Livin' it Up in Goa

I have had my first experience feeling like a celebrity in India. On our drive to the airport to catch a flight to Goa, traffic stalled for the tenth time. We sat next to a bus crowded full of Indians, and the woman sitting up above me took an interest in my face, pointed at me, and whispered to the boy next to her. His eyes lit up, and then he told the person next to him. It was like a wildfire. All of a sudden the whole bus was pointing and smiling -- women, children, men in turbans, young and old. I suppose it would have neen more appropriate to bow my head with my heads in prayer, but instead I decided to blow them all kisses. They were delighted. Virat was hysterical.
After an hour and a half taxi ride from the airport, we arrived at Morjim, a beach here in tropical Goa. The sun was setting red, and the sand slithered and hissed across the surface with the wind, creating a scaly pattern on the surface. The waves of the Arabian sea broke gently, creeping like fingers across the shore as if it were a huge thigh. I ordered some orange juice from the bar, and like most things ordered from behind a counter, it took forever. But it was worth the wait, because it was fresh squeezed and basically the most delicious glass of juice ever, full of pulp. Then I ruined it by pouring a shot of gin into it.
The food here is basically unparalleled to the Indian food I've had in the States. The coconuts are ground from the trees hovering above, instead of imported in a can. The vegetables are locally grown, and it's dirt cheap. And, I can get it all right here at the rustic resorts situated right on the beach. It's paradise I tell you. As soon as I walk out from the stuffy hut into the palm tree forest for a post-nap snack, I am overtaken. Magic permeates, it dominates.
So what have I been doing with my time here? Swimming, motorbiking, and partying for three nights straight, in celebration of the union of Bri and Patrice, the bride and groom (I am truly impressed by my ability to handle six shots of tequila without getting sick or stupid, just a little sleepy) Bri is from Kerala, and Patrice from France, so there are two rather different sides of the family coming together. After the wedding ceremony a couple nights ago, each side took turns going on the stage to perform, the Indians doing improvisational Bollywood dance, the French singing chants as if they were at a soccer game, like Vikings. This manner of singing continued throughout the night, often with beer or wine in one hand. DJ Vachen, one of the top 20 DJs in India, spun sets -- a fusion of electronic, house Bollywood and classical Indian music -- and we danced until 10:00pm. Lame, I know, but there has been a crackdown on the playing of loud music here late into the night, apparently because it promotes drug use and craziness.
Yesterday I learned how to ride a motor bike, a Honda Activa. 'Go slow,' the Indian merchant told me while sitting on the back, 'and take this off!' He pulled off my wide brim straw hat, which was flapping in the wind and obstructing his view from behind. I wobbled around potholes on the road leading away from Morjim. Finally, he started to laugh and told me I looked 'cool' on the bike, that I had gotten the hang of it. It wasn't long before I was comfortably humming down the freshly paved roads, with their minimal traffic here in the beach towns of Goa, enjoying the panorama of palms (while keeping my eyes on the road of course). It is how everyone travels here. I often pass half naked European hippies in multicolored knit caps, who rarely, if ever, smile at me as the locals do. It makes me feel like I'm back in Ibiza.
I made a friend at a nearby internet cafe . . . Vicky. I made him a facebook account, complete with an uploaded picture, and the basic information: 'Male . . . Single . . . Hindu . . .' . In exchange, he took me to Paradise beach, which is actually outside of Goa. After zooming through the narrow streets of the Sunday market, winding cautiously through the dirt paths of rural villages, and along the highway between rice paddies, we arrived at a river -- which also serves as a border between Goa and . . . Tiracol I think the name was? Here, we crossed on a ferry to the other side, where we made our way another 4km to the beach. WOW. Neither words nor pictures would do it justice. Fine white sand not far from the texture of snow, few people, waves that I would rather gaze at serenely than immerse myself in . . . we sat and were served tea that was already sweetened with sugar and milk.
I arrived back home just in time to catch a group of people heading out into the city for some fine dining. We went in a bike gang -- about five motorcycles, me riding on the back of one, and I took great pleasure in imagining that I was part of Hell's Angels.
This letter's getting kinda long so I'm going to end it, despite the fact that there is more to write about -- the dolphins I saw out here in the Arabian sea, the bug that lodged itself in my ear canal where it proceeded to beat its wings furiously, freaking the hell out of me . . . but I'll leave it at this.

