As we eased into spring, people left Goa. The weather grew hot with the approach of the monsoon. Goa enjoyed clear, delightful warmth all year except for summer, when the temperature rose to unbearable heights, followed by incessant rain. That was when the Freak citizens of Goa left beach life to do business—drug business. The monsoon routine called for a quick scam to make a bundle of cash, then sojourning in another utopian spot, like Ibiza or Bali, until the next Goa season.

One day, Kadir informed me that he and Dayid were putting their scam in motion and we were to move to Bombay.

I flew up with Ashley, Dayid, Norwegian Monica, and other Goa Freaks we ran into at the airport. Though the flight itself took twenty minutes, the taxi ride to Diabolim Airport took three hours. The wait for the ferry I'd crossed with Tom and Julian's bus consumed most of the time. The steel structures extending into the water hadn't grown an inch since then.

In Bombay we checked into the Astoria Hotel, and I shared a room with Norwegian Monica. Monica planned to run for Kadir and Dayid, carrying cases into Canada like I'd done. Depending on the amount of capital left at the season's end, the Goa Freaks either created their own scams or ran in someone else's.

As Goa emptied, the Bombay Freak hotels filled, and we arrived in town to find a twenty-four-hour-a-day party scene. Friends occupied every room at the Astoria, and Neal checked in right across the hall.

'Hi there, neighbour,' he said, leaning against his open doorway, chopping powder on his glass block. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, AND SQUEAK. 'Feel free to stop by for a toot whenever you want.'

'Oh, Monica. This is so great,' I said to my roommate. 'I don't know whose room to visit first.'

We stayed in Bombay a long time. Everyone, it seemed, got caught in Bombay Syndrome—scams and plans were delayed as parties carried on week after week. Dayid and Ashley had a suite where a horde of people always overran the bed, the chairs, and every inch of floor space. The coke flowed non-stop.

'Anybody want victuals? I have room service on the phone,' Dayid would announce periodically. 'Ashley desires a piece of pericarp. Pericarp, a.k.a.—also known as—fruit. Fruit is the mature ovary of a flowering plant, did you know?'

Monica and I made daily trips to smack up at Neal's. Heroin cures cocaine frazzle. After days of coke snorting, one's nerves tended to feel like yesterday's spaghetti stuck to the pot. A sniff of smack brought tranquillity to the fried brain. Often Neal provided us with a packet for morning too.

After three weeks, I began to wake up with diarrhoea and cramps in my stomach. Sometimes Neal came by with a restorative spoonful of smack that made the ills go away. I wondered what I had. Monica was also sick, and we couldn't figure it out.

'Hoo, boy! There goes my stomach again. What's wrong with me?'

We made frequent trips to the '0' den for pipes of opium. It eased the symptoms. We didn't worry much over what ailed us, tiny trouble being a frequent companion to the traveller.

After a six-week-long party. Kadir told me the cases were ready. 'Did you get the new passport, man', he asked when he delivered them.

'No. I decided to stop in Europe and get it there so no one in Canada will know I've been to the East,' I answered. 'How does this sound—PII report it stolen and then use the new passport for travelling in the West, while keeping the old passport for the East. Think it'll work?'

'Yeah, man, sounds like a good idea.'

'I have to figure out how to work the visa stamps, though. Some countries don't stamp you in, and when they do, the stamps are never in chronological order anyway.'

I counted out two thousand Canadian dollars for Kadir. I was all set for my big number.

I chose Belgium as my destination; it seemed an innocent little place. The morning of departure day, I woke up feeling dreadful. I had no energy, and my stomach was killing me again. 'Oh, Monica, I can't move,' I said.

'Hoo, boy. I'm not hunky dory myself. Let's go to the '0' den.'

After a few pipes, we felt rejuvenated. I bought a ball of eating opium to take with me. Feeling great, I had my hair done and took care of last minute details. Just before I left for the airport, Neal handed me a good luck packet of smack. 'Have a nice trip, cutie,' he said. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, AND SQUEAK.

This time I was better prepared. I had enough rupees to pay the overweight charge, and I 'was early enough not to he tilled with anxiety during the inevitable complications of Indian bureaucracy. Am! No coke. Everything was OK as I boarded the flight to Brussels, a stash of dope and opium hidden in the hem of my dress.

I had no problem leaving Bombay nor entering Brussels. After checking into a fancy hotel, I went to the American embassy to report my stolen passport. They said they'd have a new one for me the next day. Peachy.

When the time came to leave for Canada, though, I was very nervous. I gobbled a pile of Neal's smack up my nose. This trip was the real thing, I thought, as I buckled into the Boeing 747. I wasn't going for someone else this time. This trip was mine. I would make twenty-five thousand dollars for myself. Could I pull it off? Was I really going to make that amount of money? Something had to  go wrong. Never went this smoothly.

I couldn't concentrate on the in-flight movie.

As the plane banked its final approach to Montreal, I went to the bathroom and snorted more smack. I looked in the mirror. Oh, shit! Look at my eyes! They were so pinned! You could hardly see black in the middle at all. The Customs man would look at my eyes and know right away I had smack in my blood. Usually, I loved the way smack made my pupils so small. They showed that much more blue. But as I looked at reflection, my eyes seemed to announce to the whole world that I was smacked out.

Well, too late to back out now.

Upon landing, I shuffled with the other passengers to the Immigration area. What if they searched me and found the passport reported stolen? Did my eyes look like those in Children of the Damned?

POOM! A man pounded an entry stamp in my passport and handed me the pass-through card.

I made it! My own trip!

I checked into the Sheraton to a green-and-white room that reminded me of spring. Full of glee, I called Esther. 'I'm here!' I announced. I jabbed at the numbers on the push-button phone to create celebration music.

She came over immediately. She loved the cases. 'No one would ever suspect them,' she stated. Then she asked, 'How do you get the hash out?'

I deflated. 'Uh-oh. Good question. How do I get the hash out? Oh, shit.' I'd forgotten to ask about that little detail. 'Hmmm, I guess we need a scissor or something.' We also needed a scale and Baggies. Esther left, to return shortly with supplies.

Clueless about correct procedure, we set to work cutting the leather as best we could. With knives and razors, we stabbed, tore, and clawed. Scraps of leather fell to the floor as the hash came out in blocks. We divided it into onepound piles, which we packaged in Baggies. Within an hour, we'd parcelled seventeen and a half pounds. Esther took three and said she'd be back. I went to the lobby, bought ten dollars worth of candy, and retired to the room and the colour TV.

A few hours later she returned with a friend.

'This is Toad,' Esther said. 'He's going to help sell.' Toad was another Canadian Goa person. She counted out forty-five hundred dollars in small denominations and gave it to me.

I was ecstatic. 'I'll have to hit every bank in Montreal to change these tens and twenties into large bills,' I