Party, Party, Party, New Year's Eve (Goa, India)
In preparation for an evening of insect-hunting, he's positioning himself below the room's light fixture. Once settled, my little friend cocks his head sideways and motions for me to continue.
"Shall I make a resolution? What do you recommend?"
Just when I'm sure he's about to respond, our conversation is cut short by a loud knocking. Bang! BAng! BANg! BANG!! After wishing the gecko luck with the mosquitoes, I slide the bolt to the right, open the door, and greet a sea of hostile stares. They don't speak; their silence says it all:
- What the Fuck Buddy?
- Why are YOU monopolizing one of the only 3 bathrooms our gender can use?
- What the hell have you been doing in there for so long?
- Jerk!
My heart-felt "Happy New Year Ladies" has no discernable effect. Fighting the urge to lower my head and slither past, I feign confidence and face them. A small mousy girl steps to the forefront to more clearly present her contempt.
"Listen Sister, I'm sorry you had to wait, but I have as much right to utilize this unisex facility as you."
Upon seeing her scorn turn to full blown Stink-Eye, I add:
"Lighten up Tunafish."
Bracing myself, I await her reaction but when none comes, I'm forced to wonder whether I actually spoke those words OR if I simply thought about saying them. Regardless, I sense that things are on the verge of turning ugly so I lower my head and slither past.
Jesus Man, get a hold of yourself! In an attempt to relax, I put some distance between the bathroom and myself, take a deep breath, and scope the scene. Directly in front of me is the dancefloor it's roughly the size and shape of a baseball diamond. At homeplate, I can clearly see the DJ perched atop a makeshift bamboo structure, spinning. Instead of dugouts, huge stacks of concert speakers ensure the partygoers can hear and feel the beats. The dancefloor is packed with an equal number of Western travelers and Indian men.
The reasons for their infatuation with foreign women are complex enough to dominate a lively dinner conversation or warrant a separate chapter. For the most part their behavior is adolescent and non-threatening but it's still annoyingly creepy and tonight in particular, a bit spooky.
Suddenly, Im aware of the fact that I've been deeply lost in thought.
Q: How long have I been standing here?
A: Long enough for a few of my new-found bathroom friends to finish their business, walk past me and attempt to nonverbaly convey their scorn.
* My anxiety takes form.
There is only one thing to do find my friends before my rising fear and disorientation make it all but impossible at this 500+ person party. The problem is that I'm standing where 3rd base would be and the last time I saw my compadres, they were near 1st. The dancefloor and its thick shell of Indian men separates us. In my condition, this is going to be tough. Two deep breaths and I'm off.
At first, the going's easy. Since the oglers are facing the dancefloor's core (pitchers mound), I'm approaching and silently passing them from behind. Once I get to the center things quickly change. To begin with I can't pick up the beat. I'm lost in a sea of strangers, each of who seem to be staring at me. Their faces appear cartoonish, inhuman, and disapproving. Have the bathroom girls told them about me??
* My anxiety rises.
I timidly try to pick my way to the opposite side but the movement of the crowd makes it difficult to choose a direction. By sheer luck the wild current of humanity carries me across the center and deposits me at the other side this time facing the outer circle the Indian men's front line. Each appears to be peering at me through tiny black eyes.
* My anxiety maturates to near panic.
My instincts urge me to turn and run but experience tells me that I must move forward. In an attempt to compose myself, I shake my head slightly. This brings on a surge of dizziness accompanied by a throbbing pain in my forehead.
* Panic takes charge.
Sweat fills my brow and drips off my nose and chin. Right now, it's all I can do to hold my shit together. Somehow, amazingly, I make my way out of the dancefloor and find my friends. This is quite a feat given that they are sitting on one of the 100 nearly identical chill-out mats laid down and supervised by the chai-tea women [see picture].
Like a child reunited with its mother after being separated in the supermarket, it's tough holding back my elation.
