Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

"I need the passport as soon as possible," I told the official. "Must meet my fiancé, 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 right to remain 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 government building. Handcuffed 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 inanimate 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 waist 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 whirlwind—questions, fingerprints, an appearance before a judge that happened so fast I had no idea what was said. When they took my picture I tried to regain myself by striking a dramatic pose—head cocked, lips pursed like Marilyn Monroe. Someone giggled, but someone else said we had to do again, and this time without my theatrics. My 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 this.

"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. What great timing 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 Mental 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 other compartment. Next I was given ugly, horrible clothes. Pants, of all things! I never wore pants—ugh! And underwear! They wanted me to wear underwear! They put a hospital-type bracelet on and deposit in the detention hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone made an impatient noise.

"Your crime. Was it federal or state?"

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

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

They looked.

"She’s federal."

I could tell they were impressed.

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