I Dreamt of India

It all started at Durty Nelly's, when when over curry chicken topped fries, I told my friend Virat of the vivid dream I had of India. I arrived by plane at the top of a mountain with an expansive view of two cities built in the shape of mandalas. Their configuration stimulated the flow of prana in the air, and from where I stood, I began to resonate with it. I started to fall in love with the friends I had come with, and the feeling didn't fade, it only grew stronger as the dream progressed. Virat clapped his hands. 'That is exactly what India is like! That is its spirit. You should come with me next month when I go to my friend's wedding in Goa!' Inspired by my own self, I called him on impulse a week later say I was coming along with him. I got off work for three and a half weeks.
So, at 5am yesterday morning (Bangalore time), we flew in over a sea of ghostly blue hued and orange lights with no discernible roads, into the airport where the first thing I noticed was . . . there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms. Virat had warned me about this, and told me to bring my own roll. There was only a faucet, with a bucket sitting underneath, containing a mug. People will only shake with their right hand, he told me, as the left is used for 'washing.' I wasn't ready for this . . . luckily I had kleenex.
Virat's parents met us outside, and drove us back to their flat in Langford Grove,a few minutes away. One of the first things they asked me was: 'Do you know what your name means, Kaela?' I do know, as my best friend in high school was Pakistani. 'Yes, in Hindi it means banana.' : ) Servants were ready to carry my bags and did so despite my protests, and served us tea and coffee in the marble tiled dining room, full of relics of old India: old brass beechnut crackers in the shape of deities, stone, clay, and porcelein figures of Ganesh on the altar. I was to stay there until noon, when I would check into The Bangalore Club. Until then, I settled into one of their rooms in Grandma's flat upstairs (Virat's family owns the complex), where the sounds of the beeping rickshaws and bikes emerged from the madness that was beginning to stir outside. The beeping here is of a different quality than what I am used to, which in SF is actually more of a honking. The beeps here from the small cars are for the most part non-aggressive signals from one driver to another that they are coming through. They are as frequent as chirps in bird dense forest. Literally.
The first adventure I had here (after a hot and hearty homecooked meal of Dhanshak) was riding on the bike of Patrice's motorbike (Patrice is the groom at the wedding in Goa -- Virat is his best man). We headed to the beauty parlor where he, Virat and I were to get facials, pedicures, manicures, and massages (the works) to prepare for the wedding. I must say that speeding through the open stretches that we sometimes found was far more exhilarating than when I rode on the back of a BMW motorcycle years ago, zooming through Twin Peaks on a clear day. It was too easy. The danger here on the road is thrilling, and of course I love the wind blowing through my lucious locks. Call me crazy.
I was under the impression that Bangalore was going to be ugly, but at least in this part of the city, it certainly is not. The air may be polluted, it is relatively developed and commercialized, but it is fantastically green. Against the chaos of congested roads where it's every driver for himself, a variety of often gnarly, colorful, and enormous trees stand serene, lining the sidewalks, standing robust and abundant in the parks, stretching their branches above and beyond fences to provide shade and solace. The biodiversity here is awe-inspiring: coconut palms, banyon trees, Bogavillias, Flame of the Forest trees . . .
When we got to the parlor, I settled for a foot soak in milk, honey, and rose petals, a pedicure, a foot massage and a facial. The women there giggled at me when my foot jerked erratically in response to the ticklish sanding of my soles, and again during the facial when I couldn't refrain from scratching my nose covered in wet clay, and again when I flinched in reaction to the water shooting from the spray bottle against my face to get the mud residue off. 'This your first time getting a facial?' I was asked more than once. Yeah, I think YOU know that I am not the girliest girl.