Goa Freaks: My Hippie Years in India

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.'

'Greek Robert . . .'

'He’s dead.'

'Gigi and Marco . . .'

'She’s dead.'

'Neal. . .'

'Him too.'

'Mental . . .'

'In jail.'

'Georgette . . .'

'She's here! I saw her the other day at Joe Banana's.'

'And what happened to the beach parties, man?'

'There's a party tonight, I heard.'

'Not on Anjuna Beach. It's at the music house on the Chapora road. The parties used to be HERE every