A week later, Monica gave me the news. 'I'm leading on a trip,' she said. 'My money's running out and I have to do a run.'

'Where are you going?'

'Australia.'

'Hash?'

'Well, good luck. How long will you be gone?'

'Maybe a month. You'll still be here, won't you?'

'Yeah, think so. Is this your own trip?' I asked.

'No. I'm running for Narayan,' she said.

NARAYAN?

Shocked, I could only watch as she opened her suitcase. Tom; could my best friend do business with my worst enemy? Where was her loyalty? Stabbed in the hack my best friend! My best friend! How could she do that to me?

I watched her fold a dress and pack it. Betrayed! She was going to Australia with Narayan! MY Narayan!

The next day she was gone.

I threw many parties over the following weeks, and at one I met Chic—a tall, thin Colorado boy with blonde hair reaching halfway down his back. He wasn't a Goa person, though; he was of the Kathmandu crowd—close cousins. He'd lived in Nepal for seven years and owned a club there, a popular Freak place. The world had few Freak communities—Goa was one, Kathmandu another. We felt related.

Chic and I spent sunny days filming movies with the eight-millimetre movie camera I'd bought in Singapore. I filmed the Goa Freaks at Kaiya Waiya. I filmed Chic's beautiful nakedness diving into the Pool. I had Chic film me on a motorbike, driving at the remarkable speed of ten miles an hour.

Chic turned me on to Balinese magic mushrooms that, unlike acid, only lasted an hour or two. You could munch a handful in the afternoon and the trip didn't kill the whole day. Sold legally in Bali, a hotel down the road listed mushroom meatballs on its menu. At one of my daytime parties, I catered from the hotel. They supplied me with turtle kebabs and a platter of meatballs. I posted a sign on the table:

For an hors d'oeuvre, I offered cheese spread on crackers. In the cheese I planted a pill, a combination speed and downer. In my mind I imagined my guests would pluck the pill, swallow it, and then eat the cracker. Unfortunately, people popped the whole thing in their mouths.

'BBBBLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!' they’d exclaim at the taste.

What a face they'd make. 'No no,' I'd hurry to say. 'You're supposed to swallow the pill and THEN eat the cracker. Here, have some wine to wash it down.'

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