Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

Cecile: 'The good old days . . .'

Lisa: 'Now they have fucking computers . . .'

Trumpet Steve: 'Who's got the bhong?'

A voice from behind the sofa: 'It's over here. Just a minute.'

A voice from the refrigerator: 'Anybody mind if I drink this Dr. Pepper? It's the last one.'

Finally, my court date arrived. Unsmiley had succeeded in placing me before another judge, this one known to be easy. The charge against me had been reduced to a misdemeanour—theft of government property under fifty dollars. Unsmiley was optimistic about the outcome.

He accompanied me to the courthouse, where we had to wait in the hall before entering. I wore my boring, beige airplane outfit, with shoes that matched. As I paced before the double doors of the courtroom, a posted piece of paper caught my attention.

Oh my goodness! Look at that! Wide letters proclaimed: The United States of America versus . . . ME? I chortled out loud then clapped a hand to my mouth. I ran to where Unsmiley gazed out a window. I grabbed the sleeve of his neat, navy sell hurried him back to the door. 'Look at this. I can't believe it. Look, look. Here—me! Against the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Isn’t that absurd?'

He frowned at the disbelieving grin on my face, shook his head, and ONE OF CLEO'S INSECTS said, 'That's what happens when you commit a crime. What did you expect?'

'No . . . I mean . . . but . . . isn't that incredible?' He just didn't understand.

The spectators in this courtroom, too, enjoyed my appearance. I’d come fully armed to convince the judge how upright and reputable I was. Unsmiley presented him with my modelling portfolio and my packet of drawings.

'What is this?' asked the judge, holding sheets of paper.

'Um, I believe that's Euproctis sirnilis,' I answered, motioning to a mothlike creature. 'And that one there is Kosciuscola tristis. The male Kosciuscola tristis.'

'No. I mean, what are these . . .'

'Insects.'

'I can see that. I mean, why are you showing me these?'

'Well, you see, my fiance is an entomologist, and he travels the world to investigate new species of insects. I go with him and help by drawing and cataloguing his discoveries. But see, he usually travels in the East, and lately I've been having trouble coming back to this country. You should have seen what they did to my suitcase at Kennedy Airport! I thought if I had a passport in another name it would make it easier. Sometimes I'm detained for hours . . .'

Unsmiley told the judge this was my first offence and pointed out that my attempt to acquire the passport was amateurish.

'On the contrary,' the judge argued. 'The way she went about it was very professional.'

Unsmiley then explained how I'd come up with the idea from reading The Day of the Jackal. I'd followed exactly what the character in the story had done.

'The Day of the jackal? By Forsyth?'

Unsmiley laid before him a copy of the book he'd spent all weekend going through in order to find the right passage, but which, unfortunately he never did.

'Where in this book?'

'It's in there somewhere,' I offered. 'We just haven't found it yet. It's a big book.'

The judge then delivered a tirade—against drugs, against drug running, against people who left their country. He ended by saying something to the effect that, if I didn't want to be in this country, then I wasn't wanted here. His words were so forceful that my body prickled, a prickle that crept to my brain and compressed everything I heard.

'. . . thenwedontwantyouhere . . . '

Whatever his final decree was, I didn't grasp it. I didn't even know when it came, and Unsmiley had to steer me out of the courtroom.

'So what happened?' I asked in the corridor.

'What do you mean what happened? You were there; you heard what he said.'

'No, I missed the last part. What'd he say?'

'You have to pay a fine.'

'Probation?'

'Didn't you hear him? He practically told you to get out of the country because you weren't wanted here.'

'RRRR‘WVRR!' I made an ecstasy noise and jumped on Unsmiley, swinging him until his heel collided with a metal ashtray. After he pried me loose I danced right there in the corridor of the Federal Building. I started with hops, a kick, and a pirouette; then I threw my bag on the floor and attempted a Mexican hat dance around its edges. 'La cucaraCHA, la cucara—CHA . . .' I was beginning a cancan when Unsmiley pulled me toward the elevator and pushed me in.

'I can go back to Goa?'

'You can go anywhere you like.'

I restrained the hug that was bursting inside me. 'YahOOO!' I yelled quietly as we descended to the Lobby.

Now I just wanted to get out of there. Out of San Francisco. Out of the States. Away from Little Lisa. Away from the mob. As it was I'd spent way too much money in the West.

When I told John the judge's decision, he moved the base pipe aside to congratulate me with a kiss. Then he told me the news, 'Gigi is dead.'

'Gigi? We just saw her in Bombay.'

'Marco's in jail in Europe.'

'Oh, no! What about their daughter?'

'With Marco's sister.'

'Poor Gigi. She never saw her wedding movie. I'm so sad. How'd it happen?'

'We don't know the details,' said Richard, 'but she'd been pretty out of it. All that smack you guys are doing.' Though Richard Loved coke, he was as antismack as he and Narayan had been years before in Bali.

'It's NOT the smack,' I said defensively. 'It's the coke. You have to be careful with coke. You should've seen me last monsoon. Now I sleep every night and take calcium and vitamin B. That reminds me-I should go buy vitamins, since be heading East soon. I want to leave this week.' I turned to John. 'You coming to India with me?'

'I'll meet you in Bangkok. We can pick up that stash.'

'Oh, right! At the Royal Hotel. I'll send them a telegram to reserve the room. What was it, 409? I hope nobody found the dope and called the police.'

The rest of the night we smoked farewell bhongs to Gigi.

*

I bought a plane ticket and cabled Thailand to reserve room 409 for my 'wedding anniversary.' This time I flew China Airlines and had a two-day stopover in Taiwan.

When I arrived at the Bangkok hotel and requested the room, however, the desk clerk exhibited bewilderment. Ah, yes, Asian desk clerks. Remember them? I should have known.

'I made a reservation specifically for room 409,' I wailed. 'My husband and I spent our honeymoon in it last year. Now it's our anniversary and I want to surprise him. He'll be arriving tomorrow.'

Oh yes, there it was—they had my reservation, but sorry, room 409 was occupied.

'When was it taken?' I asked.

'Yesterday, I am very sorry.'

'But I sent the telegram last week!'

The desk clerk shrugged. 'We can give you 407 next door, then you can have 409 as soon as it is vacated. Or maybe you can convince the occupants to switch with you.'