chinese
rice hat squatted by a bush. My feet stopped. I wasn't looking at the man. I
was just aimed in his direction.
Eventually he said hello, and I made a weak gesture in response. "Are
you ok" he asked.
I shrugged.
"What is the matter? Are you alright?
It spilled out. The whole story. I told him about my m ission to the hotel
next door, my search for the employee, my woes of not having a connection.
I don't know what to do now," I said.
"That is a dangerous business," the man told me, looking left and
right. "You must be careful who you speak to."
I immediately suspected I'd found a saviour. "Do you know where I
could buy heroin?" I asked him. "Oh, please. Please?"
"Perhaps, perhaps I can help you. But you must be careful." Saved!
He brought me to a guest house and left me with the owner. The new
man agreed he might be able to get me what I wanted, but he was cautious. I
stressed that I needed dope right away or I'd be sick. When he took me to a
storage room and sold me a gram, I could tell he was impressed by the
quantity I inhaled right there.
And then he told me, yes, he could supply me with half a kilo.
I m oved into his guest house and bought the kind of paint kit I'd
 used to smuggle dope to America with John. I decided not to funnel the powder
through the kit's hole, though. After all, I was only going to Bombay. I worked
till dawn packing dope into condoms. Then I opened the flat-b o tto m ends of
the p ain t tubes, rem oved some paint, and implanted the cargo, closing the
tubes without a crinkle.
Before returning to Bangkok, I called Nikki. No, Neal hadn't shown up.
Hallelujah!
And so Nikki didn't carry the paint kit into Bombay. She'd had a vacation at
my expense, but I wasn't about to pay her as a carrier if I didn't have to. W ithout
Neal, I didn't have to.
As soon as we landed, I went to investigate what had happened to Neal.
He giggled at me. "I couldn't get it together," he said. "First I couldn't find
my passport, then I didn't have the right clothes, then I misplaced the passport
again, then it was too Tate. I knew you could do it on your own. You're a big girl."
I didn't answer. What could I say? I was still furious that he'd taken command of
my scam and ignored my proposals. He'd burdened me with Nikki and cost me a
fortune. Now he was calling me a big girl.
I gave him h alf the stash as prom ised and left. I deposited four ounces in
my safety deposit box, bought a couple of grams of coke from the unctuous
Indian, Rachid, and flew to Goa.

I couldn't wait to see Bach. W ithin minutes of arriving at the house, I heard
him bark at the door.
"Bach!"
Apparently he'd run away from Laura at the first opportunity and had been
waiting by the house for my return. The maid and her fam ily had kept him fed,
and for entertainm ent he'd joined a gang of strays on the beach. Bach oh, Bach!
I hugged him as he slurped my face.
By now the new season was well under way, the paddy field crispy brown
once again. The beach parties stamped and stamped every night. Goa Freaks
crow ded Joe B anana's porch all day. They packed into Gregory's restaurant at
mealtim es. I timed dinner so the sun would be setting as I crossed the paddy field
on the way back.
"Look, Bach. L ook at the sky! T hat orange. This is my hom e yours too
now. Our home."
 After a few weeks of visiting, I resumed the routine of sitting locked in the
house. I had my stash and my Bach and didn't have the desire to party or meet
people. I could hear music blasting from the beach, and if there was a tune I
really loved. I'd dance by myself. And sing a bit, like to Steve M iller's "Time
keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin, slippin, slippin in to th e F u tu r e d it, d it,
d i t te "
When I went out, it was to buy coke.
I snorted mountains of coke. All my cash went for coke. I didn't have money
to pay Lino's rent for the year. On the rare occasion when I sold a gram of
smack, I bought coke with the profit. In no time I ran out o f dope and had to
return to Bombay to the stash in the safety deposit box. This time I brought
Bach with me so I could take him to the animal hospital there. He still had
trouble with diarrhoea and vom iting. Poor little thing.
He barked at people at the airport and ran up and down the aisle of the
plane. Fortunately Air India didn't insist that dogs ride in boxes though I'm
sure my fellow passengers weren't enthralled with Bach's antics.
In Bombay I snuck him into the President Hotel, where he had his
diarrhoea and puked all over their carpet. At first I covered his messes by
moving the furniture around. Alas, though, Bach never liked having his
diarrhoea in exactly the same spot twice. Eventually I kept the "Do Not
D isturb" sign on the door so the maid wouldn't go into coronary arrest when
she came to tidy up.
At Dipti's I ran into Rachid, who seemed to be popping up everyw here
lately . W hen I bought coke from him, he suggested I sell for him in Goa.
"Darling, since you're already selling your heroin, why don't you sell my
cocaine at the same time? This way you won't have to buy it, and you can make
a barrel of money."
Sounded like a good idea. I did have to start selling my dope. I needed
rent money for Lino and cash to see me through the season. M aybe could
make enough to finance a scam next m onsoon. I'd do it! As soon as I
returned to Goa, I'd turn my house into a dope den. Hey might be fun.
I visited Neal. Though still angry at him, I loved him. He was my best
friend in the world. I was horrified by what I found.
Eve and Ha bad returned to Poona, and Neal was living alone in a slummy
room at B entley's Hotel on M arine Drive. Em aciated, he could hardly lift
h im self from the bed. Ribs poked through his shirt, and the skin on his neck
was baggy.
"Got any coke?" were his first words.
 "Yeah, sure, but what's the matter with you?"
"I've been sick. I have to stop taking these drugs. Maybe next week. I'll
stop next week. Can you leave me a stash for tomorrow?"
"Sure. Have you been to a doctor?"
"I checked into the Breach Candy hospital but left to score coke and . . .
you know how it is. I never went back." He stood unsteadily and snorted. He
wavered and seemed about to fall over. "I better he down," he said,
supporting him self against the wall as he returned to bed. "You can move
those things and sit," he added, pointing to a chair.
"No, that's okay. I can't stay long. I'm taking the Goa boat in the
morning."
In the taxi to my hotel, the thought h it N eal's going to the. He
can't five long like that. He'd Bone way past a temporary bout of Coke
Amuck. Why hadn't I recognized that before? This was a more serious Coke
Amuck like Gigi's, who'd died shortly after h er m a rria g e to Marco. A
Coke Amuck that wouldn't wear off in a few hours. A Coke Am uck that
went on and on, until the person burned out completely. Instead of resenting
Neal for hampering my scam, I should have worried over my friend's
deterioration.
I had to get Neal to a hospital. But how to keep him in a hospital long
enough to get him well? As soon as the urge for coke hit him, he'd bolt like a
mosquito in a typhoon. W hat could I do?
I formed a plan. I knew if you were in jail and sick, you were transferred
to a hospital and kept under guard. It would be impossible to leave under the
eye of a twenty-four-hour police watch. If I could have Neal arrested, I could
see to it that he be put under a doctor's care.
In a flash o f inspiration, I knew w hom to ask for assistance -
Inspector Navelcar! He would know police officers in Bombay and could have
Neal both arrested and hospitalized. I'd go to Goa to arrange the plan with
Inspector Navelcar and then return to Bombay to make sure Neal was being
treated. A little baksheesh to the hospital and Neal would be pampered like a
maharaja. India was convenient that way. This seemed the only way to save my
friend's life.
Problem the police needed a reason to arrest Neal. I should return to
Neal's room and hide some dopethen I could tell Inspector Navelcar where to
find it. Good idea. I should return right now. I should tell the
driver to turn round and go back to N eal's hotel.
But I didn't do it then, either.
W hen I checked out of the President Hotel, the deck clerk was surprised
to see Bach.
Back at A njuna B each, I opened my dope den. I called it A njuna
D rugoona Saloona and tacked handw ritten advertisem ents throughout the
beach.

A N JU N A D R U G O O N A SA LOON A
: T w o-Story H ouse N ear A polon's Chai Shop

It went Bettor than well. W ithin a week I was dealing four or

five grams o f sm ack every day, along w ith four or five gram s o f
Rachid's I sold the coke in sm aller and sm aller quantities, until
lin es for ten ru p ees each. P eo p le sat aro u n d all day bu y in g one line at
a time. The profit grew as the quantities shrunk. I im agined m yself a
tycoon.
F or p u b licity I h eld a raffle. W ith each pack et I m ade I included a
Raffle ticket said Anjuna Drugoona Saloona and had a number.
The drawing take place at the end of D ecem ber, with a Genuine.
Am erican Dildo V ibrator as first prize, a Champion Frisbee as second, and
a brown stash bottle with attached spoon as third. It took me forever to write
all slips of paper.
People came and went every hour o f the day or night. A round 10
A.M ., when the last person had left and I'd think I could finally sleep-
B A M , BA M ? so m ebody w ould be p o u n d in g on the d o o r. S om eone
was always running out of something. Always. If I didn't answer one door,
they'd ham m er on another. I had four doors, and they'd pound on each one
in turn, relentlessly, until I opened up.
I did go to inspector Navelcar.
"Please," told him, "my friend is sick. If he doesn't get medical care,
and you have him arrested, and then have him locked in a hospital? He
w ouldnt go otherwise, and he's dying, really. Please? You m ust know
people in Bombay."
Inspector Navelcar shook his head Indian style. "Yes, I have associates
there. What do we arrest him for? There m ust be a charge."
 I should have gone hack to the hotel and planted something. I knew I
should have gone back. "Drugs. There are always drugs in his room," I told
him.
"It would be better if we knew for certain."
"There's always something, I promise. Please?"
I said he'd talk to his colleague and see what he could do.
I left the station thinking I'd have to come back in a week to check his
progress and m aybe beg him more.
But I never made it back. My dope den became a giant enterprise. It wasn't
merely a place to buy drugs; it was a place to do drugs. I kept the upstairs as an
apartment, while the downstairs served as my dope den, the Saloona. The largo
living room held thirty people com fortably. M ore sat at the table in the
dining room . Then there'd be some in the front room and some in the
kitchen. There'd even be two or three people congregating in the bathroom.
People were everywhere, always. In every room, on ev e ry m a ttre s s,
e v e ry w h e re I tu rn e d , th e re w ere p e o p le , b la re d from the stereo; it was a
nonstop party.
Some people came just to hang out. Like Tish. She was pregnant. "Y ou're
not doing any drugs? At all?" I asked in astonishm ent. "Nope," Tish
answered. "Well, alm ost never. I'm holding off till the
birth."
The baby's father, Junky Robert, who was sitting next to her, didn't have
to make this sacrifice; he careened sideways till his head rested on G eorgettes
shoulder.
"Eh!" said G eorgette, shrugging him off and awake. "C'a ne va pas
comine fa, dis done. R obert, give him a Break, man."
Old friends came to socialize. Graham dropped by with his son, who ran
around the room with I3ach.
Many customers were new faces to me. Since I'd stopped attending beach
parties, I knew few of the recent additions to the Goa scene. Now I met thein
all.
KNOCK, KNOCK came the sound on my door (my latest Bindi Bazaar
d o o rb e ll had rusted in the inonsoon, like its predecessors), and there stood
another new person. Are you Cleo? Yes, hello, c'm on in. K N O CK ,
K N O C K . H i, a frie n d o f Je rry S ch m altz . . . C om e in. KNOCK,
KNOCK. Is this the place? Welcome, make yourself at homo. KNOCK,
KNOCK. W ould som ebody open the door, Please?
I w an ted to m ake a dope den u n lik e any o th er. I w anted tu e rrate
something to go down in history. I wanted a place people would remember
in old age went to this den once, back in the 1970s, you w ouldn't believe
i t . . . "I. To this end I promised my customers exact weights. Each purchase
came guaranteed that if a quantity was less than it should be. I'd give back
twice what was m issing. If a gram was tenth of a gram short, the buyer
would get back a fifth. I also had stacks of games for people to play:
Monopoly, backgammon, P arch eesi. . . The red Buddha bhong I'd bought
in Toronto was a great attraction. M y custom ers delighted in smoking
dope from the Buddha's belly. Often I threw Movie Nights and showed my
films. For these occasions I hung fliers at Joe Banana's and Gregory's
restaurant.

MOVIE NIGHT THURSDAY

ANJU NA D R U G O O N A SALOONA

But if anyone asked. I'd also show the movies on request.

The den becam e a hangout. Along w ith the nightly host o f new
faces, the Saloona had its regulars. People met there before going out for
the night, or before a flea m arket or a beach party or breakfast. People
cam e to m eet o th er p eople. Plans w ere m ade there. G ossip heard.
Romances begun. Once there was a theatre group from California that,
coked-out during one night, decided to perform for the beach. For a
m onth they came every night, holding creative conferences around my
ten-rupee coke packages. I lent them wigs and props, and the final
production was hell nearby.
I did HAVE to dose the place a few hours a day. I was exhausted. I
ran all night bong, endlessly fetching ten-rupee packets of coke or half
grams of smack or some tobacco. This one wanted an orange soda, and
someone over there was hunting for the backgammon set. W ill someone
please get the door? You wanted the mirror, right? There should be one
right around here. I have five of them. Do you have another bhong? No,
sorry. I3ut there are a few here. Why don't you use Sasha's over there?
Can you play another tape? I'm sick of this one. Choose what you like
from tapes on the shelf. Hey, Graham, would you mind getting the door
again? we need another line of coke here. No, make that two. No, three.
Me too. Two more over there. Hey, Cleo, over here. Cleo, where's the
mirror? Cleo, we need more tobacco. Cleo, the door!
In the morning, after the asthm atic rooster next door had wheezed,
and when only two or three people remained in the den, I'd announce it
was closing time and scoot them out. Oh, and don't forget your friend in
the comer. Who, him? He's not with us. He's been sleeping there for
hours. Well, do you think you could take him with you anyway? What's
that lump on the platform? Another sleeper? Would you give him a shake
for me. And I think there's one more on the waterbed.
Finally, alone and in peace, I'd hang notes on the doors saying I
HAVE TO SLEEP and DO NOT DISTURB!
But it never faileda crisis always occurred. Someone was out of
something. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo! It's an emergency! Open
up! I'm out of coke! Or there'd be a group that ran out of parties and
wanted to start its own. Or there'd be someone who couldn't sleep and
just wanted to talk. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo, we know you're in
there.
At first Rachid stationed a man in Mapusa, and I'd go every morning
for a supply of coke. By this time I was selling a couple dozen grams a
day. I told Rachid I couldn't keep making those trips into town, though,
because I lost customers while I was away. There'd be a crowd waiting for
me when I returned. So Rachid had a man deliver a daily supply to my
door.
Then my dope ran out, and I had to sell Rachid's dope along with
his coke. I didn't only deal in coke and dope, though. I sold whatever had
a market. When someone needed kilos of hash, I arranged it with Rachid
and earned three hundred dollars. One time, som eone left me blotter
acid to sell. I even had a stock of opium, though I kept the Opium pipe
hidden in the blowtorched safe. I had yet to find someone who managed
to smoke the Opium rather than spatter it on the carpet and the linoleum.
I matched people for scams and deals and ideas. The running around-
hustling, mediating, and fetching seemed never to end.
Decem ber came and went. I had someone pick the winning raffle
num bers, and since the w inners w eren't there, I hung signs at Joe
Banana's, the Three Sisters' restaurant, Gregory's restaurant, and the
Monkey chai Shop:

