The Short Story Competition

Rickshaws and Rizlas

We had almost everything we needed to make the perfect joint. Some Manali, tobacco and a way to make fire. The Manali could have been better, but Francisco insisted on going out to score. He was a virgin procurer of drugs and this showed when he came back with 10 grams that he'd paid 1,200 rupees for, and a big smile on his face saying 'it is fresh no?'

Ignacio and I explained that fresh is not good. The only thing to do with a block of fresh weed was to wrap it up in gold leaf and leave it somewhere dark for 4 months, then it would be perfect. However we didn't have four months, we wanted a smoke tonight so that would have to be it.

The only thing we didn't have for the perfect joint, apart from four months, was a pack of Rizlas. Yet again Rizlas' highly clever but usually ineffective way of reminding you that 'you only have 5 papers left' only served to remind us that 'we had again forgotten to buy more Rizlas, 5 papers ago'.

It was too late now to try and buy any, we were sure there would be nowhere open this late on the island and none of us had the inclination to find out. Granted Goa is not an island as it's very much a part of the west coast of India, but to us it was an island. It was our island, our journey to the only place for a truly relaxed mind. It was our escape from the realities of real life. We had only been here for 2 days but already thoughts of work and bills and commuting were a lot more than the actual 5,000 kilometers away. You could be yourself here, without any labels. My labels include being English, being 32 years old, and working as a Project Manager temporarily situated in Bangalore. I am an avid Phil Collins fan, I am a cat owner, a daughter, a sister � but out here I was none of these, labels dissolved in the stillness of life here. Likewise, Francisco was Chilean, a judge, a boyfriend, a surfer, very hot � but again he was none of these out here, except maybe very hot. Ignacio was just Ignacio. But whatever you were, it didn't matter out here where anonymity prevails.

Here, in our Goan paradisio, we were soul mates. We had only met two days ago, but everyone you meet in Goa instantly becomes your soul mate, because we're all here to take the same journey, to leave our lives and society behind for a short time, to be able to experience peace and freedom of the soul. Also, of course, to get stoned, even if you've never considered it before.

Most people came to Goa en route whilst traveling around The East, spending just enough time here to start wearing tie-die and end up with their hair in dreadlocks. I was just here for the weekend, on Monday I had to be back in an office in Bangalore wearing a suit and training managers to run a call centre. So Goa felt more like home for me than it would for the others, it was my weekend retreat for the whole year I spent messing around at work, pretending to be responsible and pretending to give a damn about insurance.

The thing I hate about traveling is always meeting new people in new hotels within new cultures, yet answering the same dull questions.

'Where are you from?'

'How long have you been here?'

'How long are you staying?'

'What do you do for a living? Here, take my business card.'

Yarda yarda.

So after exchanging business cards� Ignacio, Francisco and I had then agreed to avoid such further trivialities, instead learning about each other from our time together and that alone. I only knew that Ignacio was a graphic designer because of the long hair, loud shirts and flamboyant approach to the simplest of tasks. That and the odd comment, usually about a local advertising slogan such as the funeral parlor's sign above the window shouting 'You'll be Dying to Use Our Services'. 'Only in India' is a phrase that you find yourself using a lot.

Although Francisco and Ignacio were good friends, it was Ignacio I met first. We each occupied a table on the beach outside one of the dozens of shacks that lined the beaches in Goa during October to March.

I could tell he wasn't English, he was wearing a worn-out canvas hat with V*I*E*T*N*A*M written on it, I'm not quite sure why I thought this meant he couldn't be English, but I was right. Ignacio was Chilean, but now living in Madrid and meeting up with his friend from Chile, here in Goa.

I spoke first, asking him if he had a light. I had one already but just wanted to get talking to him. I didn't find him attractive, Goa isn't really like that, it's just about meeting and talking with other travellers. Also people were usually far too stoned to do any serious flirting. He joined my table and we drank Fanta, not very rock & roll, and smoked cigarettes together.

