Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

I was a foreigner in an ocean of natives, one of whom I'd just knocked unconscious. Oh, shit. My life was over. I was sure of it.

In slow motion they came at me from every side. I clearly saw homicide in the eye of the woman who grabbed my left arm, and the man who grabbed my right one, and the person who grabbed my hair, and the two who took hold of my shoulder, and the one at my elbow. The seashell sound became a giant curse uttered by my captors. I was positive my life was over.

Then suddenly they were gone. Four policemen herded away the lynch mob.

I found out that the man I had hit was a policeman, an undercover Customs officer. Apparently a team of them patrolled flea markets to prevent Westerners from selling taxable items. The officer had taken my iron to investigate its status.

I was led through the mass of angry faces to the Calangute police station. As usual there were no facilities for women, and I was once again kept in a bathroom. An Indian woman sat with me. I went to the toilet to excavate the stash from beneath my dress and snorted a large amount of coke. Then, thinking I should probably calm myself down, I snorted a large hit of dope. On the other hand, I needed to cheer up from that harrowing experience, so I did more coke. Oh my god. Had I killed a policeman?

No, I found out he wasn't dead. He'd been taken to the hospital in Panjim. What would become of me? Would I be imprisoned forever for assaulting an officer of the law?

No. Someone saved me. It was my old friend, Inspector Navelcar. "I know her," he said as he came in and looked at the mob.

He spoke to the others in Konkani, the local language, then motioned that I could go.

"I can go?"

He shook his head Indian style, signalling yes.

Wow. I couldn't believe it. As I left the police station a free person, I felt reborn. The green of the palms looked greener as relief swept through me. I took a deep breath. Close one! I turned to Inspector Navelcar to thank him.

And I remembered Neal.

The last time I'd seen Inspector Navelcar was when I'd gone to Panjim to ask him to have Neal arrested.

"My friend died," I said to him. "It's your fault."

"Pardon?"

"Neal died and it's your fault."

"Who died? What is my fault? What are you talking about?"

"You killed my friend. Remember I asked you to have him arrested and put in a hospital? Well, you didn't and he died."

"I remember now. I thought you simply had an argument with some one. You never returned. I thought the matter was finished."

"You killed him."

"I did not know he was indeed sick, and we had nothing to arrest him for. I am very sorry your friend died."

"Murderer."

"Perhaps if you had returned and told me again about your friend?"

"MURDERER!!"

Now Inspector Navelcar just wanted to get away from me. He looked around as if searching for an escape and crossed the road. "I am very sorry about your friend, but there was nothing I could do."

"MURDERER," I shrieked at his back. "YOU KILLED MY FRIEND. It’s ALL YOUR Fault!"

He moved quickly in the direction of the flea market. I followed, my eyes filling with tears. Neal was gone! My Neal was gone! It was the policeman's fault. It was somebody's fault.

"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"

The tears fell and more surged from the edges of my eyes. Inspector Navelcar no longer answered me; he kept walking.

"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"

Parked outside the market were dozens of motorcycles. Their drivers clustered nearby smoking beedies , waiting for passengers. The inspector strode briskly among them. I followed a few feet behind.

"MURDERER! I BEGGED YOU TO HELP MY FRIEND, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT HE DIED."

The roughneck bike drivers jumped out of my way. Leaving me space. After a decade of Freaks in Goa, the natives knew to flee the path of a crazed one. A man selling lemon soda peered at me through his tent vent.

"MURDERER!"

As we neared the market, more and more people knotted the way. Women carrying baskets of fruit turned to watch the man and the shrieking foreigner chasing him. A taxi stopped and a head popped out of the window.

"YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"

Tears poured nonstop down my cheeks. The inspector half ran into the crowd, not daring to look behind. I followed.

"YOU KILLED HIM. YOU KILLED HIM."

As I entered the market, the sound of bongo drums and flutes wrapped around me. The inspector hid himself. I'd lost him. I stopped and cried and yelled in all directions.

"NEAL’S DEAD. MY FRIEND IS DEAD. YOU KILLED MY FRIEND."

I could hardly see through the wall of water between me and the world. Eventually I ran out of energy and returned to the road.

The motorcycle drivers saw me coming and hopped out of my way again. I found my driver sitting on his bike. He threw his half-smoked beedie to the ground at my approach.

"I go home now," I told him.

When I arrived at the house I instructed the driver to come back Monday morning. I had no idea why I needed a motorcycle Monday morning, but I had the weekend to figure it out. In the evening Straightish delivered the things I'd left at the flea market.

"Oh, thanks. I thought I'd lost everything," I said.

"I packed your stuff when I realized you'd disappeared. Where'd you go, anyway?"

As it turned out, nothing had been stolen after all.

I spent the next two days crying for my dead friend. Neal was gone. I'd no longer find him on my doorstep shaking his bangs, giggling, and saying "Hi, cutie." No more Neal to run to with a piece of gossip. Or a problem. Or a secret. No more clicking noises. No more stories. How could there be a Goa without Neal?

Late Sunday I realized what I'd done to Inspector Navelcar. Oh, shit—I'd gone Coke Amuck on the poor inspector. Poor guy. And after he saved me from who-knew-what kind of fate. What had I called him? A murderer? He wasn't to blame for Neal's death. It was me. It was my fault. Not Inspector Navel car's. He hadn't deserved such a scene.

The motorcycle was coming in a few hours! Good. I could go apologize.

The bike ride to Panjim took fifty minutes. When Inspector Navelcar saw me climbing the worn steps to his floor, he looked scared. I must have really shaken him.

"Sorry," I said to him. "Those words weren't for you. They were for me. I blame myself for Neal's death. Not you. Forgive me?"

He seemed relieved but not totally convinced I wouldn't go berserk there in his office. I thanked him for coming to my rescue.

"How's that man I hit on the head?" I asked.

"He is fine. Just a nasty bump."

Though I never went to another flea market, I managed to sell things. The oil painting from Bali went first—the one whose bamboo holder I'd planned to bash over Narayan's head. That painting had been hanging in my movie room. The empty space created by its absence stared at me forlornly every time I passed. I'd loved that painting. In my images of the Future it had always been with me. Its loss was significant.

One day I opened the door to find Kadir on the doorstep. " Shambo , Cleo, man."

"KADIR!" I jumped into his arms.

Kadir had been jailed in Germany for two years. "I just got out, man," he said.

We went inside and shared lines of coke, along with our feelings about Goa and Anjuna Beach. We both loved the place. Kadir had longed for it every hour of his incarceration. But he found it different from when he'd left.

"Where is everybody, man?" he asked. "Nobody's here anymore."

"Who do you mean?"

"Anybody, They're all gone, man. Dayid and Ashley. Giuliano . . ."

"Giuliano's in jail in Rome."