ANJU NA D R U G O O N A SALOONA R AFFLE W INNERS

First Prize, the Genuine American Dildo Vibrator: #008961
Second Prize, the Champion Frisbee: #002187
Third Prize, stash bottle: #003658
 I barely noticed the passing of Christmas or New Year's and never
had the opportunity to visit anybody.
I did hear news, though. People told me what went on and asked me for
gossip in return. Whatever happened to Serge? Don't know. He hasn't shown up
this season. Neither have Dayid and Ashley. I heard they're in Australia.
Ashley wants to keep Dayid away from the smack. I think he's driving a cab.
NO! Really? D id you hear about M ichael and Fatim a and the m otorcycle?
In B ali, right? The roads there are atrocious. And where's M ental? Jail.
Busted last monsoon in the States. Oh, yeah? Hey, Cleo, we need another
quarter over here. And isn't that startling about Bombay Brian. Hey, Cleo,
ten-rupees of coke.
On top of stories recounted directly, news inundated me as I moved
through the crowd exchanging paper packets for money. ... Petra in the
h o sp ital. W hat about P etra? She had a car accident. H er legs were
crushed. D idn't she inherit a fortune? W here did that m irror go? Hey,
Sasha! W here've you been? Bombay. Just got back this minute. Neal died
last night. W ho has the B uddha bhong? Do you have an o th er razor
blade? Here's the m irror who wanted it? Did you hear Neal died in
Bombay? I heard. Here, have a bhong. May I have another orange soda,
please?
Tears flooded my eyes as I handed out drugs, found m irrors and
bhongs, served sodas and fresh razor blades. No, I can't think about Neal. I
might start screaming and run into the ocean. I can't think about Neal now.
The A njuna D rugoona Saloona was a great success, continually
packed with customers, friends with their own stashes, and people hoping for
a free turn-on. Canadian Jacques came now and then, but I never sat long
with him before being called on a powder errand. The whole beach popped in
to visit, socialize, and check out the scene. Norwegian Monica male an
appearance. Did I tell you Greek R obert hung him self in jail? No! 'Too
bad, he was so cute. Blind George dropped by. Even Alehandro sallied in
with his followers. John, my Applecroc, also stopped by occasionally to say
hello. D id you hear about N eal? Yes, but I can't think about it,
Applecroc. That bitch Eve, man. We collected money for the funeral, and
she shot up every rupee! All the money went up her arm in coke and dope.
Finally Bila from Dipti's had to pay for the funeral. And do you believe it,
man. Eve never showed up! She borrowed money from Bom bay Brian,
saying she needed to feed the kid, and then went to Sukalatchi Street to
score coke. Never even showed up for the funeral, do you believe that? I can't
think about it, Applecroc. Oh, Cleo, can we have another ten-rupee packet here?
And I think someone's at the door.
The running around exhausted me. T here never seem ed to be enough
time for everything I had to do. W eighing out quantities and folding them in
marked packages took at least three or four hours a day, depending on the
number of interruptions. I did the packing first thing in the afternoon, when I
woke up. It was rare indeed, however, that I'd be allowed to wake from natural
causes. Inevitably I'd awaken to frantic poundings on the door, so I wouldn't be
able to start the daily weighing chore until I had taken care of whoever-it-was
granting, of course, that no one else showed up in the meantime. Help! This is
too much for one person to handle. On Rachid's next trip to Goa, I rushed to
his room at the Fort Aguada Hotel to ask for an assistant.
"Rachid, help! I need an assistant. My Saloona is too much for one person
to handle alone."
"Darling, what happened to your friend Neal?"
"I can't think about Neal. W ill you send me an assistant?"
He sent me a tall, thin Indian man. At first I thought my problem was
solved. Rachid's coke and smack came in grams, and it was Indian Man's
prim ary job each morning to weigh ten half grams and twelve quarters of
smack, plus twenty halves and twenty-four quarters and fifty lines of coke. It
took him twice as bong as it used to take inc. Someone would come for a
quarter and he'd still be weighing halves. Oh, dear this would never do.
Indian M an didn't work out at all. The biggest problem was his inability
to measure exact weights.
"Please!" I said to him. "My custom ers trust me. If you can't make the
packets exact, then make them overweight, okay? Underweight is unethical!"
Impossible. I guess in Rachid's employ, he was only capable of producing
underweight quantities. For the first time people complained that their packets
were short, and I reimbursed them with double the missing amount. Indian Man
could not comprehend such scruples. I tried reasoning with Rachid.
"PLEASE tell him to weigh exact quantities. He's ruining my reputation.
Pin having to pay back double what he leaves out."
"Double? You are not doing that, are you, darling? Sharp cookie like you?"
It was beyond Rachid's comprehension too.
 On top of that, Indian Man made my customers paranoid. They cringed at
the presence of the straight-looking Indian, so neatly dressed. He reminded them
of the police.
"But he works for Rachid!" T tried to reassure everybody. "He's more gangster
than policeman."
"I know. But he still makes me nervous," would be the response. And
Bach hated him. So Indian Man had to go.
I'm so tired. Exhausted. Where's my coke? I need another line.
It's remarkable how much coke and dope one can consume when the supply is
unlimited. I shrunk to skinniness again. How long had it been since my last
period? Two years? I did manage alternate daily injections of vitamin B complex
and calcium, though; and because it was so smooth, I drank glasses of the
Electrolyte mixture. I did TRY to eat, but coke had so constricted my throat that
solid food didn't want to go down. The only substance I could tolerate was Gregory's
creamy mousse, with which he competed against The Three Sisters' chocolate
pudding. Oo, the mousse felt wonderful as it slid coolly and soothingly down.
Since I couldn't leave the Saloona, I sent a motorcycle driver to Gregory's restaurant
every day. Unfortunately Gregory had instituted a policy of not serving his much-
desired desserts without a main course. So, to acquire the two or three mousses, I
had to order two or three main courses. That was okayBach loved Gregory's
prawns in wine sauce.
Bach lived the good life in Anjuna Beach. The animal hospital in Bombay
had cured him of his ills, and he thrived on the two or three servings a day of
prawns in wine sauce or sirloin buffalo steak. The maid and her family called him
Fatso. Bach had a routine. He'd wake up while it was still dark and nudge me
until I let him out. Then he'd be gone for hours, running with his gang of strays.
Around II A.M. he'd bark at the door. Since this was when I'd be desperately
trying to sleep. I'd ignore him as long as I could, but eventually I'd drag myself to
the door and let him in for his drink of water. After that he'd rest peacefully
beside me until the first wake-me-up customer came pounding at the door, at
which time he'd go out again. For the rest of the day he'd be within calling
distance, and whenever he wanted to come in, he'd bark once and I'd obediently
open the door.
During February my dope den changedpeople switched from snorting
lines and smoking bhongs to shooting up. Apparently many Goa Freaks were now
into fixing. Some fixed only coke, but others, doe to a shortage of funds, fixed
dope in order to do less and make it last longer.
The end of the season was the time when personal stashes and monetary funds ran
low. The people fixing smack simply bought it and left. Those fixing coke bought
it and stayed. They stayed for hours and hours and HOURS.
Moving with the trend, I added a new line of products to my inventory. I
sold needles for five rupees and syringes for forty. I also rented syringes,
carefully boiling them between rentals. An ampoule of distilled water cost five
rupees. I stockpiled vitamin B ampoules, which I tried to push instead of the
water.
"Why don't you dilute your drugs with this vitamin B complex instead of
water?" I'd say. "It costs a few rupees more, but it's GOOD for you. Look how
skinny you are. I bet your body is craving a little B. It'll give you a nice rush too."
"Won't it mess up the coke rush?"
"Not at all. It adds to it, I promise. You won't believe the head this gives
you! And it'll make you healthy at the same time."
"Nah, just give me the water"
I was surprised by how many people turned down the vitamin B . When I
promoted it seriously, some agreed to try it but acted as if they were doing me a
big favour. They rarely asked for it again.
"Well, then, how about a nice shot of calcium?" I'd offer next. "This is
intramuscular and doesn't give you a head, but it will restore the calcium that coke
depletes from your body. I give you the shot myself. How 'bout it?"
Needless to say, the health supplies were not my most popular items.
One day I noticed that people who fixed their drugs created a different
atmosphere than those who smoked or sniffed. While smokers and sniffers were
more social and interactive, fixers were more introverted. They were preoccupied
with their sets of paraphernalia, their arms, their rushes. If a smoker or sniffer was
wandering about when one of the fixers peaked, it caused a startled jump. So
eager to please my clientele-I separated them and provided a special area for
fixers. For this I had to use the second floor. I set up blue and green velvet
mattresses around a blue and green rug to create a haven in the bedroom. The
three windows encircling the northern extension of the room let in the breeze
from the sea; that first rush of coke could sure bring on a heavy sweat.
I provided everything. I distributed cut-up strips of satin for tying arms. I
bent every kitchen spoon I owned into the shape convenient for mixing coke with
water, and I laid out metal bottle openers for breaking
 the glass tops of distilled-water ampoules. Scattered among the Kashmiri
tables were champagne glasses filled with water for cleaning syringes. In the
centre of the space I placed a pot with a sign saying SQUIRT HERE. This was
to prevent people from squirting bloody water into ashtrays. There's nothing
uglier than cigarette mucus swimming in ashes and blond.
Paradise Pharmacy in M apusa became my best customer. The pharmacy
was notorious for selling morphine, Mandrax, Valium, and whatever. When I
went there soliciting cocaine, the owner jum ped at the opportunity. Apparently
he was deluged with requests for it. On my weekly trips to M apusa to deliver
him a dozen grams, I would stock up on distilled water and new needles.
As the season progressed and the Goa Freaks' cash dwindled, the
smokers and sniffers trickled away, leaving me with two rooms of fixers
upstairs. At Joe Banana's one day someone asked me, "What's this I hear
you have a shooting gallery in your house?"
"A shooting gallery!" I'd never heard the expression before and thought
it wondrously clever. "Hey, that's cute."
Among the new fixing clientele was a gorgeous blonde German with a
m arvellous Body. He would arrive early in the afternoon and, buying half
grams at a time, would fix one shot after another until late at night. We liked
each other. However, with all the drugs I ingested, sex was the last thing in the
world I wanted. Sex ranked alongside jail and chewy foods unthinkable! He,
m eanw hile, was totally preoccupied with his rushes. Our moments together
consisted of snatches of my spare time intersecting w ith his calm er
in terlu d es perhaps as he cleaned his syringe.
"No, no! N ot in the ash tray !" I'd ex claim . "H ere, see it says
SQUIRT HERE." For a m om ent our eyes com m unicated feelings our bodies
couldn't.
"Oops, I did that again? I'm sorry. So when am I going to teach you to
windsurf?"
"Soon."
The gorgeous German had brought to Goa the first wind surfboard anyone
had seen. I couldn't imagine when he had time to ride it, though, since he sat in
the Saloona. Every day, all day.
Also among the new group of fixers was Marco. For years Gigi and M arco
had lived in a yellow -tiled m ansion on the road to Calangute. Their
successful hash im port-export business had made them the centre of the chic
and popular Italian group. It ended, though, with Gigi's death. Now here was
M arco or rather the ghost of Marco.
W hen Gigi m axed-out on coke and dope in Bom bay, M arco had been
jailed in Europe; he had m issed her death and funeral. Now he seemed to
be following her footsteps to doom. As Marco fell apart, so did his business,
his finances, his circle of friends. He'd lost the house, sold his possessions,
and existed somehow, here and there, with his daughter. Formerly elegant and
stylish, he now epitomized the slimy junkydirty, lying, hustling, stealing
whatever wasn't tied down, and fixing anything he could lay his hands on.
At first I felt terrible for him. Over and over we watched my movie of their
weddingravishing Gigi, brown hair gliding over her laughing face as she
clim bed into Greek Robert's jeep for the ride to Hanuman ice cream shop
in Mapusa. We watched as she and Marco listened to the ceremony in the
government office. Marco stared at the movie in fascination. Over and over.
The jeep ride, the ice cream, the government ceremony.
"Show it again," he'd say.
"Again?"
He'd give me an Italian-type lift of the chin.
Then M arco becam e a problem . Objects vanished as he passed
thema Balinese mask, an ampoule of distilled water, a used needle. He
pestered my customers. He borrowed cigarettes and beedies, hustled hits of
this and that, and asked people to buy him soda.
I tried talking to him. "Marco, did you take that syringe?"
"What syringe?"
"Come on, I know you have it." I hated to sound picky, but I was
reaching the end of my charitableness. "It's forty rupees if you're going to keep
it and listen, I'd rather you didn't hustle everybody like that. A little hustle is
okay, but you asked every single person here for some of their stash. They're
getting annoyed. Youll ruin my business if customers stop coining because of
you."
He made apologetic prom ises, but his eyes still searched the room for
objects to steal.
I decided I could no longer let him in the house. The next time he came
to the door, I didn't open it. I made him go to a back window instead.
"I'm sorry. I can't let you in anymore," I told him. "I don't trust you.
If you want to buy something, it has to be through the window."
I thought I'd never see him again, but he still came every day.
How horrible., The only window that was the right height and noi
 fully exposed to passers-by was a back one in the kitchen. Beneath it lay the garbage
lump where the maid deposited things that couldn't he burned. It faced the Goan
toilets and rested over the septic tank. Marco stood there in the trash to buy his drugs
from between metal window bars. I felt a brute. I had trouble meeting his eyes as I
handed him packets through the bars. He had trouble meeting me.
And then came Maria. Maria turned out to be even worse than Marco. What
was happening to the Goa Freaks?
The couple Maria and Stefano, both Italian, had a little girl, four years old.
Stefano wasn't a customer of mine, only Maria. Maria had been to the Saloona a few
times for smack and coke, but the first time I paid attention to her was when she arrived
towing a semi straight backpacker. Here was a real hustler, I thought.
"Ciao, Cleo," she said, as if we were best buddies. "Meet my friend here. What is
your name again? He wants to buy coke." When the guy wasn't looking, she made a
face and winked at me as co conspirator. "How much money do you have?" she asked
him, keeping a grip on his arm while he dog in his pockets.
"Uh, you said I could score a quarter
She took the money from his hand and helped him count. "You have plenty. You can
buy me a gram. I need some for later."
Not long after he bought her the gram, Maria had him out the door with a wave, a
tolerant smile, and a see-you-later. Smooth.
I'd seen my share of compulsive coke fixers, but nobody equalled Maria, despite
her useless veins. Like many women, she had difficulty getting into one. Men's
veins were more prominent and visible. Sometimes Maria tried unsuccessfully for
twenty minutes, practically in tears and totally obsessed with plunging the now-
disgusting liquid into her arm.
"Maria!" I'd say, spotting the glop in her syringe. "You can't fix that! Yuk! The
blood in there coagulated fifteen minutes ago."
Her concentration wouldn't waver. With drops of sweat dangling from her bangs
she'd continue prodding.
"It's STUCK!" she'd wail eventually in the most pitiful tone imaginable. "The
needle's clogged!"
"Well, of course. Look at that stuff. It's turned to jello."
Not allowing it to go to waste, she'd remove the needle and squirt the disgusting
goo into her mouth before starting over.
All of Goa knew about Maria. Having run out of money long ago, she hustled
from everyone. She was very pretty, very cute, and very good at what she did. Since I
made bhongs and lines for the people around me, she made herself my best friend. She
was terrificemptied ashtrays, fetched sodas, collected money, opened the door for
Bach when he barked. Charming and funny, Maria told stories that made people laugh,
enchanting the masses with her Italian accent and her big brown eyes. She brought
me many customers, people I'd never seen before, picked up from who-knew-which
beach. It was amazing the way she finagled strangers into buying her drugs.
 As the season progressed, the hippies, backpackers, and tourists began to leave,
and the Goa Freaks who still had money began to run low. Soon I noticed that the
profits at day's end did not match the amount of packets supposedly sold. Maria was
stealing my drugs!
One day I caught herMaria with her grubby hand in my metal box. "Ah, Cleo, I'm
sorry, I'm sorry. . . "
Furiously, I grabbed her by the hair, threw her out the door, and kicked her
down the steps. She landed in a shrieking heap at the bottom. I slammed the door.
She stopped coming alter that, but I could tell when she sent someone to buy drugs
for her. Whenever I found an unknown, straightish, backpacker-type on my
doorstep, I knew M aria wasn't far away. Sometimes I'd see her hiding behind the
well, waiting.
As the season progressed I had fewer and fewer customers, and the customers had
less and less money. In April I learned the most important lesson of the drug retail
businessNEVER GIVE CREDIT!!! Too bad it took me so long to figure that out.
Maria owed me money, but she was one of many. I had a discouraging list of people
indebted to me. Since I .never gave credit without holding something as collateral, I
possessed a staggering amount of bric-a-brac. By the end of April, I had eight watches,
five rings, four passports, three gold chains, two tape players, two silver bracelets, one
silver belt, a silver candlestick holder, a radio, a pair of almost-new cowboy boots, a
gold locket, an ivory elephant, a shapeless piece of jade, a piece of amber with a
insect frozen within, a Swiss army knife, pictures of loved o n es... None of this
junk, though, served as currency when it came to re supplying my store.
U h-oh-I was in trouble.
 And I'd never paid Lino the rent money for the year. Though I'd earned a
fortune that season in profits. I'd consumed a fortune in drugs and given away
another fortune's worth. Now, as I lost customers to the approaching monsoon, I
felt the weight of the credit I'd given. I tacked up notices saying NO CREDIT.
Alas, too late. I could only afford smaller and smaller quantities. Soon Rachid
stopped his man from delivering to my door. Because I could afford only a few
grams at a time, I sometimes had to traipse to Mapusa twice a day. Soon the Saloona
didn't work anymore.
Lack of capital caused the major problems. I needed more cash on hand to
purchase stock from Rachid's man in Mapusa. How could I get it? I had to
recall the money owed me. But how? Some people had already left for the
monsoon. Those who still came could barely afford what they were buying, and
if I pressed them too hard, I might lose the few customers I had left.