"Holy Shit Guys, you won't believe what I've been through after I left the gecko, the bathroom bitches ganged up on me and .Indian men ..then the mean dancefloor freaks, and .and "
"Philippe", Johnny interjects, "relax." He's seated next to Peter, Tammy, and a few people I don't recognize but who seem to be part of our group. He possesses an easy facility for starting conversation with total strangers within a few minutes, its as if they were old friends. Johnny's my brother and one of the few people I'll actually listen to in my present state of mind. His quick wit and natural intellect more then compensate for his lack of formal education.
As my adrenaline subsides I sit down, try to relax, and blurt out my night's experiences in a jumbled befuddled manner. Half our group is doing their own thing, the other half is beginning to look at me the way you'd look at a curiosity. After patiently listening till the end, Johnny asks only one question:
"What'd you take"
"Just Acid"
"Bloody Hell Man, what'd you expect?"
"Not this"
After the diagnosis, comes his prognosis and prescription:
"Ecstasy it should sort you out"
To the drug-free reader this may appear ridiculous, possibly reckless. To me, it is sound advice. The technical term for an Acid/Ecstasy combination is a Candy-Flip. There are various schools of thought concerning the optimal timing and sequence of these drugs ingestion. Clearly, I've selected the wrong option for this evening's circumstances. My only hope now is that the Ecstasy will kick in quickly and pull me out of my predicament.
Acid (LSD) is primarily a psychological drug. Acting as a mental stimulant and hallucinogenic, it has the ability to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Something as common as the wind rustling a tree's leaves can suddenly appear fascinating as if you're watching the movement of the branches from a completely new perspective - in a way you've never considered before. Of course, there is a flipside to all this and it's where I find myself right now. In addition to appearing extraordinary, the ordinary can become strange, almost alien. Something as simple as placing an order at a fast food restaurant (or walking across a party's dancefloor) can become an extremely complicated, even terrifying endeavor. To complicate matters more, time becomes an issue because its so easy to loose track of.
Since a typical trip can last more than 12 hours, taking Acid is not only a gamble; it's a commitment. Once it's begun, you can't hit the reset button. There is no turning back. This is why I find myself taking Johnny's prescription and washing it down with a cup of chi tea.
As far as recreational drugs go, Ecstasy (E) couldn't be more different from Acid. It is predominantly physiological. E is all about feeling good, super fucking good. Pure, unadulterated, unchecked joy. When it's working, every cell in your body cries out, in unison, it's good to be alive!! The nice thing about this drug is that its benefits are obtained without the risk of temporarily loosing your mind. You really don't do anything you wouldn't do sober you're just happier doing it. In fact, if you ran across a parent or law enforcement officer who didn't notice you dilated pupils, they would probably have no clue you were under its influence. The downside is that it wipes you out. The next day (or two) you're beat not sick like a hangover just mentally and physically exhausted.
Don't these fools know that an ocean of hostility surrounds us?
Can't they sense the danger?
I consider shouting at them, to warn them, but ultimately decide against it. It's probably better that they don't know.
It's too late. In a stiff Austrian accent, I hear "Ya Ya Philip, Happy New Year!" as she hugs me and plants a wet kiss on the cheek I present her. Right now, Becky could be the one person I'm least equipped to interact with.
She sits uncomfortably close and tries her best to drunkenly describe her evening. It goes in one ear and out the other. I manage to convey interest by nodding at appropriate intervals but my undivided attention remains focused on my right leg, which is being slowly caressed by the hand she's placed on it.
Good from a far but far from a good, she is dangerous.
She has a knack for materializing when I'm not on top of my game as if she can smell vulnerability. Maybe that's her strategy get them when they're weak. What makes her dangerous is that although she's not quite attractive, she's hot enough to wind up in bed with even though I know I'd hate myself in the morning. Becky is a large yet well proportioned girl with long blond hair, brown eyes, and a mouth that screams SEX. She might have stood a chance tonight had it not been for her choice of clothing. Covering her curves is a blue cotton dress with yellow flowers. Unfortunately, it reveals two bare arms white and pudgy with remarkably small hands.
I feel a light squeeze and look down to see a tiny hand with dirty fingernails gripping my knee. When I raise my eyes, I can tell she expects a response. What the question is, I haven't a clue.
* My anxiety comes racing back with a renewed urgency.
