Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

"How is it, Miss Cleo?" he said softly.

"Mmmmmmm," I murmured, thinking more about him than about the food. Someone 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.

"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 unpacking—or 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.

"Why?"

"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 effort of coming with me to the dentist in Panjim 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, boy—this is so sad."

"Doesn't she Look beautiful?"

"Robert, wake up!"

Then we dispersed to comb the area for kindling.

Returning with armloads of driftwood and coconut husks, Jacques and I ran into others carrying similar burdens. "Tee hee, I found this on the beach, but it's wet," said Mental, smiling at me. I smiled back. Goa Freaks didn't hold grudges long. We belonged to a intimate community, and communal feelings overcame petty resentments.

"Then it's not going to burn, Mental," said Jacques, "but add it to the pile anyway. The important thing is that there's a piece from each of us.

Near sunset, Pharaoh placed Shere on a wooden platform. He applied light; the fire caught. Since his house was situated on Joe Banana's hill, the smoke and flames could be seen throughout Anjuna Beach.

The Goa Freaks were satisfied. We'd prevented the government from shipping her back. Later Pharaoh threw Shere's ashes in the air, letting them blow over the beach she had called home. He kept the baby and took responsibility for Shere's two sons.

A few days later, while shopping at Paradise Pharmacy, I noticed a stock of plastic glucose bags, used in hospitals for intravenous drips. A brilliant idea zapped me.

"Jacques, Jacques," I said, excitedly pulling on his velvet sleeve. "How about a glucose party?" He shot me a French (French-Canadian) frown. "No, really," I continued. "Everybody looks so skinny lately and so droopy. This is just what they need!" I paused and added, "I don't want to go to another cremation."

I bought fifteen bags of the stuff—as many as Jacques and I could carry. I also bought the long needles and other paraphernalia, such as the cotton and alcohol. This would be a grand event. Maybe I couldn't afford a cocaine party, but I could still do something spectacular. Though glucose wouldn't make us stoned, it might improve our health. I’d amuse friends with the novelty of growing healthy together.