Maria. 'That traitor! She owed twenty-six hundred rupees. If I could recover
that, i'd be in bester condition.
I went to Stefano, her boyfriend and father of her child, to demand payment
of Maria's bill. Poor Stefano. I was hardly the only one with whom Maria had
this conflict. Half the beach had approached him with the same complaint.
So, no help there. My cash problem worsened. Paradise Pharmacy, my most
reliable buyer, also lost customers to the monsoon. They stopped their
weekly order. What to do now? I had no choice-I had to sell some of the
baubles I was holding as security on debts. What did those people think I was,
anyway? Credit Lyonnais? I spread the word that the last opportunity for people
to reclaim their property had arrived. Come now and get this junk of yours or
you'll never see it again. Only one person too !k me up on it and reclaimed his
passport. I waited one more week, then went to Mapusa in a taxi full of
merchandise.
Oh, go d -lo o k at this. I must look like a burglar, standing in the market
place clutching eight watches. Ridiculous. But there was nothing else to do. I
chose a spot where I could partially hide behind stalks of sugarcane. On one side
of me sat an Indian woman with a stack of papaya; on the other an Indian
woman with bananas.
"BA-NA-NA," cried the one.
"PA-PA-YA," yelled the other.
W ell, okay. Here goes. I closed my eyes and took a breath.
"W ATCHES! EU R O PEA N W A TCH ES! COME CHECK THEM
OUT!" I felt like a Class A retard. Must have looked like one too, hiding there in
the sugarcane.
"GENUINE MITSUHISHI CASSETTE PLAYER!" Yippee, was this really
me?
"BA-NA-NA!"
"AUTHENTIC TEXAS COWBOY BOOTS!" Had I really said that?
Now I knew I was an asshole.
"BA-NA-NA!"
"BOOTS!"
One or two people stopped, gave me knowing looks, and browsed through
my wares.
"You have maybe a Panasonic record player?" one asked.
"Sorry, no."
"You can get?"
Did I look like an international electronics distributor, standing there in
a fish market with eight watches on my arms? Or did he think I would steal one
for him?
"Sorry."
After being bargained down to nothing, I sold one watch and then went to
the woman from Paradise Pharmacy for help. "Try that store across the
square," she whispered. "Ask for the manager."
Obviously a fence, the manager had no doubt about how I'd acquired the
collection of jewellery and assorted plunder. I felt exactly like the breaking-
and-entering lowlife he imagined me to be. Of course he paid only the minimum.
He evaluated the gold chains according to the weight of the gold; the same for the
beautiful locket. I could have gotten more if I'd continued hawking them in the
market, but I lacked the patience and the confidence. How embarrassing! I wanted
to bury my face in a cowboy boot.
I kept the passports as long as I could, but eventually those too were sold, this
time to Rachid.
"I will take all the passports you can get, darling. Two hundred dollars for an
American or a Swiss passport, one hundred for other nationalities." Apparently
passports were more valuable than gold.
One day Marco came to my back window with news and a request. Maria
lay in the hospital in a coma. Could I contribute to the find they were collecting
to pay her hospital bill?
"Of course," I answered. For weeks M aria had been a best friend to
me. It didnt matter if the friendship was partly a hustle; the relationship had
existed. She was a fellow Goa Freak. She belonged to my Goa community. We had
to help each other. "What's wrong with her?" I asked.
"She collapsed unconscious last night."
"What about dope? She shouldn't withdraw on top of whatever else is wrong
with her. Does the hospital know about her drug habits?" Marco shook his head.
"Maybe we should put dope in her I.V. bottle. Just enough for her not to be
sick. I tried it once; I think it'll work."
"I'm meeting Stefano this evening at the hospital. Want to come?" he asked.
"Okay.
Stefan (Maria's boyfriend), Marco, and I met later in Mapusa and discussed
how to get dope into Maria's unconscious body. I gave Stefano half a gram to hold
her a few days. I only saw Maria as a faraway bundle in a bed.
The three of us set up a schedule of shifts to sit with her. I had the morning,
since it was the only time I could get away without losing a lot of customers. It
would mean sacrificing much of my sleep time, though.
I arranged for a motorcycle driver to pick me up every morning at nine-
thirty. Eeek, now I was more tired than ever. I needed even more coke.
Within day; Maria was alert and mobile but scared and totally miserable. I
continued my shift to keep her company and prevent her from leaving before she
recovered. I stayed at her side until Stefano or Marco replaced me as sentry. She
cried.
"Ah, Cleo. Thank you for coming. You're still my friend, no? You don't
hate me like the others, do you? You know .I'm so sorry. I never meant anything
bad. Please be my friend again."
There seemed to be two Marias there. One warm, sensitive, and terrified,
crying over not wanting her daughter to see her in the hospital. The other was
crafty. Her eyes gleamed as she scanned me to determine where I'd hidden my
coke. The transition as she changed from Maria to Coke Amuck M aria was
dramatic and unmistakable. Her face underwent a metamorphosisthe tension
of the muscles, the shape of the eyes, the curl of the lila. Her body would stiffen
like a predatory animal. I never mistook which one I was dealing with. I couldn't
communicate with Coke Amuck Maria. She didn't listen. Her answers came brief and
vague as she concentrated on discovering the whereabouts of my stash. I kept the
coke taped to my body, beneath my clothes. Coke Amuck Maria was so skilful at
gaining access to it, though, that if I left the hospital with it intact, I felt a sense
of accomplishment.
The way coke nuts got their paws on coke was almost magical.
 But I also saw a real M aria there, a desperate and sad Maria who needed
not to be hated. I brought her flasks of coconut milkshake and Five Star candy
bars, and we played games. She was bored and miserable. One day I brought my
projector and movies to cheer her up.
"Ah, Gigi," she exclaimed as we watched Gigi and Marco's wedding. "She
was my good friend." The scared look came into her eyes again.
One morning I arrived to find Maria gone. She had signed herself out. No,
she hadn't paid the hospital bill. And no, the hospital would not give me back my
projector and films until the bill was paid. Sorry.

The end of the season came and passed. My business trickled to nothing
as the last stragglers fashioned scams and left Goa. Every day another house was
boarded up against the monsoon. I had to get out of there. Meanwhile, not only
had I not paid Lin the year's rent, I'd once again accumulated a large bill with
the maid, Apolon's chai shop, Joe Banana, and Gregory's restaurant.
Then the business died completely. No more coke. No more smack. No
money. Uh-oh.
I scrounged the beach begging bhongs from whom ever had something.
Alehandro was still usable as a last resort, but' even that source dried up as
Alehandro made plans to move to Bombay. Every week another credit-giving
chai shop shut as its owner prepared for summer toil in the rice field. When
Apolon's chai shop closed, my trouble deepened, for that had been my last source of
food.
I had to do something, but what? Realistically I knew I was incapable of
handling another run. Aware of the mistakes I'd made the previous m onsoon, I
knew I was even less shipshape than then. My brain was scram bled by coke
and ex h au stio n . I couldn't trust m yself to carry through another scam.
Besides, no one was begging to hire me. Bony, and with the diamond back in
my nose, I didn't look like the candidate most likely to cross an Immigration
desk unmolested.
Poor Bach I barely managed to keep him fed with peanut butter. Then, in
desperation, I hooked up with Birmingham Phillip. He had dope, a bhong,
and food for Bach. Egads, a Birmingham Boy! Had it
 really come to this? Fortunately he was too smacked-out to think about sex or
romance. I packed my house and moved to his place by Nelson's Bar. Nelson
Bar, the Birmingham Boy hangout. Bad scene here. Real bad. Horrible. Oh, help.
One day I spoke imploringly to a tree in front of Phillip's house. I caressed
its hark. "Please," I beseeched it, "get me out of here. I can't feed Bach
anymore." I looked for a spot that wasn't overrun by crawling things and laid my
cheek against it. "Please help me, tree. Maybe Bombay w ould be better. At least
there'd be people there. Help me get to Bombay. Or anywhere. Help me, tree.
GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

The next day I went to my house to pick up clothes. While inside I heard a
motorcycle roar to a stop. Strange. There hadn't been a motorcycling visitor in at
least two months.
A knock.
I opened to see a customer of mine from the days of smokers and sniffers.
An orange person. A Rajneesh sannyasi. "HEY, HI! I can't believe it! What are you
doing here?" I asked.
"I came to see how you were. Need anything?"
"Wow, do I ever! Could you take me to Bombay? Oh, PLEASE! Get me out
of here! I'm trapped." He nodded.
But I would have to leave Bach. Aw, Bach. It was impossible to bring him with
me. I wrapped my arms around my furry companion. He licked my ear. Don't,
worry, Bach, I'll be back. Then be able to feed you the tasty treats you deserve
prawns in wine sauce every day.
I ran to Laura, who hadn't been off Anjuna Beach since the time we'd
been in Bali. I knew she'd be there.
"Sure, I take care of Bach," she told me, "but he didn't stay with
me last time, and I doubt hell stay now."
Oh, my little Bach. Forgive me. There's no way I can survive the monsoon
down here.
After two days on the bike, we arrived in Bombay. My orange friend dropped
me at the Crown Hotel disgusting, loathsome, and cheap. Without cheer I
waved goodbye as he headed back to Poona. Maybe I'd have been better off
starving in Goa after all. Now what?
The rains came. Bombay was as deserted as Goa had been. By this time
anybody with half a mind had found some way to leave the country. Only the last
drugs of the down-and-outers remained.
Bila from Dipti's allowed me to eat on credit, but I knew that many failed Goa
Freaks owed him money, and he couldn't afford to support us all. Because of us Bila
was in debt himself. I hated to take advantage of his generosity. I limited myself to one
dish of his ice cream a day. The man from the travel agency that arranged visa
renewals lent me rupees for a few days at the hotel.

