Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

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. More turds and running urine covered every room. A six-inch concrete platform in each room seemed to be the most popular place on which to squat and drop one's faeces, but by no means did the prisoners restrict themselves 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 miserable when old and cold. Ugh—I had a cup of tea.

I needed opium. That was my most 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 mouth 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.

Help—get 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-Andree's provisions except for the mosquito repellent. I roamed 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. Could I escape over them?

GET ME OUT OF HERE.

More meals of cold rice. I drank the tea. By night time I was terrified. What 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. When 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 anywhere. Only children. Children 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 methadone 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 corner 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 dormitory. 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 air.

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. Could I fake a suicide attempt? I selected a triangle of glass, looked sharp. Filthy. I made a swipe with it along my wrist. Ugh—the glass was so dirty I'd probably get tetanus or something. I made another cut. It didn't bleed, but I couldn't bring myself 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 Katin, 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?"