This is simply too much for me to process, let alone manage with the delicacy required.
"I'll be right back, I'm going to get a drink do you want one?"
"Ya Ya, Tank You"
As I approach the bartender, I find myself in a situation that demands a desperate search for a safe refuge. As luck would have it, the entrance / exit is located next to the bar. Next thing I know, I'm in the parking lot trying to ignore the nagging questions:
Did she see me leave?
Will she follow me out here?
The parking lot is filled with hundreds and hundreds of motorcycles and scooters [see picture]. Nearly every traveler rents a bike here. It's really not necessary but it's fun and for $2US per day, it's a no-brainer. Up ahead an Israeli girl who has dropped her bike and is pinned beneath it laughs as her friends pull it off her. About two-dozen others search the dark for their rides. In my present condition, finding mine could very likely be an impossibility.
But I've thought ahead and planned. 50 meters away, next to the telephone pole that supports the bar's neon sign, I find her where I left her. She starts right up and helps me home.
The first order of business is to create a comfortable environment. A few candles, a little incense, and some Marvin Gay do the trick. Now it's shower time. As the dirt, grime, and sweat disappear down the drain, I 'm pleasantly surprised by how relaxed I feel. Conspicuously missing is the anxiety that's plagued me all evening.
Am I going to drift off to sleep or is this the calm before the storm? With all I've been through, I don't care. Without drying off I lay back, stretch out, and melt into bed. Above me the ceiling fan turns slowly, silently flirting with a dust ball trapped in an old spider's web. I've glanced at this a dozen of times before, even considered using a broom to remove it. But now, something curious happens. In the candlelight, it appears to be grooving to the sounds of Motown. Here I lay, enthralled by that which used to irritate me. I'm reminded of the scene from American Beauty where Ricki shows his girlfriend 'the most beautiful thing he's ever videotaped'.
This is the Acid, behaving properly for the first time tonight.
How Sweet it is, Let's Get it On, Mercy Mercy Me, What's Going On, and a few other tunes pleasantly come and go before it hits me like a freight train. There's no mistaking the initial rush of good Ecstasy. To say that I feel great would be an understatement. With each breath, I feel the air enter my nostrils and fill my lungs. I become keenly aware of the blood surging through my veins, empowering my muscles. This is nothing, however, compared to the sensation covering my body. It's as if each skin cell has suddenly come to life and decided to rejoice.
In what feels like a single fluid movement, I dress, poke my head in the bathroom for a quick vanity-check, smile at the tan bug-eyed kid looking back at me, grab my keys, and am out the door.
My girl's waiting for me patiently [see picture]. We've become pretty close over the past month. Being an 83 Suzuki Type R, she's one of a kind (all 4 gears are down). She not necessarily the best looking or even the fastest bike on the road but she handles like a dream and never fails to excite me. After I fire her up, we roar back to the party.
Although sunrise is close at hand, The Hill Top Bar and GuestHouse is still in full swing. In fact, it appears to be pumping harder than before. I stride in, easily pick up the beat, and confidently scope the scene.
This time I own the place - 3 things contribute to this phenomenon:
1.) No longer present are those whom I'd found most difficult to interact with. The Indian men and their Western counterparts, whose drug of choice is alcohol, have taken themselves out of the game they've gone home and / or passed out.
2.) The reinforcements have arrived. The second wave of participants (the ones with experience partying in Goa) have held true to form and shown up at 4AM. Israelis comprise the majority of this group. Although they tend to be a bit crazy, they know how to have a good time. I can already hear a few howling from the dancefloor, beckoning the sun to light the place up.
3.) The Candy-Flip is working.
Close by, I find one of the most interesting personalities around.
"Yaohan, what's up my man?"
"Felip, Felip good to see you. Good time tonight?"
Following a Readers Digest synopsis of my evenings experiences, he draws an uncharacteristic frown and between gulps of his Bourbon & Coke, advises me on where I went wrong. Ordinarily this would be tough to swallow but right now I'm feeling too dam good to let anything get me down. Plus, if anyone has the right to deliver a lecture on drug edicate, it's this guy.