A week later I was still desperate and also hungry. Not eating because you
didn't have money to buy food was different from not eating because you were
too stoned to eat. I wasn't anywhere near stoned. I rationed myself tiny bits of
the tola of opium I'd acquired on credit from the Chor Bazaar opium den.
July 1979. Birmingham Bobby approached me on the street, hoping for a
free hit of dope. After I disappointed him by not having any, he recounted the
police trouble the Birmingham Boys had had in England: Birmingham Timmy
was in jail there, Bobby him self couldn't return. Like me, Bobby was broke.
He slept on the streets with the beggars.
Holy cow! Living like an Indian beggar. Could that happen to me? It was not
impossible, I concluded.
And so, in fear of a similar face, I contacted Rachid and became initiated into
his travellers checks scam. Fleecing vacationers seemed the only means of survival.
As I spent days in the rain with Dandruff and luckless tourists, I consoled my
conscience by thinking they'd get their travellers checks refunded. The taste of
raspberry doughnuts also helped soothe my mind. At least I no longer worried
about food, drugs, or shelter.
Or rather, I didn't worry until I found m yself in the New Delhi police
station. With Dandruff in the cell that said "Ladies." And me in a police
inspector's office. Under a desk. Chained to the desk. With the inspector
stroking my hair and whispering how he would make everything okay.
"You are not having to cry," he said. "I can make everything okay for you. I
can take away this manacle even, if you are wishing."
Arrested and chained to a deskwhat to do now? I wanted to sleep. I wanted
to forget everything for a while. How to handle the inspector? I didn't have many
options. I could hassle with the guy, make a fuss, make an enemy of him, and
probably not be able to sleep for hours. Or I could manipulate him with a clever
story so he'd leave me alone. But that, too, would take hours, and my brain didn't
have the energy to be that creative. Or I could give him what he wanted, which
probably wouldn't take five minutes. After that I'd be able to sleep in peace.
Maybe he'd even help me out of this mess. Of the choices, his way seemed the
easiest and the most potentially rewarding.
 "Okay," I told him.
"Okay?"
In the darkness I imagined a lecherous smile on his face. With a clanging,
rattling, and jangling, he unchained my legand it didn't even take five minutes.
After another two, I slept.

Morning filled the Office with activity servants ferried glasses of water,
police bandied papers, civilians shot in and out asking questions. The inspector
couldn't have been sweeter to me. He plied me with tea and fried Indian food;
jumped to find someone to accompany me to the bathroom every time I wanted to
go; asked if I needed anything, anything at all. He treated Dandruff differently. He
kept Dandruff handcuffed to a wooden chair, ignored everything he said, and
spoke to him harshly. Dandruff hadn't had dope since the day before and felt sick.
Good the double-crossing creep. I had a ball of opium inside my dress.
In the afternoon Dandruff and I were driven to a courthouse. Rachid sent a
lawyer for us, but I had barely spoken a word to him before being deposited in a
lathes' bathroom, where two fat females in white saris guarded me. W hen they
called me to the courtroom, D andruff and I were pushed through a mob of
turbaned Sikh lawyers and their clients. I didn't know when our turn had come.
Our lawyer stood three feet, but several people, away, and I couldn't understand
a word he said. Then I .was led back to the bathroom. What had been decided?
What would happen to me now? No one could understand my questions.
In the evening a guard ushered me to a truck. Scores of chained male prisoners
were herded inside, and then, after a grilled door had been closed behind them,
I was signalled to climb aboard. A long ride later we arrived at Tihar Jail.
M achine guns protruded from corner towers. Machine guns! Yippee.

Once we were inside, a guard brought me to a side area. Another female

prisoner waited there. She was being searched.
Oh, shit! My Opium. I couldn't lose the opium now. Oh, no!
I hurriedly dog it from my dress and held it in my palm. One of the guards ran
her hands over my body. While she searched my feet I shoved the opium under
my tongue. She moved up my torso and opened each palm in turn. Nothing there.
With my head bent down so she could slide her hands through my hair, I
snatched the opium from my mouth and pressed it into my hand again. Next
she looked in my mouthbehind every tooth. She was satisfied.
 Whew! How had I managed that?
The Indian prisoners went in one direction, and I was led in another through a
garden, into a maze of walls.
"Here she is!" I heard suddenly, and I saw two Westerners run to me with big
smiles. "Hello, there! W elcome to Tihar. I'm F rin. This is Marie-Andree."
Marie-Andree spoke Hindi to the guard, who then went away. What a relief
to be among people I could communicate withand they seemed thrilled by my
arrival. They lavished good wishes on me as they took me to our quarters.
Originally isolation cells, the compound now housed foreign nationals.
"We have this whole area for ourselves," I was told. "Tomorrow we'll show
you around. Class A prisoners five in a mansion. That's where they kept Indira
Gandhi."
"Indira Gandhi was here? Wow!"
"Tihar is a renowned prison," said Frin. "You know the entrance hall you
just passed? That's where Sanjay Gandhi made his famous speech after his
arrest."
Our compound had ten cells. The three of us occupied the front ones. At
the other end lived an Indian prisoner who acted as Frin and Marie-Andree's
servant. Her three children stayed with her. The other cells were empty. Each
had two rooms: an outer one, with Bars on the front and roof, and an inner one
with a toilet, and plastered ceiling and walls. A barred door connected the two
rooms. Marie-Andree draped a blanket over mine for privacy. Frin filled my arms
with necessary items, like mosquito repellent, toothpaste, and toilet paper.
Marie-Andree had decorated her rooms with pictures, electronics, and
brought-in furniture. As the three of us lounged on her comfortable sofa and
enjoyed the dinner cooked by the servant, we exchanged information about
ourselves.
Marie-Andree, a French Canadian, had been arrested three years before
when her boyfriend, Charles Sobraj, was picked up for mass murder. Apparently while
the two of them had been travelling Asia, Charles had been leaving a trail of dead
bodies. The authorities didn't believe MarieAndree had been ignorant of
Charles's escapades and arrested them together. With her case famous in
Canada, Marie-Andree received stacks of letters from people wanting to help her.
She even had one from Prime
Minister Trudeau.
Frin, an American, had been caught at the airport smuggling hash. She'd been in
Tihar eight months. She and Marie-Andree were pleased to have new company and
sounded disappointed when I told them I was in for possessing stolen travellers
checks.
"That's nothing," said Frin. "You won't be here long."
When I asked about buying opium, Marie-Andree said she'd speak to Charles.
In the same way he'd enchanted his victims before killing them Charles bad
charmed the director of Tihar. He had the run of the prison and met with Marie-Andree
several times a day.
At ten o'clock a guard wearing a sari and jingling her keys came to lock the
doors. In a last-minute scramble Frin and Marie-Andree checked that I had everything
I'd need.
"Here's a candle in case you want to read after lights-out. You have matches?
Mosquito repellent?"
Locked in for the night, I moved the mattress to the front cell to sleep under the
stars. Tomorrow I wouldn't have to wangle travellers checks from tourists. I wouldn't
have to stand with hapless vacationers as they realized their vacation funds had been
stolen. Tomorrow I wouldn't have to worry about starving or sleeping on the streets.
Maybe this wasn't a bad place to spend the monsoon, after all.
Rock and roll blared from Frin's radio next door. When Elvis came on singing
"Jailhouse Rock," Marie-Andree asked her to make it louder, danced. I danced with a
door knob like I did at the age of thirteen to the TV show "American Bandstand." The
blanket-covered door swung open and closed to my steps.
"If you can't find a partner, use a wooden chair, let's rock, let's rock everybody in the
old cellblock was dancing to the jailhouse rock."
The next day I joined Marie-Andree for visiting hours. Class A visiting hours.
Visits for the lower classes involved crowded clumps of relatives shouting at crowded
clumps of prisoners through three sets of bars. The Class A lounge comprised separate
areas of tables and armchairs. I was dying to meet Charles. It's not often one is
introduced to a mass murderer.
Shortish and handsome, he had a mesmerizing dazzle to him. His gaze projected
genuine concern as he informed me that my opium would be delivered the next
morning.
Life looked peachy. I hoped the lawyer wouldn't release me too quickly. I
hated the thought of going back to hustling tourists. No, this wasn't a bad place at all.
I loved jail.
The next morning I lay nude in the sun after a delicious breakfast made by the
servant. A guard arrived and motioned for me to collect my things and follow her.
When Marie-Andree ran over to investigate the unusual request, I realized something
was wrong. Foreign words flew between them. Marie-Andree grew miffed.
"What's happening?" I asked her.
 "It is so stupid. They want to move you to Nari Katin."
"Whats that?"
"It is for juveniles! I am telling her you are not a juvenile." "I'm
twenty-nine."
More exasperated words in Hindi.
"You have to go," Marie-Andree said to me. "They think are six
teen."
"That's ridiculous! They have my passport."
"The director does not believe it. He says you do not look more than sixteen."
People always mistook me for younger than my age, but this was crazy. The
man had my passport.
My one dress hung where the servant had left it to dry after washing. Frin lent me
one of hers. Marie-Andree packed me a basket of fruit and sundries, and I was whisked
away. But my opium! I wouldn't survive long without it, und it would be delivered any
second!
No way to stall. The guard led me through the compound where Sanjay
Gandhi made his speech and out of Tihar by a side door. Along a dirt path parallel to
the road, she escorted me to Nari Katin. I was directed through more gateways and
finally to an end building.
Within half an hour of arriving at my new residence, I panicked. Nobody spoke
English. Not a soul. Not one word. I was surrounded by young girls, some no more
than nine or ten, most of them teenagers. At first a supervisor brought me to a
dormitory where sixty beds crammed together. Then she took me to a side room with
eight beds. She pointed to an empty bed and patted it. It was a bed in function only,
bearing little resemblance to what I'd consider the definition of the term. It was wood.
No mattress. No pillow. I was presented with a blanket and a folded rag that was
supposed to act as a sheet but that did not come close to approaching the ends of
the "bed."
My seven roommates stared at me. They giggled and whispered until they
realized I couldn't understand what they were saying, then they
 snickered and talked louder. Little by little every girl in the complex came to
stand in the doorway and look. The latecomers pressed the earlier ones
. further into the room until they had me surrounded. One touched my hair,
and soon a dozen fingers were testing its texture. Growing braver, they
explored all of me and all of my things, and by the time one of my roommates
shooed them out, half my fruit was missing.
It took. Linguistic feats coupled with acrobatics to discover the whereabouts
of the bathroom. Nothing in my previous travels had prepared me for what I
eventually found.
A long building that was once a series of sleeping rooms, its corridor
abounded in turds. M ore turds and running urine covered every room. A six-
inch concrete platform in each room seemed to be the m ost popular place on
which to squat and drop one's faeces, but by no means did the prisoners
restrict them selves to these areas. They shat wherever there was room for
another pile. No toilet paper; I bet none of the girls had ever heard of it. Each
room had a spigot, but only one produced water. Apparently the working
spigot was where dishes, clothes, and teeth were washed. Needless to say, that
room was full of shit too.
Get me out of here.
Dinner consisted of a plate of cold rice and a cold chapati, a round flat
bread that was tasty when fresh and warm but m iserable when old and cold.
UghI had a cup of tea.
I needed opium. 'That was my m ost pressing problem. I would run out
the next day. But how could I acquire any when no one understood what I
said? I tried the words "opium" and "chando" with a few of the girls. The
effort did little more than entertain them. They watched me m outh words
and gesticulate as if I were a mime artist brought in for their amusement:
They didn't seem to interpret it as an attempt to communicate.
A pack of nine-year-olds followed me and peered at me from behind pillars.
My roommates were older than the other 'prisoners,' and sometimes they
came to my rescue, but only after indulging in a long belly laugh at my
predicament.
H e lp -g e t me out of here!
I slept the first night to the sound of seven people breathing and tossing
about. At noon the next day I swallowed the last of my opium. Now what do
I do?
 My fruit disappeared, everything disappeared. They stole all Marie -
A ndree's p ro v isions except for the m osquito rep ellen t. I roam ed the
buildings around the courtyard searching for inspiration or for someone who
spoke English. There was neither. Only the front door was locked, and
through it came the occasional supervisor. As each new supervisor arrived I
tested her as a potential ally, but always with negative results. Not one
understood what I said or cared to. As the afternoon progressed I became
frantic. The Opium was coursing itself out of my body. What do I do? I
couldn't imagine being sick in a place like that. I scanned the rooftops. Gould
I escape over them?
GET M E OUT OF HERE.
More meals of cold rice. I drank the tea. By night time I was terrified.
W hat would I be like in the morning?
When I awoke to the next day's bang and clatter, I was afraid to open my
eyes and take stock of my body. It was, however, impossible to sleep with
seven people moving around and dragging things noisily across the floor. The
wood beneath me dug into my right shoulder, my hip bone, one knee, and
an elbow. W hen someone burst into the room screeching, I surrendered
hope of falling back to sleep. How did I feel? Scared. And weak.
Uncomfortable. And hot. I threw off the blanket and sat up. Four little girls
hung on the doorjamb and stared at me. Now I was freezing. Here it goes.
It's starting. Now I'd just get sicker and sicker.
I wrapped the blanket around me like an Eskimo and rushed out of the
room. I went to the locked front entrance. Nobody there. I prowled the
courtyard. No one anyw here. Only children. C hildren who spoke
English. Three paraded behind me, giggling. I returned to the front door and
waited there a while, but nothing happened. Nobody came. I had to calm
down, I told myself. I wasn't that sick. Maybe the opium had withdrawn me
from the smack the way m ethadone did for heroin users. On the other hand,
if the sickness was just starting, now was my chance for action, while I wasn't
that bad. But there was nothing on which to act. CALM DOWN.
If only I had something to read. Or something to do. But there was
nothing. What about a sunbath? Maybe I could enjoy the hot sun on my skin.
I went to the far comer of the courtyard, spread the blanket on the
concrete, took off my clothes, and lay down. Every single one of the girls came
out and stared at me. I closed my eyes.
Within a minute I heard a voice. "Please, you dress," it said. I looked up to
see a woman in a green sari. "Have you no shame?" she continued.
"We do not behave in that manner in this country."
As I shake my head I saw eighty girls laughing hysterically. Oh, yes, now I
remembered. Indians never saw each other naked. They never even looked at
their own bodies. When they washed themselves, they kept their clothes on and
washed around this and around that. I'd forgotten.
I dressed and went searching for that woman. She'd spoken English. Where
had she gone?
I found her in a room adjacent to the dorm itory. I begged her. "I have
to get out of this place! I don't belong here! I'm twenty-nine! I've been living
in India four years! Get me back to Tihar! Please!"
"I am sorry," she said. "I am simply the music teacher. You must to speak
with someone else."
"But nobody understands me!"
"I am sorry. I can do nothing." She held an odd-shaped stringed
instrument that she offered to one of the girls sitting at her feet. The girl
accepted it and plucked. A twang filled the ain
Get me out of here.
I paced the room while the teacher instructed the girls how to twang
mercilessly on the instrument. They ignored me. I had to do something. Think!
Think! Think! Suddenly pieces of glass from a nearby broken window
sparked an idea. Gould I fake a suicide attempt? I selected a triangle of glass,
looked sharp. Filthy. I made a swipe with it along my wrist. Ughthe glass
was so dirty I'd probably get tetanus or something. I made another cut. It
didn't bleed, but I couldn't bring m yself to do more. I squeezed out a speck
of blood. I looked around. Nobody cared what I was doing. Finally I heard
someone walk nearby, and I turned to provide her with a better view.
Footsteps. I heard an exclamation; I'd been spotted. An older girl removed the
glass from my hand. She called the teacher. I gave another squeeze to produce
blood.
"What are you doing? You must not do thusly," the teacher said as she
led me to a glass of water She dunked a handkerchief and rubbed my wrist with
it. The dirt smeared. "Sit," she told me. "You sit here." She continued her
lesson, and a crescendo of horrible twangs surrounded me.
That was the end of that. -
By late afternoon I thought I'd go off my rocker. I paced; tried in vain
to sleep; paced some more. Then, surprise! A social worker came to see me.
She spoke English!
"Please, please," I pleaded with her. "Get me back to Tihar. I'm twenty-
 nine. I don't belong here."
She looked at my wrist, where the results of my great effort had all but
disappeared. "What have you done and why do you not eat?"
"Huh? Not eat? Oh, well . . . " She'd thrown me with that question. I
hadn't eaten anything since I'd been brought to Nari IC.atin, but that hadn't
fazed me. Food was the last thing on my mind. "Well, cold rice... I can't eat
cold rice. But I don't care about food. I just want to go back to Tihar. Please,
will you help me? Please, please, please?"
She shook her head yes, but I was not convinced. "If I see what I can do,
will you eat?" She tapped my wrist. "And not do anything foolish?"
She left, and I was certain nothing would be done. That night two of my
roommates had a fight. They punched and kicked and hurled everything that
came to hand. A three-foot-tall clay jug shattered, sloshing water across the
floor. Mirrors and a picture of Shiva and Parvati smashed against the wall.
Handfuls of hair flew in the ain
Four supervisors plus a m ale sentry finally pulled them apart.
Meanwhile they'd made a shambles of our room, and I had to sleep in the
dorm itory. Hard wooden bed beneath me; sixty breathing, snoring,
coughing, crying-in-their-sleep Indian girls around me, the nearest one with
her underpants around her knees, masturbating all night. And I'd wanted an
adventure!
In the morning the social worker rescued me. She escorted me by jeep
to the courthouse and arranged my return to Tihar. I gave her an enormous
hug.
Ah, Tihar! You'd have thought I'd been granted entrance to the
Garden of Eden.
"Frin! Marie-Andree!" I rushed into my friends' arms.
I had to be the happiest person on the planet. M arie-Andree gave me the
opium that had arrived two minutes after I'd been taken away. The servant
cooked a scrumptious dinner. I had my old room back.
I pulled the mattress to the front of my cell to sleep under the stars. As I
lay watching their brightness through the striped outline of bars, I
contemplated the state of affairs that had made returning to New Delhi's Tihar
Jail such a blissful event. Somewhere along the line I'd lost control of my life.
Not to mention my finances. How was I going to pay Lino the rent? I still owed
him for last year. I seemed on the verge of losing everything, including control,
caution, and good sense. Maybe it was time to leave India.
NO.
 India was my home. Besides, with the monsoon nearing its end, a new Goa season awaited.

