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.
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.
posted by Kaela at 9:48 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home