Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

"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," replied 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 traveller’s 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 traveller’s 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. Meanwhile, since he would be trusting us with his cash dollars, we were to let him hold our traveller’s checks. The amount of cash we'd be given would match the amount of our traveller’s checks he'd be holding.

"The money is in a safe around the corner," 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 traveller’s 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 neat American until he figured out he'd been ripped off.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asked as we watched the (Irene had Indian walk away with his two thousand dollars worth of American Express. The rain formed a blur around us. Dandruff left the refuge of the umbrella to sit on a concrete wall. Oh, terrific—now 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.

"Wisconsin. Ever been there?" Water 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 of his hand next to mine 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. "Where 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 traveller’s checks?" I asked. "You need identification to cash them."

"The bastard!" exclaimed Dandruff forcefully.

"What do we do now?"

"We must report to the police."

"But we can't tell 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 him.

"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, boy—I'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 traveller’s checks.

I felt awful for her, knowing myself the ordeal of reporting lost checks. If she came to India for only a two-week excursion, she'd probably never dipher 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 fliers 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. Visions of 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 Westerner 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 must have owned the place. Upstairs, Dandruff and I were introduced to six Westerners, all male, all droop looking, and all sleazy.