After another week Rachid bailed me out.

Since it was already September, Rachid agreed it was time for me to reopen my
dope den in Goa. My court case wasn't finished yet, and the New Delhi police still had
my passport, but legal things took time, and the lawyer could take care of details while I
was away. I wasn't about to stay in Delhi while a new season began in Goa.
In Bombay I delighted in finding real people, my peoplenot the unsavoury
types Rachid had working for him. In a suite at the Nataraj Hotel I found Junky
Robert and Tish and their new baby. Finished with her motherly duty of giving birth,
Tish was snorting dope again.
Rich once more, Robert and Tish had established a legitimate business,
importing cane furniture into Florida. They passed me lines of coke while describing
the condo they'd bought in Miami Beach. Robert lectured on the wonders of
Singapore cane chairs, then segued into a harangue on the benefits of family life.
"I'm a father now. I have to think about her," he said, lifting a gold razor blade
from the coke and aiming it at the baby.
Tish and Robert still owed me money from the scam I'd invested in two years
before. I didn't have to remind themthey handed me a thousand dollars in cash, plus
a generous stash of dope.
The next morning I changed dollars at a black-market exchange in Colaba,
bought a flea collar for Bach from a black-market dealer in Crawford Market, and
took the boat to Goa. Hallelujah, I was headed home!
FIFTH SEASON IN GOA
I 979-I 980

"BACH! BACH!" I WRAPPED my arms around the writhing bundle of fur that
bounded into them "Oh, Bach. Look how big you've grown. Bach, I missed you so."
Since I'd cabled my arrival date to the maid, the house was fixed and
waiting. I closed the front door and sat on the inside steps as furry animal
jumped all over me. Oh, Bach, I don't ever want to leave you again. I don't ever want
to leave this house again. I love this place. How am I going to pay the rent?
Lino arrived within an hour. Amazing how news can travel fast without a
telephone.
"The money's on the way," I promised him. "It's been sent from New York.
Should be here any day."
How could I possibly amass the two years rent I owed him? I wouldn't think
about it now. As long as I had Bach and the house and the beach, everything was
just wonderful. For the moment, at least.
I put on a slinky red and gold Chinese dress and dyed Bach's tail and one of his
legs with red food colouring. I made his ears gold. Then, shouldering a red parasol, I
headed for Joe Banana's. Cleo was back.
I stopped by Alehandro's, Sasha's, Kurt's tree, and Eight-Finger Eddy's porch.
I joined the gang at the south end to watch the sunset, and then a group of us went to
Gregory's restaurant for buffalo steak. Bach
ate prawns in wine sauce. I was home. I loved Anjuna Beachevery grain of sand,
each palm tree, and every water buffalo. It was impossible to love anything more than
I loved Anjuna Beach.
The next day I visited Canadian Jacques, Norwegian Monica, and Pharaoh.
Pans and Paul, together again, were renting their same house by Joe Banana's.
Siena and Bernard lived in a new one behind the paddy fields. Graham had
returned next door. The beach parties resumed at the south end.
Home.
But the dope den never regained its vigour. During the previous year's high
season it had been a tremendous success. This year it never got off the ground.
Oh, I sold a lot. But I also consumed a lot, and somehow the two couldn't keep
nice. My enthusiasm for the enterprise evaporated. It required so much work. It
was no longer a challengejust a hassle. I couldn't even show the movies since
they, along with the projector, were still being held hostage by the hospital,
awaiting payment of Maria's bill.
I lacked stamina. I barely had the strength to go to the south end for a
swim. For the first time I used the beach in back of the house. Previously
I'd swam there only in a heat emergency. The south end was the place to hang
out; the middle beach was for tourists who didn't know better.
Come to think of it, the south end had become less popular over the pass few
years. When I'd first arrived Goa Freaks packed its shores every day. As of Tate,
though, more and more people stayed away, preferring to remain indoors, around
the bhong, smoking dope. There hadn't been a crowd at the south end in a long
time. Whatever happened to the volleyball net, I wondered?

