One day, returning from Denpasar, I decided to stop at the police station to say hello to the inspector.
"Hi, remember me?" I said, sticking my head in his office doorway.
"Hello. Please have a seat. Will you take a glass of water?"
"No, thanks. I just came to say hello."
We chitchatted a while, and then he said, "You are leaving Bali soon."
"No," I answered, not understanding. "I wasn't planning to leave, no."
"We have a new Chief of Police. He is unhappy about the situation with your friend Jimmy. It is political."
When I drove away, I contemplated his words. Had he warned me of impending trouble? Was that his way of telling me things were getting hot? Should I leave Bali?
Before going home, I visited Max and Barbara—New Yorkers, both Goa Freaks. They also lived at Kaiya Waiya. I found them in the open inner area of their castle-like house playing with their baby under a frangipani tree.
The three of us had previously discussed a possible business arrangement. They had two sets of hash-filled cases stored in Bombay and were willing to split fifty-fifty with whomever carried them to Australia. Mulling over ways of transporting a double load, I'd remembered Aunt Sathe's desire to do a run. Well, why not use her? It no longer seemed an absurd idea. It no longer seemed improper to involve my aunt in a low risk, high-yield venture. Wealth was pleasurable, and I wanted to share the feeling.
So I wrote to Aunt Sathe, asking if she was still interested, and she wrote back, yes.
"Hi, Max. Hi, Barbara. I've just been advised to leave the island. What's happening with those cases?"
"If you want them, they're yours," said Barbara.
"I can do an aunt-and-me run. How does that sound? Great, huh? My aunt and I will take the cases together. Aunt Sathe's in her late forties and carries herself like the First Lady. What do you think?"
"Your aunt will run cases with you? Does she know what's inside?" asked Max.
"It was her idea! I arrange to meet her in Bombay. Where will we find you in Australia?"
"Our connection's in Melbourne. We'll meet you there. I sell the dope, and we'll split the profit."
"Terrific."
Three days later, I was back in Bombay, with Aunt Sathe scheduled to arrive a week later. In the meantime, I decided to find a house in Goa before they were all rented for the season. I wanted something permanent. I wanted a house of my own that I could fix up and have available at all times. I wanted a permanent home. A permanent Goa Freak, that's what I wanted to be.
At Dipti's in Bombay I ran into Dayid and Ashley. When I told them I was on the way to Goa, Ashley suggested I stay in their house.
"By now it's a slovenly quagmire of dost and mildew," Dayid added, "but you're welcome to it."
I flew down to a very green Goa. The monsoon, now in its last throes, had caused vegetation to flourish like an alien Fungus. Grass hid the paths, and insects keek-keeked and eeped. Inside Dayid and Ashley's house, I found everything packed. Cobwebs stretched wall to wall. Still, it was Dayid and Ashley's fantastic house, and I felt honoured to be there. I dumped my bag in a dusty corner and set forth on my mission.
Up and down I searched the deserted beach, asking for a house. Aside from the occasional French Junky poking a tousled head from a hut, no foreigners could be seen. From Indian to Indian I went, but they shook their heads or pointed behind the paddy fields. I couldn't find what I was looking for.
No longer accustomed to walking, I was exhausted by sunset. That night, lying on a mouldy mattress, listening to the rain on the roof, I snorted smack, punctured a spider web with my foot, and indulged in the feeling of being in Goa. This was my home now. I loved this place. I WANT to find a house.
The next day I followed a lead and sought a local man named Lino, whom I finally found at Nelson's Bar off the Mapusa road. "Yes, I have a house for lease," he informed me. "I can fix for you. Shall we go see it?"
As we neared the beach, I grew excited. We headed right for the area I wanted—in the centre of Anjuna Beach by the sea. Encouragingly, Lino seemed interested in my desire to rent a house on a long-term basis. "Here," he said finally. "This is it."
"This?" I despaired at the sight of it. The building was enormous and, rare for Goa, two stories high. But it didn't have a second floor. It didn't have a roof! The ground floor was a mound of dirt and fallen bricks among which a tree had grown. Its branches hung over the crumbling walls. "This is a ruin!"
"Yes, but I will fix. This is the house from my childhood," said Lino.
"There's a tree in it."
"I will pull out."
"I don't know . . . "
"If you accept, it will be ready in two months only."
A few days and many miles of walking later, I took it. We agreed on a ten-year lease. The rent totalled a thousand dollars a year, exorbitant for Goa, where most people paid no more than twenty-five dollars a month. He said he needed two years paid in advance so he could afford the repairs.
I fell in love with the idea of building a home. Having grown up in an elevator apartment, I had a fascination for stairs, and this two-story house fulfilled one of my prima' fantasies. Since most of it was yet to be built, I could design it the way I wanted. I toll Lino to construct the second floor only in the back half of the house, leaving the front rooms with a high ceiling.
Feeling like I'd sprouted a root, I flew to Bombay to meet Aunt Sathe. I registered her at the Oberoi-Sheraton, the city's second best hotel (after the Taj Mahal).
"Oy, tatala, why is that woman lying on the dirty sidewalk with her baby?" asked Aunt Sathe, looking out the window. "Haven't they heard of bacteria here? What kind of meshugge mother is that?"
"Aunt Sathe, those are beggars. They five on the sidewalk."
"Oyvey!"
"Sometimes they even mutilate their children so they come beg for more money. See the boy with the limp . . ."
"Enough already. Don't tell me anymore!"
That afternoon, I went to collect the suitcases where Max had toll me I'd find them—in storage at the Astoria Hotel. Soon, Aunt Sathe and I were in flight to Sydney, Australia.
"How do you feel?" I asked her on the plane. "Scared?"
She made a reassuring face, but I could tell she was nervous. "If only I could have a snooze, tatala, I'd be much better. I have a secret cigarette with me, but I don't think they'd let me smoke it here."
Oh, SHIT!
We were carrying eight kilos of hash each, and Aunt Sathe had a joint on her! Just what I needed—to get busted for my aunt's marijuana. "AUNT SATHE!" I wailed.
So, I'm sorry. I won't go anywhere without a supply. I need it for when I get a migraine. It relaxes me and Jets me sleep."
"But Aunt Sathe, we have SIXTEEN kilos of hash for you to smoke."
"Now don't be a nutpick I couldn't smoke hash. It's made by Arabs."
"What, so it's not kosher?"
"Well . . . I would feel better not smoking it."
"Aunt Sathe," I explained, "this hash comes from Afghanistan, and while the people who make it ARE Muslim, they're definitely NOT Arabs."
"Same thing."
I looked out of the window a second before asking, "Is your stash well hidden, at least?"
"Stop worrying already, you nudnik you. It's in my makeup case under my eyelashes. They'll never find it."
Shit. It they were to search us, that's the first place they'd look.
When the flight attendant handed her the dinner menu, Aunt Sathe ordered the kosher plate.
Arriving in Sydney, everybody had to go through Customs. Aunt Sathe—as she always did when nervous—began to chatter. I thought I'd the as she proceeded to direct her verbal anxiety at our Customs inspector.