Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

By November I was once again suffering a scarcity of capital. I bought smaller quantities from Rachid's man in Mapusa, ran out faster, returned sooner to Mapusa, and lost more customers during my absence. I urgently needed a chunk of money to buy stock, plus a chunk to pay the maid, the electric bill, the gang of people now needed to fill the water tank . . . and the rent.

Uh-oh. What do I do?

I'd have to sell some things. How barbaric. To sell one's possessions—gross. But I could think of no other solution. I'd have to hawk my belongings at the flea market. Like a peasant. There went my reputation.

It had been years since I'd gone to a flea market. When I asked Norwegian Monica what day of the week they were held, I was shocked to hear that the flea markets were no longer on Anjuna Beach.

"What do you mean they're not here any more? The flea market used to be a major event."

"Not anymore," Monica answered. "Hoo, boy—the Anjuna people don't have the same energy."

What was happening to my beach? We used to be the centre of all goings-on.

The flea markets were now in Calangute every Friday afternoon and were mostly frequented by Goans, not Goa Freaks. Calangute! What a pain. That meant I'd have to hire a motorbike and schlepp my stuff. One of my customers—a straightish newcomer to Goa—said he was going to the next market: and suggested we make the trip together.

"Okay, I guess so," I answered dejectedly.

I hated the idea. Even in my poorest days of travelling in Europe, I'd never sold anything at a flea market. I hadn't even sold my car when I left Amsterdam for Israel. Instead, I gave the car away and arrived in Tel Aviv on a one-way ticket with twenty-five dollars to my name. To me, selling personal possessions was an admission of financial failure, a real down and-out statement. Was this what I'd come to?

How awful choosing what to part with. I decided I could live without the iron, a leather backgammon board, a few tapes I was sick of listening to . . . Depressing.

Early Friday morning a motorcycle driver came for me. Straightish Newcomer arrived too, the back of his bike piled with things to sell. A flat area in Calangute near a school served as the flea market. Whatever vegetation once grew there had been trampled into the red dirt. Straightish found us a spot by a tree, and we spread cloths to lay our wares on. I'd brought a hammer and nails so I could hang signs advertising my goods and their prices. The tree could serve as a backrest and ad board.

I never got the opportunity to write signs, though. Within minutes of arriving, I discovered what selling at a flea market entailed. As I took the backgammon board out of my bag, a middle-aged Goan grabbed it.

"Oh, wait—I'm not ready yet," I said. "Would you mind coming back in a few minutes?" Either she didn't understand or she pretended not to. She proceeded to open the board and raised her eyebrows in surprise as she saw the unfamiliar numbers on the betting cube, which she probably mistook for a the. Chips tumbled to the ground. "Oh, wait! You dropped my . . ."

Before I knew it, three more Indians flocked over. I snatched the chips from under their Feet and continued unpacking. I pulled out a Nepalese dancing mask; someone grappled it from my hand. The Indians watched hungrily as I reached in for more. An old man tugged at the bag's flap for a view inside.

"Uh, would you all mina coming back in five minutes, please?" I said. "Let me set up first." The man inserted his arm in the bag. "Wait a minute! Not ready vet. Five minutes. Wait five minutes."

Nobody listened. A woman bent to examine the iron. Three men rummaged through my tapes.

"How much this?" one of them asked.

"What this?" asked another.

"I give ten rupee for two?" said a third.

"Those are ten rupees each. But, please, if you give me a minute write the prices." They didn't give me a minute. I hadn't taken out half my stock before the Indians swamped me, wanting to know what everything was and how much it cost.

"WAIT A MINUTE! Will you wait a minute!" Indians had surrounded me, and when I managed to peer past two of them, couldn't see Straightish, for there was another mob around him. "WATT!" I yelled. "Stand back a bit. I'm suffocating here. Look, you're standing on my cloth! Back. Back. Move back." I waved my arms. They ignored me.

"What this?" three people asked at the same time, holding different objects under my nose.

"How much? Do rupea , okay?"

From beneath my skirt I retrieved the wallet tied around my waist. I opened a paper package of coke and snorted a couple of fingernails full.

"What this?" said a Goan woman, probing a Thai box in the shape of a turtle. The top fell off and someone stepped on it. I did three more nails-full.

"What this?" I did one more.

"ALRIGHT!" I shouted. "NOW WAIT! I'm going to write price tags, see, and they're going to say exactly what everything is and how much it costs."

"I give five rupee for this."

"No! No bargaining. Now everybody stand back and let me finish. And you, GET YOUR FOOT OFF MY CLOTH! CELLO! CELLO! "

They allowed me a foot of space when I yelled, but within seconds they had closed in again. I snorted more coke and refused to answer anyone. I jotted prices. Tapes, ten rupees each. Blender, three hundred rupees. Iron—

"What this?"

"How much?"

I glared ferociously. "READ THE TAG!"

More coke.

As soon as I finished the price tags I realized they wouldn't work. I had no adhesive tape for affixing them. No one bothered to read them, and whatever the Goans picked up to examine they put down in another spot, far from its informative tag. Soon I had a collection of little tags that weren't near anything. Someone placed the four hundred rupee iron near a five rupee tag.

"Five rupee this?"

"NO," I shouted, my fists clenched and fury in my voice. "FIVE RUPEE THAT!" I plunked the rightful object near its price tag.

More coke.

Nobody bought anything. Apparently Indians enjoyed investigating foreign things. They hadn't the least desire for actual purchase. They crowded around, exploring, touching, opening, discarding, and asking questions.

The piecework pillow I'd brought from Laos appeared half an inch from my chin. "How much this?"

"READ THE TAG!"

Things worsened as the afternoon progressed, and in exasperation, aggravation, and Coke Amuck rage, I lost the ability to talk in a normal tone of voice.

TEN RUPEES, YOU MORON! What this? GET YOUR FOOT OFF MY CLOTH! I give you three rupees. NO BARGAINING! You from America? What this? GET BACK! What this? (more coke) GET OFF THE CLOTH! How much? STAND BACK! (more coke) What this? TEN RUPEES! TEN RUPEES! CAN’T YOU READ? How much? (more coke) WHERE’S THE PILLOW? What this? DID YOU PAY FOR THAT? (more coke) WI TO TOOK THAT PILLOW? (more coke) GIVE BACK THAT TAPE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BUY IT. (more coke) STAND BACK!!!

All of a sudden someone ran away with my iron. HEY, COME BACK WITH THAT . . . If I chased the thief, my unguarded things would be stolen, but if I remained seated. I'd lose the iron.

In need of immediate action, I seized the nearest thing—the hammer I had never had a chance to use. I jumped up, bounded into the air after the villain, and bashed him over the head.

Oh, my god. What have I done?

He fell, he seemed to take forever to crumple to the ground, and I had a long time to appraise the situation.

Holy shit.

Layers of Indians surrounded me. They were looking at me or were in the process of turning toward me. Sound blurred. Voices, bongo drums, and the crunch of feet blended into a noise that sounded like the rumble in a seashell. As I glanced around, expressions changed from curiosity to surprise, shock, anger, and then—as they all swiveled to face me—murderous.