So now I swam at the middle beach, with its hidden jagged rocks waiting
for a toe to scrape. I took Bach in the water with me. When the colour washed out
of his fur, I coloured him again. I'd match him to whatever I wore that day. When
I dressed in purple, Bach wagged a purple tail.
One day a catastrophe befell my area they found a dead French Junky in
the well. Nobody knew who he was. He must have stumbled into it during the
night and drowned. The well was now polluted, ruined. The Goans living nearby
depended entirely on that well. This was a major disaster.
It took the Goans three days to haul out the water and dredge up the bottom
mud. Besides the inconvenience, to the superstitious Catholic natives a dead
Person in your drinking water was considered as bad an omen as you could get.
They said it would be years before the well could be used again. In the meantime
we'd have to use the one on the other side of Graham's house, by the paddy
fielda arduous trek when carrying a bucket of water. Now it wasn't easy to find
Goans willing to fill my water tank. One flush of the toilet cost two trips to the
well. I'd have to ask my customers to use the outdoor pig-as-waste-disposal toilet.
Rachid's man wouldn't deliver to my door; I had to make the long journey
into Mapusa for daily drug supplies. Hassle. I worried about the customers I was
losing while I was away.
Then I realized my biggest problem: The Sikh chai shop.
During the monsoon a new chai shop had opened on the other side of
Graham's house. I'd noticed their building of brick and palm fronds when I'd
first returned. The Sikhs served Chicken Tikka and Chicken Masala, along with
dope, coke, hash, and morphine. If customers came while I was out, they didn't
wait; they bought from the Sikhs instead. The price was the same and the quality
not much different.
By November I was once again suffering a scarcity of capital. I bought
smaller quantities from Rachid's man in Mapusa, ran out faster, returned sooner
to Mapusa, and lost more customers during my absence. I urgently needed a
chunk of money to buy stock, plus a chunk to pay the maid, the electric bill, the
gang of people now needed to fill the water tank ... and the rent.
Uh-oh. What do I do?
I'd have to sell some things. How barbaric. To sell one's possessions
gross. But I could think of no other solution. I'd have to hawk my belongings at the
flea market. Like a peasant. There went my reputation.
It had been years since I'd gone to a flea market. When I asked
Norwegian Monica what day of the week they were held, I was shocked to hear
that the flea markets were no longer on Anjuna Beach.
"What do you mean they're not here any more? The flea market used to
be a major event."
"Not anymore," Monica answered. "Hoo, boythe Anjuna people don't
have the same energy."
What was happening to my beach? We used to be the centre of all goings-on.
The flea markets were now in Calangute every Friday afternoon and were
mostly frequented by Goans, not Goa Freaks. Calangute! What a pain. That
meant I'd have to hire a motorbike and schlepp my stuff. One
of my custom ers a straightish newcomer to Goa said he was going to the
next market: and suggested we make the trip together.
"Okay, I guess so," I answered dejectedly.
I hated the idea. Even in my poorest days of travelling in Europe, I'd never
sold anything at a flea market. I hadn't even sold my car when I left Amsterdam
for Israel. Instead, I gave the car away and arrived in Tel Aviv on a one-way
ticket with twenty-five dollars to my name. To me, selling personal
possessions was an admission of financial failure, a real down and-out
statement. Was this what I'd come to?
How awful choosing what to part with. I decided I could live without the
iron, a leather backgammon board, a few tapes I was sick of listening to ...
D epressing.
Early Friday morning a motorcycle driver came for me. Straightish
Newcomer arrived too, the back of his bike piled with things to sell. A flat
area in Calangute near a school served as the flea market. Whatever
v e g e ta tio n once grew th ere had been tram p led in to the re d d irt.
Straightish found us a spot by a tree, and we spread cloths to lay our wares
on. I'd brought a hammer and nails so I could hang signs advertising my
goods and their prices. The tree could serve as a backrest and ad board.
I never got the opportunity to write signs, though. W ithin m inutes of
arriving, I discovered what selling at a flea market entailed. As I took the
backgammon board out of my bag, a middle-aged Goan grabbed it.
"Oh, w ait-I'm not ready yet," I said. "W ould you m ind com ing back
in a few m inutes?" E ither she didn't understand or she pretended not to.
She proceeded to open the board and raised her eyebrows in surprise as she
saw the unfamiliar numbers on the betting cube, which she probably mistook
for a the. Chips tumbled to the ground. "Oh, wait! You d ro p p e d my "
Before I knew it, three more Indians flocked over. I snatched the chips
from under their Feet and continued unpacking. I pulled out a Nepalese
dancing mask; someone grappled it from my hand. The Indians watched
hungrily as I reached in for more. An old man tugged at the bag's flap for a
view inside.
"Uh, would you all m ina com ing back in five m inutes, please?" I said.
"Let me set up first." The man inserted his arm in the bag. "Wait a minute! Not
ready vet. Five minutes. Wait five minutes."
Nobody listened. A woman bent to examine the iron. Three men
rummaged through my tapes.
"How much this?" one of them asked.
 "What this?" asked another.
"I give ten rupee for two?" said a third.
"Those are ten rupees each. But, please, if you give me a m inute write
the prices." They didn't give me a minute. I hadn't taken out half my stock
before the Indians swamped me, wanting to know what everything was and
how much it cost.
"WAIT A M INUTE! W ill you w ait a m inute!" Indians had sur
ro u n d ed me, and w hen I m anaged to p eer p ast tw o o f them , co u ld n 't see
Straightish, for there was another mob around him. "WATT!" I yelled. "Stand
back a bit. I'm suffocating here. Look, you're standing on my cloth! Back.
Back. Move back." I waved my arms. They ignored me.
"What this?" three people asked at the same time, holding different objects
under my nose.
"How much? Do rupea, okay?"
From beneath my skirt I retrieved the wallet tied around my waist. I
opened a paper package of coke and snorted a couple of fingernails full.
"What this?" said a Goan woman, probing a Thai box in the shape of a
turtle. The top fell o ff and som eone stepped on it. I did three m ore nails-
full.
"What this?" I did one more.
"ALRIGHT!" I shouted. "NOW W AIT! I'm going to w rite price tags,
see, and they're going to say exactly what everything is and how much it
costs."
"I give five rupee for this."
"No! No bargaining. Now everybody stand back and let me finish. And
you, GET YOUR FOOT OFF MY CLOTH! CELLO! CELLO!"
They allowed me a foot of space when I yelled, but within seconds they
had closed in again. I snorted more coke and refused to answer anyone. I
jo tte d prices. Tapes, ten rupees each. B lender, three hundred rupees. Iron
"What this?"
"How much?"
I glared ferociously. "READ THE TAG!"
More coke.
As soon as I finished the price tags I realized they wouldn't work. I had
no adhesive tape for affixing them. No one bothered to read them, and
whatever the Goans picked up to examine they put down in another spot, far
from its inform ative tag. Soon I had a collection of little tags
that weren't near anything. Someone placed the four hundred rupee iron near a
five rupee tag.
"Five rupee this?"
"NO," I shouted, my fists clenched and fury in my voice. "FIVE RUPEE
THAT!" I plunked the rightful object near its price tag.
More coke.
Nobody bought anything. Apparently Indians enjoyed investigating foreign
things. They hadn't the least desire for actual purchase. They crowded
around, exploring, touching, opening, discarding, and asking questions.
The piecework pillow I'd brought from Laos appeared half an inch from
my chin. "How much this?"
"READ THE TAG!"
Things wor3ened as the afternoon progressed, and in exasperation,
aggravation, and Coke Amuck rage, I lost the ability to talk in a normal tone of
voice.
TEN RU PEES, YOU M ORON! W hat this? GET YOUR FOOT OFF
MY CLOTH! I give you three rupees. NO BARGAINING! You from
America? W hat this? GET BACK! W hat this? (more coke) GET OFF THE
CLOTH! How m uch? STAND BACK! (m ore coke) W hat this? TEN
R U PEE S! TEN R U PEES! C A N T YOU REA D ? How much? (more
coke) W HERES THE PILLOW ? W hat this? DID YOU PAY FOR THAT?
(more coke) WI TO TOOK THAT PILLOW? (more coke) G IV E BACK
TH A I* TAPE IF YOU D O N T W A N T TO BUY IT. (more coke) STAND
BACK!!!
All o f a sudden som eone ran away with my iron. HEY, COME BACK
WI TH THAT . . . If I chased the thief, my unguarded things would be
stolen, but if I remained seated. I'd lose the iron.
In need of immediate action, I seized the nearest thing the hammer I
had never had a chance to use. I jum ped up, bounded into the air after the
villain, and bashed him over the head.
Oh, my god. What have I done?
He fell, he seemed to take forever to crumple to the ground, and I had a
long time to appraise the situation.
Holy shit.
Layers of Indians surrounded me. They were looking at me or were in
the process of turning tow ard me. Sound blurred. V oices, bongo drums,
and the crunch of feet blended into a noise that sounded like the rum ble in a
seashell. As I glanced around, expressions changed from
 curiosity to surprise, shock, anger, and thenas they all swivelled to face me
m urderous.
I was a foreig n er in an ocean o f n atives, one o f w hom I'd ju st
knocked unconscious. Oh, shit. My life was over. I was sure of it.
In slow motion they came at me from every side. I clearly saw homicide
in the eye of the woman who grabbed my left arm, and the man who grabbed
my right one, and the person who grabbed my hair, and the two who took
hold of my shoulder, and the one at my elbow. The seashell sound became a
giant curse uttered by my captors. I was positive my life was over.
Then suddenly they were gone. Four policem en herded away the lynch
mob.
I found out that the man I had hit was a policeman, an undercover
Customs officer. Apparently a team of them patrolled flea markets to prevent
W esterners from selling taxable item s. The officer had taken my iron to
investigate its status.
I was led through the mass of angry faces to the Calangute police
station. As usual there were no facilities for women, and I was once again kept
in a bathroom. An Indian woman sat with me. I went to the toilet to excavate
the stash from beneath my dress and snorted a large amount of coke. Then,
thinking I should probably calm m yself down, I snorted a large hit of dope.
On the other hand, I needed to cheer up from that harrowing experience, so I
did more coke. Oh my god. Had I killed a policeman?
No, I found out he wasn't dead. He'd been taken to the hospital in
Panjim. What would become of me? Would I be imprisoned forever for
assaulting an officer of the law?
No. Someone saved me. It was my old friend, Inspector Navelcar. "I
know her," he said as he came in and looked at
He spoke to the o th ers in K o n k an i, the lo cal lan g u ag e, then
motioned that I could go.
"I can go?"
He shook his head Indian style, signalling yes.
Wow. I couldn't believe it. As I left the police station a free person, I felt
reb o rn . The green o f the palm s looked greener as re lie f sw ept through
me. I took a deep b reath. C lose one! I turned to Inspector Navelcar to
thank him.
And I remembered Neal.
The last tim e I'd seen In sp e cto r N a v elcar was w hen I'd gone to
Panjim to ask him to have Neal arrested.
"My friend died," I said to him. "It's your fault."
"Pardon?"
"Neal died and it's your fault."
"Who died? What is my fault? What are you talking about?"
"You killed my friend. Remember I asked you to have him arrested and put in a
hospital? Well, you didn't and he died."
"I remember now. I thought you simply had an argument with some one. You
never returned. I thought the matter was finished."
"You killed him."
"I did not know he was indeed sick, and we had nothing to arrest him for. I am
very sorry your friend died."
"Murderer."
"Perhaps if you had returned and told me again about your friend
"MURDERER!!"
Now Inspector Navelcar just wanted to get away from me. He looked around
as if searching for an escape and crossed the road. "I am very sorry about your
friend, but there was nothing I could do."
"MURDERER," I shrieked at his back. "YOU KILLED MY FRIEND. Its
ALL YOUR Fault!"
He moved quickly in the direction of the flea market. I followed, my eyes filling
with tears. Neal was gone! My Neal was gone! It was the policeman's fault. It was
somebody's fault.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
The tears fell and more surged from the edges of my eyes. Inspector Navelcar no
longer answered me; he kept walking.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
Parked outside the market were dozens of motorcycles. Their drivers clustered
nearby smoking beedies, waiting for passengers. The inspector strode briskly among
them. I followed a few feet behind.
"MURDERER! I BEGGED YOU TO HELP MY FRIEND, ITS ALL YOUR
FAUIT HE DIED."
The roughneck bike drivers jumped out of my way. Leaving me space. After a
decade of Freaks in Goa, the natives knew to flee the path of a crazed one. A man
selling lemon soda peered at me through his tent vent.
"MURDERER!"
As we neared the market, more and more people knotted the way.
Women carrying baskets of fruit turned to watch the man and the shrieking
foreigner chasing him. A taxi stopped and a head popped out of the window.
"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
Tears poured nonstop down my cheeks. The inspector half ran into the crowd,
not daring to look behind. I followed.
 "YOU KILLED HIM. YOU KILLED HIM."
As I entered the market, the sound of bongo drums and flutes wrapped
around me. The inspector hid himself. I'd lost him. I stopped and cried and yelled in
all directions.
"NEALS DEAD. MY FRIEND IS DEAD. YOU KILLED MY FRIEND."
I could hardly see through the wall of water between me and the world.
Eventually I ran out of energy and returned to the road.
The motorcycle drivers saw me coming and hopped out of my way again. I found
my driver sitting on his bike. He threw his half-smoked beeclie to the ground at my
approach.
"I go home now," I told him.
When I arrived at the house I instructed the driver to come back Monday
morning. I had no idea why I needed a motorcycle Monday morning, but I had the
weekend to figure it out. In the evening Straightish delivered the things I'd left at
the flea market.
"Oh, thanks. I thought I'd lost everything," I said.
"I packed your stuff when I realized you'd disappeared. Where'd you go,
anyway?"
As it turned out, nothing had been stolen after all.
I spent the next two days crying for my dead friend. Neal was gone. I'd no longer
find him on my doorstep shaking his bangs, giggling, and saying "h
Hi, cutie." No more Neal to run to with a piece of gossip. Or a problem. Or a
secret. No more clicking noises. No more stories. How could there be a Goa without
Neal?
Late Sunday I realized what I'd done to Inspector Navelcar. Oh, shitI'd gone
Coke Amuck on the poor inspector. Poor guy. And after he saved me from who-knew-
what kind of fate. What had I called him? A murderer? He wasn't to blame for Neal's
death. It was me. It was my fault. Not Inspector Navelcar's. He hadn't deserved such a
scene.
The motorcycle was coming in a few hours! Good. I could go apologize.
The bike ride to Panjim took fifty minutes. When Inspector Navelcar saw
me climbing the worn steps to his floor, he looked scared. I
 must have really shaken him.
"Sorry," I said to him. "Those words weren't for you. They were for me. I
blame myself for Neal's death. Not you. Forgive me?"
He seemed relieved but not totally convinced I wouldn't go berserk there in
his office. I thanked him for coming to my rescue.
"How's that man I hit on the head?" I asked.
"He is fine. Just a nasty bump."

Though I never went to another flea market, I m anaged to sell things.

The oil painting from Bali went firstthe one whose bamboo holder I'd planned
to bash over Narayan's head. That painting had been hanging in my movie room.
The empty space created by its absence stared at me forlornly every time I
passed. I'd loved that painting. In my images of the Future it had always been with
me. Its loss was significant.
One day I opened the door to find Kadir on the doorstep. " Shambo, Cleo,
man."
"KADIR!" I jumped into his arms.
Kadir had been jailed in Germany for two years. "I just got out, man," he
said.
We went inside and shared lines of coke, along with our feelings about
Goa and Anjuna Beach. We both loved the place. Kadir had longed for it every
hour of his incarceration. But he found it different from when he'd left.
"Where is everybody, man?" he asked. "Nobody's here anymore." "Who do
you mean?"
"Anybody, They're all gone, man. Dayid and Ashley. Giuliano ..."
"Giuliano's in jail in Rome."
"Greek Robert
"Hes dead."
"Gigi and M arco ... "
"Shes dead."
"N eal..."
"Him too."
"M en tal .. "
"In jail."
"Georgette
"She's here! I saw her the other day at Joe Banana's." "And what happened to
the beach parties, man?"
 "There's a party tonight, I heard."
"Not on Anjuna Beach. It's at the music house on the Chapora road. The
parties used to be HERE every night."
"I know. I guess people prefer staying homo with the bhong. I haven't
been to a party in ages myself."
"Anjuna Beach is nothing like I remember. I hear people call it the Smack
Beach. Man, nobody wants to come here."
Bach dragged his stuffed elephant to me, gripping its ear with his teeth. He
wanted to play. I hugged him. I showered Bach with the leftover love from
vacated parts of my heart. Little Bach, at least I have you.
"Anyway, so how are you doing?" I asked Kadir.
"Not good, man. I'm broke."
Kadir needed the money I owed him from the silver jewellery of his I'd
taken to sell. Ooops. That had been so long ago. I hadn't been able to sell it, and
meanwhile, over the years, boyfriends and friends had chipped away at the treasure
trove of silver goodies.
"I still have the belt," I told him and ran to fetch it from a drawer.
The other things, though, the ivories and silver amulets, had long since
disappeared. I apologized. I wished I could repay him. He was an old friend
returning from an agonizing two years away from the home he loved. I wanted
to welcome him back in a joyous, generous manner. Alas, in poor straits
myself, I couldn't. I felt terrible.
Another day, who should appear on my doorstep but Lila, the runner Neal and
I had sent on the doomed trip to Bermuda. During her eighteen months in jail,
I'd written and promised to pay her for the scam anyway. Oh, shit, free she was,
and I didn't have enough money to keep my toilet filled with water I had a hard
time facing both Lila and Kadir when I ran into them.
Late one night a customer entered my upstairs rooms. He had no reason to
be up there, since I now restricted the Saloona to the ground floor.
"You know, you almost set your house on fire," he said, descending the
stairs a while later. "Look at this." He was holding an aerosol can whose half
melted cap had curled into a twisted shape. "Good thing I went up therethe
cap was on fire! These things are flammable, you know. You should be more
careful."
Holy shit.
I was shocked. I'd left a burning candle glued to an aerosol can and
 had forgotten about it! Me, who was so afraid of fire I used to sleep with a
fire extinguisher. How was it possible I had done a thing like that?
I handed someone the wrong change as my mind clung to the image of the
fire I'd started. I didn't know for sure if the aerosol can would have exploded the
way the label warned. Or if the saris hanging from the ceiling would have
caught the fire and caused the house to burn down. It didn't matter. What
mattered was that I'd left a candle burning unattended on the can in the first
place. I'd never done that before. Something had to be wrong with me. I had
to figure out what it was before I succeeded in another, equally destructive
act.
When the customers left I locked the door and wouldn't open for anyone
else. I needed to think. Was I suicidal? Was I punishing m yself for Neal's
death? Was I trying to send myself a message? I sat under the platform with
Bach in my lap, and I thought.
By the next day I had arrived at a conclusion. I had to leave India. I knew
it now. Oh, I hated the notion. This place was my dream. I would never find
one I loved as much, or that I could belong to as wholeheartedly. Goa was
home.
I squeezed Bach so tightly that he squirmed away and went to the other
side of the room. How could I leave India?
But I couldn't stay either. Lino had stopped asking for the rent money.
As a m atter of fact, not only had he stopped asking for the rent, he'd had to
pay my last month's electric bill himself. Next year I wouldn't have a house.
No, I couldn't keep it up any longer. I was falling apart. Everything was
falling apartmy house, my hopes, my mind. If I didn't leave soon, I might
the like Neal. And Gigi. Or end up like M ental, in jail. Or Greek Robert
dead in jail. My brain wasn't working right anymore. Look what it did to
poor Inspector N avelcar. I could no longer trust it with a scam. I couldn't
trust it to pay bills. I couldn't trust it to enact plans for saving a friend's life.
And now it was trying to burn down the house.
It wasn't ju st the coke, I had to admit. It was the smack too. W hile Coke
Amuck took me to the stage of lunacy, smack eroded caution, good sense,
control, and initiative. I could see that now. I had to change my life. If I
continued living this way, I wouldn't last very long, and the end wouldn't be
pleasant.
I had to leave.
The only person I told was Canadian Jacques.
"This is my last season in Goa," I said when we were alone. "What do you
 mean? What about your house?"
Im giving it up. Or it's giving me up. I can't pay the rent anymore."
Surely something will come up this monsoon. Don't say that."
"No, I have to go. I'm falling apart here. Look at me. I've been in trouble
with the police three times in the last year and a half. The next time will be
the big one, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail. I can't trust
m yself anymore. My brain isn't working right. I have to stop using drugs.
Forever."
"I thought you said you'd never quit. Remember? You said never."
"I wouldn't, if I had a choice. I have no choice." I sighed. "No drugs, no
Indiamy life is over."
I still had half a season left, thoughmy last season in Goa.
Each sunset was precious now. I watched them as if I were going to the
soon, which was how I felt. I didn't know if I wanted to five without Anjuna
beach. On my return from Gregory's restaurant I'd stop halfway across the
paddy field. I'd sit on the dry red dirt and catch Bach as he came bounding
over to see why I'd stopped walking.
"Oh, Bach. I have to leave. W hat will I do with you? I'll have to leave
you too."
He wasn't sympathetic. He'd wiggle out of my arms and run a few steps
before turning, surprised to see me still sitting on the road. Then he'd run
back and stop short in front of me, sending up a dust cloud. After a few
Ticks at my face, he'd sneeze at the unwelcome, salty taste of tears. A few
more runs down the road and a quick look around
"Oh, okay! I'm coming, Bach. But how will I five without you? And how
will I five without Goa?"
The Saloona was on its last legs, barely scraping by. I hardly did coke at
all anymore. It was hard enough to afford smack. I had some pretty strange
custom ers, though usually only one at a time. A German woman came
every day and fixed a hit of coke before leaving with her packet. She was
cute, with a turned-up nose and a turned-up top Tip. She also, typically, had a
terrible time spearing a vein. To swell it with blood, she'd swing her arm
round and round like the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. Then she'd stop and
take a peek. No, not yet. Another few windmill swings. Nope, almost. More
swinging. When she finally saw a vein popping out, I was as relieved as she.
An adorable Italian also came every day, but he stayed for hours. Apparently
somewhere on the beach he had a wife and child, though I never saw them.
An ideal customer, he always treated me to half his stash. A benefit of dealing
dope was the license to
scrounge. Customers didn't mind providing a free taste to the provider.
Other Goa Freaks scrounged that year. No matter how little I had, when
friends dropped by I'd courteously offer a bhong. Many hungry friends
visited. Texas Jack came often, always making me promise I w o u ld n 't tell
he'd been there. On other days Cecile came, m aking me promise not to tell
Jack. Norwegian Monica dropped in to sit around till I offered her a bhong. As
did Cindi, Liverpool Sandy, Graham .. . Even Alehandro drove up now and then
on his leopard-skin motorbike, waking me early in the morning and asking
outright for a bhong.
Rumor had it that Trumpet Steve, father of Anjuna, scrounged not only the
beach but the hotel rooms of Bombay for the next bhong, the next great scam,
and that perfect deal that wasn't happening for us Goa Freaks anymore.
Ho, hoand Narayan! Narayan who'd been so against smack that he'd
tossed my pound of it in to the ocean of BaliNarayan now lived on the other side
of the paddy fields, perpetually stoned on opium! What delicious news.
"Hoo, boyhave you seen Petra?" Monica asked one afternoon as she
waited for my adorable Italian customer to pass her a bhong.
"No, not for years," I answered. "Why?"
"She's here."
Petra! I couldn't wait to see my friend. After making Bach's tail a bright
shade of pink, I dressed in a pink elephant outfit and ran out the door. At Joe
Banana's I began the process of tracking her down.
"She is staying in Junky Robert and Tish's old house," said Joe Banana.