A few weeks ago, I met Yaohan for the first time. The most beautiful girl in Goa told me "find the old man with the dogs at the end of the beach he'll hook you up." At Vagator Beach's northernmost point, I came across a peculiar sight - a large bald man, probably in his 60s, sitting beneath a makeshift tent. Although the structure was simple, it was evident that it'd been constructed by someone who knew what he was doing possibly an architect by profession. Approaching him for the first time I felt the apprehension inherent to any first-time drug deal. The fact that he was surrounded by at least 10 dogs didn't make me any more comfortable.
"Hi there"
"Hello"
On a patch of sand not occupied by an animal, I took a seat.
"My name's Philippe. I'm a friend of Carrie's [see picture]. She told me you're the man to talk to"
After slowly looking me over, he raised his eyes and gazed into mine with an intensity that was a bit disarming. Trying my best not to come unraveled, I held his glance for a few seconds before smiling.
He extended his hand.
"My name's Yaohan, what can I do for you?"
When our transaction was concluded, we struck up a conversation. Typically, this formality lasts less than 5 minutes; this time it took the better part of the afternoon. Back in Holland, Yohan was an electrical engineer with a fondness for dogs and photography. Unquestionably he was a bit off but I was certain of one thing his intelligence. Our conversation ranged from metaphysics to the benefits of a single European currency. At times I got the impression that he could easily go over my head but chose to keep things simple for my sake. Nevertheless, I felt he enjoyed talking with me maybe a client who actually listened and appeared interested in non-business matters was a rarity. After thanking him and preparing to leave, I asked, "do you play Chess?"
2 weeks and 4 games later, I find myself listening to Yaohan's discourse on the dangers of LSD. A quick glance at his now empty glass tells me that it won't last much longer. When he makes his way back to the bar, I head toward 1st base. Here I immediately find Peter [see picture] sprawled out on a chi mat the causality of an aggressive encounter with a chillum (India's version of a massive Bong). Peter's tall and very thin but his boyish good looks allow him to pull it off in a Leonardo Di Caprio manner. Even though he's incoherent, two French girls are keeping him company, biding their time until he regains consciousness.
Time to look for Johnny. With his long brown hair and distinctive Irish features, he looks a lot like Bono [see picture]. A month ago, I met this character at Victoria Station [see picture]. Being India's largest train station; it constantly resembles an American airport unexpectently hit by a snowstorm during the holiday season = obscenely crowded and completely chaotic. While waiting for my train, I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard, "Excuse me mate, could you look after my bags while I get a ticket?"
During the trip from Bombay to Goa, I learned that Johnny, on an impulse, sold all his belongings and caught a flight to India. He'd been to Goa with a girlfriend the previous year and was now returning with the intention to lay on the beach and escape London's drug scene.
It's 4 weeks later and Johnny may be the palest person in Goa. He's unquestionably the biggest partier I've ever met. Despite a nocturnal existence and a diet rich in amphetamines and Vodka & Cokes, he possesses the uncanny ability to remain sharp and lucid. I've never seen him get messy.
I find him where I know he'll be in the center of the dancefloor. He's entertaining 3 Israeli girls who's names I can never seem to remember. Approaching slowly I have enough time to High-5 a few party pals before they catch sight of me. I'm greeted by a big hug from my amigo and a round of kisses from the girls.
Life could be worse.
Yeah, I know this chemically induced euphoria isn't real. Like a fling with a very attractive yet treacherous woman, deep down I know it's going to end, has to end, tragically. But this isn't an ABC after-school special, it's my New Year's Eve and for the time being it's a hell of a lot of fun.
Moments later a 27 year old bundle of German energy bounces up and greets me warmly. Tammy [see picture] throws a knowing glance at the group and offers me a swig of her soda. Judging by the smirks on their faces I know without having to ask that it's spiked with liquid speed.
"Thanks Beautiful, but I'll pass"
Right now, I've got one hell of a good thing going. I've learned my lesson earlier and don't intend to fuck it up. Instead, I'm going to surround myself with friends, great the New Year's first sunrise with enthusiasm, and dance till I drop.
Hell, if I'm lucky, I might even get a good story out of it.
