Arriving in Bombay, the Customs inspector asked his usual, "Camera? Radio?"
I sacrificed the camera. "Yes, a movie camera," I said, hoping he wouldn't look beneath it to find the projector, nor beneath the projector to find the film. He didn't.
I'd changed during the monsoon season. I'd become audacious—a slayer of police dragons; and I'd become powerful—a chieftain of destine. I'd even learned to drive a motorbike! I'd earned the title Goa Freak and loved everything about being one—the excitement, the outlandishness, the opulence, and the camaraderie. What a wonderful life! I couldn't resist staying at the Sheraton. One's hotel reflected the success of one's monsoon business. The Sheraton or the Taj Mahal meant extremely profitable business; the Nataraj and the Ambassador, very good; the Astoria and the Ritz, nice, steady work; Stiffles, struggling (except at the end of the season, at which time it was okay); Bentley's, scrounging and probably looking to borrow money. Those staying by Juhu Beach near the airport were probably still doing business. And those like Kadir—who'd just taken an apartment to which no one had yet been invited—were most likely involved in a large-scale, continuous operation centred in Bombay.
Bombay buzzed as the Freaks returned from the monsoon months of business. The Freak hotels were fully booked. The air hummed with gaiety and festivity. Old friends reunited. From the end of September, ml the Goa Freaks began returning to India, Bombay was packed with people on their way down to Goa or just up from Goa. Dipti's had a crowd outside on the street, waiting to see who dropped by for ice cream and gossip.
"Shambo, man, how was your monsoon? Did you hear I saw Alehandro on Chicken Street in Kabul. He's bringing down a truckload of . . . "
" . . . about the generator Pharaoh bought in Japan . . ."
". . . superb Bolivian blow. Brought it over myself . . . let you . . ."
". . . from Laos. And I scored a porno movie in Bangkok. Why don't you drop by my room at the Sheraton . . ."
The shops and stalls of the silver market, Chor Bazaar, Bindi Bazaar, and Crawford Market were deluged with newly earned money. Dollars, yen, francs, pesos—you had to wait in line at the black-market currency exchange. Drugs from around the world, gadgets, electrical equipment, jewellery, art, trophies from the monsoon, all exchanged hands. We sat in each other's rooms and vied over whose stash would be used.
Everyone wanted to pay the tab. For dinner, groups of us would go to the Ambassador and order four courses each. While waiting for the appetizer, personal stashes would come out.
"Have you tried my Colombian coke?"
"Hmmm. Not bad. Now do a whiff of mine."
". . . here, and pass this down . . ."
"Anybody ever taste blue coke? Try this, man . . ."
Powders would pass back and forth across the table until the food arrived. By then, of course, we were too coked-out to eat. With a concerned frown on his face, the maitre d' would ask what was wrong with the food.
"Nothing. It's great."
"Delicious."
"Wow, man."
"The best."
Nevertheless, our food wound up back in the kitchen, practically untouched.
Between parties, I tore through the markets buying things for my new house. I got carpets at the Handloom House; papier-mâché boxes, candlesticks, and six-inch-high Kashmiri tables from the Kashmir Emporium; tasselled, velvet pillow covers from Crawford Market; and yards of satin material to make sheets. I ran from my safety deposit box at the Mercantile Bank to the black-market exchange—where the money doubled—to the shops and marketplaces, and then back to the bank. I bought so much, I had to take the boat to Goa.
India was different now that I had money. This time I had a cabin on the front. First class occupied the top deck and consisted of one suite and six cabins, two of which held other Goa Freaks. A blonde Irish named Shawn had the suite. Junky Robert and Tish had a cabin across the halt from mine. We hung out in Shawn's suite, sniffing dope and coke, ordering room service, and telling our monsoon stories.
"Loathe me, it was something else, I tell you," said Shawn. "This was the first time I'd been to Ireland in six years. What a gas to go back with dough. Last time my father wouldn't talk to me because of my bong hair. Kept telling me to clean up and get a job. He talked to me this time, he did. The entire village came to see me. But, Lord, was I glad to leave. What sour fives they five—working every day."
"I don't know how they stand it," said Robert, nodding out, eyes closed and head leaning against a porthole.
"Can you imagine going to job every morning?"
"I'd puke!"
"Loathe me, nine to five. How do they do it?"
"Beats me. I'd rather be dead."
In deck class, the last time I took the boat, dinner had been banged down on a crowded, dirty counter; this time it was served on a white tablecloth. Before; it had been cold rice on a tin plate, this time I had crispy chicken on porcelain. Yes, India could be quite luxurious if one had money.
During dessert, Robert fell asleep with his spoonful of honey pastry midway to his mouth. It dropped from his hand and landed on his lap, waking him.
"Damn it," he said as syrup spread over his thigh.
As we laughed, a smile crept across his face. He inserted the spoon in his dessert cup and scooped out a load of syrup. Whop! He shot it at Shawn's chin.
Whop! Shawn fired back.
Whop! Whop! Tish and I joined in.
By the time we left the table, yellow streaks covered the tablecloth, and my hair was sticky. A glob of honey ran down the wall, and Tish had honey hanging from an ear. We left the room giggling uncontrollably. With his head held high and one eye closed, Robert slipped fifty rupees into the waiter's palm. The waiter bowed.
In poverty-stricken countries the rich could five like sovereigns.
MAP OF ANJUNA BEACH
Second Season In Goa
1976 - 1977
ARRIVING IN PANJIM, we split up because bags and packages filled every inch of my taxi, and I wasn't going directly to Anjuna Beach anyway. I first had to go to Mapusa, the village near Anjuna where Lino the Landlord lived. I'd sent him a telegram and found him waiting for me in his four-foot-square battery shop.
Anxiously I asked, "Is the house ready?" I couldn't wait to move in and become an official resident.
He shook his head side to side Indian fashion. It looked like no or indecision but meant, "Sure." Then he said, "One or two things remain needing to be done, but you can stay inside."
"Wonderful!"
"You go now? I will follow on my motorcycle."
I felt euphoric. As the taxi headed down the traffic less road to Anjuna Beach, tears filled my eyes. How beautiful it was there. My territory now, where my people lived. I knew there'd be a party that night.
I was surprised when we turned oh the paved road onto a dirt way that took us across the paddy fields. I hadn't known a car could go so close to the sea. The taxi left me thirty yards from the house, and I ran to see the new hone.
Yes, it had a roof. White and blue windows. It looked immense.
Wow. Mine. My home! Lino pulled up beside me. "You see, it is finished."
With a key, he opened the padlock connecting the brass rings of the front doors. I walked in with the reverence someone might show for a cathedral. Shiny red tiles felt cool beneath my feet—no dung floor here. I passed through the front room and up three steps to the main room—huge! The tree was gone, and the ceiling rose high above me. The staircase! It faced me from the far wall, turned, and went up to the square landing I'd designed. Upstairs, one enormous room led into another. The end room turned right to extend a further thirteen feet. Wow. I'd make this gigantic space the bedroom. I opened a window to a fishy-smelling breeze. The ocean lay fifty yards away, on the other side of the pig-as-waste-disposal toilets.