"She's out," said someone sitting on Junky Robert and Tish's old porch.
"Try Alehandro's."
"Left an hour ago," said Hollywood Peter as he held a lighter to
Alehandro's bhong. "Went that way. Try Georgette's."
"Just left for the Monkey chai shop," said Georgette.
"Petra!" I exclaimed, finding her at last. One of her huge sleeves knocked a
French fry off her plate as she spread her arms for an embrace.
She looked as flamboyant as ever, still in black, with silver jewellery, silver
braids, silver bangles hanging everywhere. A silver headband dangled silver
baubles around the back of her head and dropped a crystal teardrop between her
eyes.
"Hebshen! I was HOPing you'd still BE here."
I learned the details of the gossip I'd heard about her over the years. GOA
 Yes, she'd inherited a fortune, but no, she wouldn't collect it, for that would
entail remaining in Germany,
"That would RUin my life," Petra declared. "My free SPIRit would be
BROken. I couldn't surVIVE. My happmess is more important.
I had a DREADFUL tim e d u rin g the months I STAYED there taking care of
the will."
Would that happen to me when I left India, I wondered? Would my life be
ruined? Would my free spirit be broken by conformity and tradition?
Yes, Petra continued, she'd had a car accident and had been in the hospital.
She could walk now, but the doctor had told her to stay off her feet.
Rehabilitation required swimming, hours of swimming.
"I had a HUT built for me on the BEACH," she said. "I don't know HOW I
will STAND it. I haven't had the COURage to move in yet." She made a
dramatic shiver, hunching her shoulders and lifting a hand expressively to her
forehead. "Can you Picture me. You KNOW I've never been a BEACH person.
That SAND. I like the MOUNtains."
Her condition was serious, though, and if she didn't take care of her legs, she
might be crippled for life. She shouldn't walk much. She had to swim to exercise
the wounded joints. But Petraa Kathmandu Freak, a mountain personliving in
a hut on the beach? Definitely not her style. Had anyone ever seen Petra without
her heavy boots? She was depressed over the prospect. I had an idea.
I'd decorate her hut as a surprise.
After Petra told me the hut's location, I excused myself on a pretext and
sought out the miserable palm-frond affair to check its dimensions. It was the only
hut by the water's edge. I knew Petra the Kathmandu mountaineer had to hate it.
Twelve feet by eight, it leaned against the rock face.
I ran home to fill a gigantic suitcase and three bags. A Goan helped me
carry the load.
In no time the pathetic hut looked like a sheik's tent. A Kashmiri carpet hid
the bumpy sand. Against the rock I placed a satin-covered mattress piled high
with velvet pillows. Carved wooden tables sat on either side of the bed, one
holding a kerosene lamp, the other a dancing Nataraj. I set another lamp on a
rock ledge and shrouded the palm-frond wall with Laotian embroidery. In the
doorway I hung sari material, over which I added chimes to tinkle in the wind. As
a finishing touch I left her my bottle of insecticide.
"What have you DONE," she exclaimed, entering as I finished. "You
DEAR!"
I couldn't spend time with Petra the following m onths, though. I couldn't
afford to miss the business I had left. She, in turn, couldn't visit me because she
wasn't supposed to walk. As it was, she walked too much, and everyone worried
about her. She suffered painfully.
Meanwhile the Saloona suffered also. The Sikh chai shop next door stole
more of my customers. Their business thrived and mine was all but finished.
Keeping m yself in dope required sleight-of-hand manoeuvres. Other Freaks
besides me sold dope or coke. If I didn't have the cash or the will to go to
Rachid's man in Mapusa, I'd arrange to meet a customer near one o f the
altern ate sources. To prevent the custom er and the source from m eeting
each other. I'd have to exchange one's money for the o th er's dope w ithout
e ith e r su sp ec tin g , a feat re q u irin g d eft chicanery.
I sold more of my belongings. Strangers now wandered through my
hallowed rooms as if I were having a garage sale.
"How much do you want for this?" asked an unknown person pointing to
my beloved Laotian marriage canopy.
"Four hundred rupees," I said.
"Ill give you fifty."
Fifty! What did I Look like? A fishwife? Did they expect me to bargain
over cherished possessions? At first I would walk away without answering.
But as the weeks went by I hesitated more and acquiesced with greater
frequency. Bit by bit I sold the things that defined my Goa Freak existence.