He was teaching me how to say his name, pronouncing it "Ig-nar-shee-O". I repeated "Ig-nar-shee-O" - but his laughter indicated that was wrong somehow, so I tried again with what I hoped was a Chilean accent but only got a puzzled look. I gave up and never used his name again.

Another thing I hate about traveling is picking up stupid phrases from spending time with people from different cultures. Like Yarda Yarda - America. For Sure - Germany. Come let's go - India. 'Al kick yer in the heeed' � Glasgow.

Don't get me wrong, I have spent years traveling with work and will no doubt spend another few doing the same thing, I love it. But spending too long in one place does seem to turn the initial novelties into bloody irritating things you can't escape. In my first week of being in India I remember feeling utterly ashamed to be from a western society, seeing the children living in the streets, literally sleeping on central reservations, covered in filth with no access to clean drinking water, and I freely gave my money to the beggars tapping on the car window at the traffic signals. Now though, you might easily hear me shout 'get a job' or 'you can�t be that poor or you'd sell some of that gold you're wearing', or even 'you're not missing an arm at all mate, I can see it tucked in your shirt'.

After emptying our rucksacks and leafing through every book to hand, the usual resting place for the act of rolling a joint, we still came up with exactly no Rizlas.

The hotel room was basic, it had a small single bed against the wall, it's sheets having long since seen white, a small wardrobe you daren't put clothes in fearing it's collapse with the weight of a tie-dyed t-shirt, and a broken fan on the ceiling which was the reason I ended up dirty and sweaty at the beginning of most days, let alone the end. But in this religion-loving land it did have the only superfluous addition that ordains most hotel rooms, a bible in the bedside cabinet.

Perfect.

None of us were religious, as far as I could tell, as indicated by the unanimous agreement that the very fine pages of The Bible would make the perfect rolling paper.

"Didn�t Jesus smoke pot?" Ignacio looked a little worried, okay so maybe there was one religious one among us. But apparently his need for a joint, or the justification that if Jesus did it he wouldn't mind us using His Book for the same purpose, eased his conscious somewhat.

Don't get me wrong, we were not complete heathens in the process, randomly tearing out pages of The Bible and setting fire to them, God Lord no� we carefully selected relevant articles to smoke.

Joint No. 1, from Matthew 13:40, had us giggling like idiots, 'The High Priest said the weeds are gathered and burned in a fire'.

We searched further through The Book for more Rizlas, eventually joint No. 2 was created from Matthew 26:63 'Once I was stoned, three times I was shipwrecked, I spent a night and a day on the beach.' Very apt, we thought. The final joint, this was very strong stuff after all, read something along the lines of smoking pouring from somewhere on someone's body but by now none of us could focus enough to fully make it out, and by this time we didn't care so much anyway, teetering on unconsciousness.

After a period of stoned immobility we decided to walk down to the beach to see the sunrise, however this had arrived inconveniently early and we realised it was past breakfast time already. So we sat at one of the shacks and ordered breakfast, a selection of bread and cheese with a jug of Fenny. Fenny is Goa's very own potent mix of cashew nuts and alcohol, and is great for sorting your life out after a night on the beer and pot, or at least replacing it with the need to be concerned about sorting your life out.

After breakfast I had said my goodbyes to the lads, promising faithfully, as we do when we meet people in other countries, to keep in touch, and headed off to Goa airport by auto rickshaw.

Four hours later I was sat at the boardroom table having a meeting about the photocopier, and wondered if the photocopier knew of it's importance, to generate an entire meeting of high salaried executives to discuss it's future. I hadn't slept all night and only a few hours ago was drinking Fenny for breakfast on the beat in Goa. That seemed odd now I was sat here in my suit and looked around at all the serious faces. Would I still have my job if they knew I'd been smoking The Bible at the weekend, or maybe they are just the same and have secret lives too? I found myself wondering which was reality, the suit and the responsibility, or the relaxation of Goa where you don't worrying about deadlines and deals. Which was more important? Is life just about making money and worrying about photocopiers just to buy a bigger car that my neighbours will approve of? Because if there are more important things in life why are we not doing them?