Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

Back at the house I planned the party for the bedroom because, though the roof slanted to a point high above, horizontal beams crossed only seven feet from the floor.

Jacques didn't share my enthusiasm for the project. "You're serious about this glucose party? I don't know. I don't think anybody will show up."

"Sure they will. You'll see; this will be fantabulous."

Despite his lack of faith, Jacques helped me hang the glucose bags from a beam, placing them between the Laotian mobiles and the Laotian wedding canopy. We arranged fifteen pillows beneath the bags. I invited my guests—only those with intravenous experience. Let's see, who used needles? Junky Robert, yes, but Tish, no, so I didn't invite them. Eve, yes, but Neal was against needles, so I didn't invite them either. Norwegian Monica, no. Sasha, yes. Mental, of course. Jacques never used them, but he'd help host; and as hostess, I wouldn't participate either.

Jacques shook his head. "A glucose party! Nobody will come," he repeated.

But they did. Not one Person turned me down. A glucose party—an Anjuna Bach first. The affair was to last the three hours it took to drip a bag of glucose into one's vein. I moved the stereo upstairs. I had snacks catered from the chai shop.

Small problem—unlike a syringe, the L.V. setup was not structured to register a vein was hit (or maybe we just didn't know how it worked). You couldn't pull back a plunger to see if the needle had reached blood; the liquid went in one direction only—OUT. To make matters worse, since the bags hung seven feet overhead, by the time the glucose reached the needle, it was travelling fast. Very fast.

"Hey, Pin getting a bump!" said a guest as liquid surged into his arm, missed the vein, and collected under his skin.

"Tee hee, me too."

"How can you tell when you're in the vein?"

"I don't know WHERE this glucose is going, but it's definitely NOT going in my vein."

"Hey, this bump is growing really big!"

"Shit, man!"

"How do you stop this thing?"

Only Alehandro bit his vein. The rest of my party went home.

Later that night Jacques asked me, "So what will you do with all this glucose hanging from your rafters?" He could barely restrain the smile on his face.

I fervently wished I could afford coke.

And then the miracle of electricity happened. Workers brought power lines across the paddy fields to my little village. Though they'd already installed lines on Joe Banana's hill and the inland area, I didn't think they'd reach my secluded patch of sand, which held only eight houses and two chai shops. But they did. Lino, the landlord, supervised as a wire was attached directly to myhouse. Graham, my English neighbour, and the Goans across the way assembled to watch the event. Jacques and I held hands.

When the man climbed down the ladder, we clapped.

The next day, Lino sent an electrician to hook up the inside of the house. Since ours was the last area to receive power lines, the current came on shortly after. Graham came by to inform me.

"Have you tried it yet?" he asked.

"The electricity? It's on? Yippee!" I skipped to the switch in the two story-high living room and flicked it on, but nothing happened. Graham, Jacques, and I stared at the bulb, as if encouraging it. "It doesn't work," I said finally in disappointment.

"Mine does," said Graham, gazing up with his neck craned back. "Your lights are so far away."

"It's the ceiling that's far away."

"I think it IS on," argued Jacques, who'd climbed the stairs to check the bulb from a closer spot. Graham and I joined him on the second floor landing. "See?"

"See what? I don't see anything."

"Look closely. See the orange line? That's the filament glowing."

"Yay! It works. I have electricity!"

I whooped and danced down the stairs. Graham made us bhongs in celebration.

When my elation had subsided, I noted, "Not terribly useful, though, is it? It doesn't do what it's supposed to—provide light."

"Well, there's only a tiny power plant, and everyone on the beach probably has their lights on. It might be better at night."

I rushed to Mapusa for new bulbs. I replaced the thirty-watt bulbs they'd installed with two-hundred-watters. It didn't make a difference. From nightfall till midnight, the electricity was useless. Only the slight orange glow in the centre of the bulb verified the presence of current. It gave no light whatsoever. After midnight, though, it grew stronger and stronger, and in the wee hours of morning the house radiated. Before midnight I needed kerosene lamps, but after midnight I had electricity. Immediately I converted the boudoir to a theatre. I painted a white rectangle in the centre of a blue wall to act as a screen and added more blue and green jungle-print mattresses. I placed the projector on a blue table. So far I'd only shown the movies in Bombay.

Since I'd stopped distributing coke to every visitor, the multitude of eager noses had stopped visiting. I missed the attention. Why not have a Movie Night?

I invited everyone—even Narayan. With Narayan and I living on the same beat. It, I decided to treat him as a friend—or pseudofriend at least. Besides, this way I could show him the house.

"Hi, Narayan. Welcome to Movie Night," I said as I opened the door for him.

"Friend?" he asked hesitantly.

"Friend." I took his hand. "Come see my flush toilet." I pulled him through the crowd and took him on a tour. I showed him the toilet and the safe behind the painting. "This is where I keep my drugs. Protected and cool, out of harm's way." I didn't open the closet door that exposed the blowtorched hole in the safe; I whisked Narayan upstairs to point out the linoleum. I struck a Momsy pose. "Isn't it beautiful?" I asked. "What kind of floor do you have?"

"Old Fashion-style—dong."

"Aw." I made a pitying face.

The doorbell rang continually—the new doorbell; the old one had rusted in the monsoon.

"Yo, the sheriff is HERE!"

There was Black Jimmy, star still pinned to his best. "Jimmy!" I exclaimed. "Come in."

"Hello, Miss Cleo," said the next guest.

Serge!

"This is Miss Mireille."

And his Frenchie! Oh, shit!

Since I had no coke of my own, I positioned myself next to people who had some. I accepted Sima's offer, then sat by Alehandro for a snort of his; then I joined Amsterdam Dean. I indulged in everyone's stash while I savoured playing the Grande dame.

When the lights had grown bright announcing that there was sufficient electricity, I showed the movies. A mob crowded into the "theatre" to watch. I loved showing my films with Narayan present; in forty minutes of footage from Bali, be star in a single shot!

"Look, Anjuna was just a baby then," said Laura as we watched. "Those castles we had at Kaiya Waiya were, like, far out," said Trumpet Steve.

"Yo, dorn’t you have shots of the sheriff?"

"Not in Bali," I told Jimmy. "You left the country before I started filming. I have you in Bangkok."

"Do you have the movies of our wedding?" asked Gigi, who was sitting on Marco's lap with her arms around his neck.

"Not yet. They're sent out of the country for developing. Takes forever."

"Show the poker game again," someone requested.

"Look at that—Serge demonstrating how to use a pig toilet!"

Everyone cheered as they watched Serge lower his pants and squat. The roar woke up Junky Robert. ". . . DID NOT!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"There's the poker game. Hey, Dayid, looks like you were losing."

"Yes, I confess to impecuniousness at the game's termination," Dayid answered. Ashley perched near him on a window ledge, her jade cigarette holder slanting daintily in the air.