New Year's Eve 1980. In four months would be my thirtieth birthday. By

then I d have nothing left. The waterbed was gone. The downstairs stereo.
The hanging chair. The rocking chair. The cuckoo clock. I rubbed a band over
the empty spaces they'd left, massaging the ghosts of once-loved objects. Serge
used to sit in that hanging chair, I thought as I looked at the hook from which
it had hung. Alehandro had sat in the rocker the time he'd guarded Mental as
he cowered beneath the mattress. Maybe soon I'd have to sell the mattress too.
"I'll give you one rupee for this Jefferson Airplane tape," said a
browser.
That had been Neal's favourite tape. "Okay," I answered numbly.
To the fence in M apusa I brought two rings from an old teenage
romance and the silver Aries spoon that had been a birthday present from
Dayid in Montreal.
 Then I discovered a convenient method of business-I joined forces with
the Sikhs. When a customer came I'd take his or her money, go upstairs,
slip out the bedroom door, and dash to the Sikh place to buy from them.
This strategy solved the Problem of insufficient funds to buy stock. In three
minutes I could be descending the stairs without anyone suspecting I'd left
the house. Though everybody knew the Sikhs sold drugs, "purists" refused
to deal with them and preferred to buy from their own kind. They came to
me.
Collaborating with the Sikhs offered another advantagetheir will
ingness to exchange things for dope. They soon possessed my tape
m achine and a fan. They even accepted the old useless kilo of border hash
I'd had for years.
One day I heard that Eve and Ha were in Goa. Rumor said they'd been
having a hard time, struggling to live in different peoples huts. Searching
for them, I followed a trail of horror stories and a variety of sleazy people,
until finally someone directed me to a Jesus Freak community on the other
side of the paddy fields.
Four w hite-robed devotees were sanding wood outside the house and
blessed me as I approached.
"Peace," said a bearded man sitting on the front steps. "Have you
heard the good news?"
"Uh ... yes. Thank you. I'm looking for ... "
"Jesus is back and he's calling for you."
"Well, that's very nice, but I'm looking
"He loves you, you know."
"Uh, I'm happy to hear that ... Do you know Eve?"
"He's watching you all the time. He's looking out for you." "Eve
has a little girl about four years old?"
"I LOVE JESUS!" he suddenly sang, and a voice somewhere nearby
joined in with a "HAIL, MARY!" I stepped around his robed knee, which
blocked the way, and proceeded up the stairs. "God bless you," he said to my
departing form.
On the porch I found a W esterner sweeping the floor. A W esterner
doing housework! What an unheard-of thing in that land of cheap labour.
His "Welcome, sister," discouraged me from further inquiry. I entered the
house and succeeded in searching three rooms before being confronted head-
on by another person in white with a smooth senile.
"Welcome, sister," she said, clasping her hands together. "Can I help you?"
 "I'm looking for someone named Eve. She has a daughter Mahara. About this
high."
"Oh, yes. She came to us a week ago."
The woman led me out the back door, and I found Eve outside putting
dishes on a table.
"Eve!" I kissed her and turned to Ha. Neal's little girl sat stiffly on the
wooden table. She looked at me but didn't move or smile or change her serious
expression. "Hi, Ha!" I said. She didn't answer.
"Look, Ha, It's Keo. Say hi to Keo," Eve whispered in that soft voice of hers.
Ha stared. After her first glance at me. Eve didn't look my way again. When she
finished laying plates, she began moving them around. Ha just stared.
"Um ... I wanted to see how you were," I said to Eve. "Took forever to trace
your path."
"You co me here for us? Nobody else even says hello."
I didn't know what to say. Eve didn't say anything more.
"Um . . . I met the guy from that big hut you lived in . . . "
"He threw us out. Said we couldn't stay there anymore. Before that we slept in
the hut next to it, but they threw us out too. We were in Baga a while, but that
didn't last long. They've been nice to us here, so far."
"Isn't it hard living with these people, though? I've been blessed nine times, and
I've only been here a few minutes."
She shrugged. "You should see mealtimes."
Silence.
"What about dope?" I asked.
"I have opium."
Eve still avoided looking up. So far she'd moved one plate to three different
locations, and she seemed about to pick it up again. Ha sat there unmoving.
"Hey, Ha, how're you doing?" I said. "What's that in your hand? Can I see?
Will you show it to me?" She moved away as I stepped closer to her. "Please?"
"NO!" she yelled angrily and swivelled to present me with her back. Silence.
Eve poked at another plate and said, "Thank you for coming."
I grasped at what seemed like a good moment to get away. "Well, stop by the
house sometime and visit. Don't forget, okay?" Ha ignored my goodbye wave; Eve
half-smiled at a spot midway between her and me. I backed out of the yard and took
a side route so I wouldn't have to pass the well-wishers.
"GOD BLESS YOU," shouted the man on the front steps. "AND D O N T
FO R G ET THE GOOD NEW S. TELL YOUR FRIEN D S ABOUT IT."
 Now I had to prepare for Eve's visit. For sure she'd come; she knew I was still
dealing drugs. I didn't have much left for her to steal since I'd peddled my jewellery
and returned Kadir's. I made a quick run to collect stash bottles and emergency caches
of opium. I hid them upstairs under a mattress. I'd have to remember to keep valuables
on my body when she arrived and prevent her from going to the second floor. I'd
also have to watch her behaviour toward the one or two customers I had left. I
didn't want her driving them away.
Within hours of my finding her, Eve appeared at the door. "Hi. We're here,"
she whispered.
From that day on she came regularly and stayed for hours, sitting quietly and
smoking bhongs. She never looked anyone in the face when she spoke. Instead
she'd fidget with her belt, her hair, or whatever lay in front of her. She made
people nervous. When she was out of earshot they'd take me aside.
"That's a strange one you've got there," they'd tell me.
"Oh, Eve's okay."
"Her kid's even worse," they'd comment next.
Ha had become a nasty beast. She'd yell and throw things and stamp her foot
and do everything you told her not to. She never smiled, never laughed. She'd grow
crankiest at night. Eve let Ha carry on by herself, no matter what she was doinga
fit of rage, even a destructive rampage. Not only did I have to watch Eve, I had to
watch Ha too.
"No, I la, please don't touch that," I would say, spying her molesting a
souvenir I'd bought in Moscow. "It comes from Russia." Ha loved it when you
told her not to do something; it gave her a sense of direction. "NO, Ha. I said do
NOT touch that. You'll ruin the fur." Just what she wanted to hear. "STOP! Don't
pull the fur OUT!"
Eve paid no heed. Only if it was late at night and Ha was particularly bratty would
Eve finally call her over.
"Come here, Ha," she'd whisper. Then Eve would blow hash smoke in the face
of Neal's daughter. "It helps put her to sleep," she explained. Yes, it was time for
me to leave Goa.
Occasionally Eve managed to get her dexterous hands on something or other,
but since I kept money and drugs tied around my waist, she only
 stole candles and rolls o f toilet paper. The house was bereft o f items worth
stealing.
Empty spaces left by sold objects surrounded me. They matched the empty
spaces inside me left by missing people. I sold the four-foot Kashmiri lamp
that had hung over it. Now the dining room was a vast desert I hated to walk
through. Gone from the bedroom were the L aotian m obiles that had
hung between the bags of glucose at the glucose party. The fancy brass door
knobs and light switches in the shape of Hindu gods were gone too.
One day I found m yself with no dope in the house. Not a granule. I'd
already snorted off the carpet w hatever vaguely resem bled smack, along with
a lot of dust and sand. I possessed only Opium and the package of morphine that
had been sitting in my blowtorched safe for years. Yuck. Morphine was disgusting.
You couldn't smoke it or snort it because of its horrible taste. Maybe I could fix
it? I'd never tried fixing myself before.
Well, why not? I'd give it a try.
The only vein I could see was a tiny one in the middle of my right arm. I
hit it first try. But I felt nothing. Maybe I hadn't used enough powder. I wanted
to do it again, but now a bump covered the vein and I could no longer see it.
Veins were visible on my hand, though. I decided to try one of those. Couldn't
get it. I tried again. It moved. I tried a different vein. Damned thing wouldn't
hold still! I tried over and over and over. No good. After a half hour holes
speckled my hand, but not one of them had reached a vein. Hmmm.
Interesting. Was this how M aria had felt when she couldn't get a hit? By the
time I finally gave up, the back of my hand sported dozens of red dots.
"What happened to your hand?" Eve whispered later when she came by.
"Couldn't get a vein."
"Rands are im possible. The veins roll. You need someone to hold one
in place."
Yes, it was past time for me to leave Goa.
I needed a departure date. Any date. It didn't m atter. How about March
sixth? Okay. March sixth it is. On March sixth I'd leave Goa forever.
Come here. Bach," I called, having made the decision. His ears were my
favourite place to wipe tears.
I owned one special item a three-foot Balinese wooden sculpture I'd
shipped from Denpasar. A myriad of carved figures peeped from its core.
Painted in pinks, purples, and gold, its flat top made it usable as a table. I
couldn't bear the thought of selling it. How could I condemn such n
wondrous piece of art to the smoky back room of the Sikh chai shop?
 I decided to give it to Canadian Jacques. A bulky chunk of heavy
wood, it should probably not have been lugged across the shadeless sand in
the hot mid afternoon.
"Bonjour," said Jacques as I came in. "What have you there?"
"It's for you. My last memory. I want to give it to you before I resort to
selling it. I'm leaving soon."
"It's beautiful. If you return, you can have it back."
"I'm not coming back."
"You never know. You might luck into something this monsoon." I
shook my head.
"When are you going?"
"March sixth. I'll go to the consulate in Bombay and ask them to send
me to New York."
"They do that?"
I nodded. I had it planned. "They'll give me money to go to the
embassy in Delhi, which is where I have to go anyway to finish my court case
and pick up my passport. Then the embassy will provide the ticket to New
York."
"You Americans have all the advantages. I don't think my embassy
would pay for me to go home."
"No, I think they all do. They can't just leave you to starve in some
foreign country. I'll have to reim burse them, o f course. They're not
going to hand me a free ticket. Even the Am erican em bassy won't do that."
"What about your dog?" he asked, giving a not-too-pleased look at Bach,
who was sniffing a pile of his clothes.
"I'll have to leave him. He's an alien; the U.S. would never allow him into
the country. He doesn't have papers. No chance." There was a huge lump in
my throat. "I think land in New York dead of a broken heart."
Later that afternoon I presented Alehandro with the red Buddha
bhong. Let the fat Buddha smile for the crowd at Alehandro's. The living
room carpets had been sold, and the sacred pipe deserved better than to sit
on a naked floor.
In February the Bugs took over the house. Couldn't they have waited
another month? They invaded the bedroom first. I woke up one morning to
find, not one, but two trails of ants m arching on my body. Eeek. A
 troupe of large black ones had entered under the outside door. They strode
across the red-and-white linoleum, m ounted the carpet, hiked up the
m attress via my pink satin sheet, proceeded over my naked back, came
around my waist, hopped to the sheet from my stomach, then made their way
over the carpet on the other side, across the linoleum, up the wall, and out
the window. The smaller grey ants took approximately the same route but
traversed my legs. Hey, come on, guys! There must be an easier road than this.
Especially since the bedroom was on the second floor. I'd seen ants plenty
of times before, but they'd usually had the courtesy to go around the bed.
Many a time I'd amused m yself by watching them scatter in confusion as I
plopped something in their path. This new habit of theirs was a little much. I
knew the root of the problemI'd given my insecticide spray to Petra.
Downstairs i was faced with another predicament: Bach's flea collar had
expired. M y poor friend scratched continually. To make m atters worse, the
little buggers over bred themselves and had abandoned him in search of vaster
horizons. Now the fleas were jum ping all over the house. If I'd had the
insecticide spray, I could have killed the fleas and obliged the ants to find an
alternate roadway. Alas, the spray was gone, and I couldn't afford a new one.
I went to Petra's hut only to discover she'd left Goa. There was nothing
in the hut but a shred of sari hanging from the doorway and the broken top of a
kerosene lamp.
To live in India, one had to dominate one's insect Population. I'd lost
control. In no time the fleas propagated themselves into every com er of the
ground floor. They hopped nonstop. I could not read a page of a book
without a flea hopping on it. The damned things were everyw here. They
didn't five on me the way they did Bach; but there were so many of them
that, no matter where I went, I was in their line of hop. And they bit. Hop,
hop, bite.
Only once-in-a-blue-m oon custom ers w eren't thrilled with them,
either. "Hey! What was that?" a customer remarked.
"What?"
"Yo! There goes another one. What was it? Ow! Something bit me! Hey!
Now it's jum ped in the tobacco!"
I couldn't ignore the fleas, though they didn't really bite that often. It was
the racket they madethe sound of tiny footfalls as they hopped on the pages
of the book I was reading. Very annoying. Then they'd slide down the crease
between the pages and get stuck there.
 The ants were what really did me in. I hated waking up to two double
lanes of parading feet criss-crossing my body. Eee! Get off me. SLAP. SLAP.
SLAP. Actually, it was wiser not to get too excited. At the first hint of
something amiss, the ants would panic and break their neat formation, each
one running in a different direction. W hich m eant they'd be running in
different directions over ME. The wisest way to handle the situa
tion, when I awoke to it, was to calmly brush them off.
Though I couldn't afford a new spray can of insecticide, a packet of
DDT powder cost only sixty paisa (sixty percent of one rupee). I tried it out.
I sprinkled the white stuff across the ant trails. The ants didn't like it one bit.
However, it didn't take them Long to find a way around it. They detoured up
the wall. So I ended up with trails of white powder on the bedroom floor and
trails of ants climbing the wall before descending to
cross over me.
E ventually the ants won. I retreated. I m oved the carpet, the m at
tress, the little Kashm iri tables, the bhong. I dragged the whole lot into
the movie room, which was bare now anyway.
And then more ants! Soon I was once again awakening to find ants
strutting over me.
I finally beat them. To an ant, a wrinkle in a piece of cloth could be
M ount Everest. I collected clothes, bunched them together, and created an
impassable mountain range around me before I went to sleep. It didn't work
all the time, though. Som etim es, during the night, Bach w ould climb into
bed next to me, and his body would flatten the wall of clothes. If he did that
on both sides of me, that was all the enco u rag em en t the
ants needed.
Yes, it was way past time for me to leave Goa.
Three days before my departure date, I found someone who wanted
my projector and agreed to pay M aria's hospital bill. He kept the projector
and I took back the movies. I let him have The Blob and The Thing
That Swallowed the Earth.
Everything had been sold. My souvenirs from Russia, my Japanese
kimono, the topaz from Taiwan.
On M arch fifth Sasha cam e by w ith some people I d id n 't know ,
including one beautiful guy in a silk lungi. I was immediately enamoured. He
liked me too. W hen the others left, he stayed. He didn't even mind
the fleas.
 "You're leaving?" he asked, seeing suitcases.
"In the m orning," I told him . "A taxi's com ing to take me to the
Panjim dock. I don't know how I'll fit in it with all this luggage."
"I'll drive you to the boat on my bike, if you want. Then you can use the whole
taxi for luggage."
We stayed awake all night. I touched the long, brown hair curling around his
shouldersit took my mind off Bach, who was freaking out over the suitcases. Bach
always freaked out when he saw a suitcase. By now he knew what a suitcase meant. I
tried to ignore my furry blue-and white friend as he stuck his nose into open cases and
shook his head furiously. Bach would look at a suitcase, look at me, and whine. He
dragged his toy elephant to me by the ear that hadn't been chewed off yet. I pulled the
ear off and packed it. Dawn came.
"You don't really have to go today, do you?" asked my beautiful new friend. "Why
don't you stay?"
"I cant."
When the taxi came, he helped carry my bags to the dirt road. Bach ran in circles
around my feet, crying. I told the driver to go ahead and that we'd meet him at the
paved road. I Look Bach in my arms as I climbed on the back of the motorbike. He
licked my face nervously.
The family at the Three Sisters' restaurant was still asleep when we pulled up.
They were expecting me, though, and opened quickly to my knock.
"Here he is," I said to the sister at the door. I didn't say goodbye to Bach as I
handed him to her. How would I live without him?
 EPILOGUE
19 9 5

HOW TO BRIEFLY DESCRIBE the past fifteen years of my life? I returned to

New York and entered a drug program called Daytop and became totally drug-free
from that day to this one. Daytop taught me how to five in the straight world,
sleeping and eating at regular hours and doing the necessary chores of daily life,
which I hated. But without some basic tools of self-discipline, I couldn't have existed
in this rule-governed, legal-minded, work-ethic-based culture. With enormous
difficulty, I accepted the teachings and adaptedI had no choice.
Six months after I left Goa, I started college and discovered that learning was
as stimulating as any psychotropic chemical I'd taken, and with the will-power Daytop
demanded of me, I was capable of postponing immediate gratification in order to aim
for long-range goals. I got a Bachelor's Degree, a Master's Degree, a Ph.D., and
would have kept studying except the student loans ran out. For the doctoral dissertation
I returned to Thailand for three years to do research, which became the basis of my
first book, Patpong Sisters, published in 1994.

Some of the people mentioned in this story have since died: Narayan in the
early '80s in a mysterious way similar to Neal, Alehandro last year in a car accident,
and Joe Banana.
 Other Updates:
Norwegian Monica moved to Ibiza with only occasional visits to Goa.
She had a daughter and gave up drugs. She is currently living in Norway. When
Mental got out of jail he returned to Goa. He ended up back
in jail for a while, then returned to Goa again.
Serge is the same, travelling the world and acquiring new adventures. He
drops in on my life every now and then, once in Thailand where he ruined my
relationship with a Thai boyfriendbut that's another story.
Barbara returned to New York and opened a boutique.
Junky Robert and Tish broke up soon after I left India, and Tish got together
with John, Applecroc, for a while, during which time Robert took the Baby
away from Tish. Robert later spent two years in jail in the United States but; then
became a respectable drug-free citizen, working in the garment industry. He's
held custody of his daughter and is now married with two more children.
No one has heard from Dayid or Ashley.
No one has heard anything about Eve and Ha.
Marco was seen in Goa a few years ago, desperately seeking a copy of my
movie of his marriage to Gigi.
Trumpet Steve now owns a successful concert-promotion agency in Florida,
booking live entertainment all over the world. His son Anjuna grew into a
conservative young man with short hair who refuses to be called Anjuna, and
who just enlisted in the United States police academy.
Richard is doing great, as always, and is a long-term resident of Bangkok
and a dose friend.
Paul, Jerry Schultz, and Eight-Finger Eddy can still be found on Anjuna
Beach during the popular winter seasons.
BachI don't know. Leaving him was too painful for me to ask anyone if
they've seen him, but I still have the ear from his elephant.

I missed Goa terribly for years after I left. One night in a New York City
parking lot, I Looked up and saw a full moon. I mourned the full moon parties
of the home I'd lost and hated the asphalt and concrete beneath my feet. I hated
it and hated New York and hated everything in my life that wasn't India.
Today I've settled into a new home, a cyber home on the internet. Though
I've been known for a while on CompuServe's CB under the name "Goa," Ijust
this year discovered the phenomenon of MOO. Since returning to America, I've
been enraptured by computers; and as a graduate student I worked part-time
teaching computer programming. What I've now found on the MOO is a place
where I can program fantasy things and meet fellow internet junkies, each of us
interacting with one another's creations. I log on to the MOO many times a day and
join the hundreds of people worldwide who are also logged on and who make up
my cyber community.
 On Chiba MOO, I've created a space called Anjuna Beach. I describe its sea and
palm trees and have programmed robots named Monica, Mental, Dayid, and Ashley,
who, every sixty seconds utter sentences like "Please pass the mirror." I've also programmed
an object called Neal that dispenses LSD if you give it the right command.
While the MOO dazzles me with its futuristic technology, it also provides me with an
identity group and allows me to incorporate the past into this innovative MOO present.
When I log off, my cyber body remains in my cyber "home"Anjuna Beach, Goa.
 In this lively and unique
ckxjument 70s- style hedonism, we follow the
further adventures of Cleo Odzer, whose first book, Patpong Sisters, was a
Quality Paperback Book Club best seller. Goa Freaks begins in the midI970s and tells
of Cleo's love affair with Goa, a resort in India where the Freaks (hippies) of the world converge
to partake in a heavy bohemian lifestyle. To finance their astounding appetites for cocaine,
heroin, and hashish, the Freaks spend each monsoon season acting as drug couriers, and soon
Cleo is running her own scams in Canada, Australia, and the United States. (She even gets her
Aunt Sathe in on the action.) With her earnings she builds a veritable palace by the beachthe
only Goa house with running water and a flushing toilet. Cleobecomes the hostess of Anjuna
Beach, holding days-long poker games and movie nights and, as her money begins to run out,
transforming the house into a for profit drug den. Tracing Cleo's love affairs, her stint hiding
out at the ashram of the infamous Bhagwan Rajneesh, and her sometimes-hairowing drug
expertlikes, Goa Freaks: My Hippie years in India is candid and compelling,
bringing to life the Spirit of a now-lost era.
CLEO ODZER grew up in New York and, after
graduating from high school, travelled throughout Europe
and the Middle East before settling in Goa, India, in 1975.
She returned to the United Stales in 1980, where she earned
a PhD. in anthropology; her dissertation on prostitution in
Thailand was the basis for her first book, Patpong
Sisters An American Woman's View o f the
Bangkok Sex World (1994). Odzer lives in New York,
where she works for Daytop, a drug rehabilitation
organization. She is working on a new book about her
adventures on the MOO, a programming society on the
Internet.

Cover design by Monica Elias

P rin te d in U .S .A .