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| Arambol - Goa, India |
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| Palolem - Goa, India |
Last night Kelly and I were lying on the beach beneath the stars, which were as visible as they are in the desert, when Kelly proclaimed, “2004 rocks.” I agree. We have spent the last week on the beaches of Goa. Our previous several stops have been so hectic, it’s been a long time (employed people begin seething) since Kelly and I have been able to just relax and hang out. It’s been blissful.
Goa is divided into north and south, each containing several beach towns. Kelly and I visited the northenmost beach in north Goa and the southernmost beach in south Goa. Our first stop was Arambol in north Goa. It turned out to be a lot more primitive than we were expecting. It’s (probably) the last beach in Goa that has not undergone significant development. There were places to eat, sleep, etc, but although many were intended for foreigners, it didn’t feel like it. It felt like a small Indian village, and basically it was, though it housed some foreigners. Almost all Westerners in Arambol live there either full time or a good portion of the year. Because of this, the place lacks any trace of a tourist feel.
Among the hotels where foreigners stay are “regular” (non-hawker) Indians going about their daily routines. Most were involved daily with either construction or collecting and transporting food. Many carried goods in sacks balanced on their head. One night we came across a large group chanting in front of a local church…it was very cool (would have stayed to watch but it was pouring rain). Arambol was teeming with animals: dogs, cats, cows, pigs, chickens, monkeys. It rained most of the time we were there; apparently they were having a late monsoon.
When we first arrived, we were lost. Wandering on the beach with our large packs, we were having problems finding a decent looking place to stay. I approached two foreigners, who took us to where they were staying. Our room was decent – a hair shy of clean, and only a few bugs (we had them bring up a mosquito net for us). It seemed a lot cleaner after I found out it rented for 120 rupees ($2.65). I didn’t bother to negotiate. Our landlord, Piya, was extremely nice, and had obvious long-term relationships with the scant few other foreigners staying at her place. We met her, her sons, and other guests staying there.
I’m really glad we saw Arambol, and I’m really glad we only stayed two nights. It offered a window into what all of Goa used to be like, but the vibe there was way too relaxed to take for very long, if you can imagine such a thing (think hippies).
Palolem in south Goa had a different feel entirely. It was much more like the beach towns I remember from Thailand. Major differences include:
1. It is even less expensive
2. It contains Indians
3. There are cows hanging out on the beach
Palolem proved to be just the ticket. We lucked into a really nice, air conditioned room with CNN, so we were able to watch Kerry embarrass Bush for the second debate in a row (seriously, was Bush about to charge the moderator? I’m pretty sure he has added him to his axis of evil). This is the land of beachfront, sand-bottomed restaurant/bars. The rain we endured in Arambol completely vanished and it has been sunny in Palolem every day. And there are waves! They started smallish but have grown throughout the week. Yesterday I bodysurfed what must have been 2-4 foot waves in ocean conditions that were for me perfect – the current was weak, waves lacked pummeling strength, sets were near constant, and each wave began breaking with a slight crumbling of the water from top to bottom, ensuring I could ride down its face (versus being thrown over the top). The water is in the mid 80’s, which is so warm it is unrefreshing. It’s the warmest water I’ve ever ridden waves in…feels kind of creepily warm, actually. I’m pretty sure one day I impressed a group of visiting Indians with my bodysurfing (or maybe they were just giving another Westerner the aforementioned awe-gaze)…all Indians tend to just bounce around and yell amid the waves.
Oh, speaking of Indian behavior, Kelly and I watched a group of Indian men doing something no man in the States would ever be caught doing. They had partially buried one of their friends, and were each pouring sand over him and rubbing it with their hands. Then they started piling up the sand on his crotch, and smoothing it over into different shapes, laughing all the while. What in America would pass for homo-erotica is in India just a sign of friendship. Also, men in India hold hands.
I must speak of the cows. Cows, despite their great size, are very gentle. They are sacred in India, and therefore roam the beaches (and roads, and backstreets) with confidence. Sometimes they let out a moo so low it leaves no doubt the sound could be emanating from anything smaller than a huge cow. At different times of the day, they migrate to different parts of the beach. This is a slow, mellow migration, culminating in a well-deserved collapse on the sand. The most action they see is when the dogs decide to “play with” slash antagonize them. One duo of dogs had one cow lowering its head like a bull trying to horn them. It even bucked its hind legs to try to kick it. The dogs were too fast for the cow, however, and by that I mean they weren’t horrifically slow. It was fantastic to watch, like some sort of K9 rodeo.
As the beach transitions into the road, there are a gaggle of taxi drivers all standing around, anxious to take you anywhere you may wish to go. They all use the same come-on lines, which is very funny and follows a sequence, each and every time:
Driver: You want taxi?
Us: No.
Driver: Tomorrow?
Us: No.
Driver: Scooter maybe?
At this point we learned to stop saying no, because it only leads to the next offer. I’ve never made it past scooter, but my guess is from there it proceeds to “hashish?”, “whiplash representation?”, and “personal slave?” The “tomorrow?” line is just annoying. It is low season here (they long for December, when Goan beaches turn into one big rave party), and drivers are so desperate for passengers they hope to lock in tomorrow’s journey today. “Scooter maybe?” is downright cute, and the random shift in what they’re offering catches you off-guard. Their voice also increases in pitch with every syllable, for optimal non-confronting display of low status (try it and see how friendly it sounds).
Similar to my experience in Thailand, Goa is saturated with Israelis (probably more so than in Thailand). Kelly and I met a few that were extremely nice and friendly, but Kelly quickly formed a general opinion of them that matches my previous one: they tend to come across as aloof and arrogant, and stick to their own. It’s not that bad, but their presence hasn’t been a highlight. That may seem frivolous to mention in a blog, but they’re a huge part of the culture here; I mean, every once in a while I see an Indian.
Indian bureaucracy update - its legacy continues to justify itself. On Friday, we tried to buy a train ticket for Saturday, but were told there were none left, and that we needed to have booked several days in advance. Of course, several days earlier we had come in to ask about Saturday train tickets, but nobody bothered to tell us that would have been a good time to secure a ticket. How it works in India is every train station and travel agent gets a certain fixed allocation of tickets to sell. Once they sell their allotment, they’re sold out. So one travel agent could tell you there are no tickets left, while another (or the train station itself) could have plenty. Is it too much to ask for some IT guys from Bangalore to hook up the train’s ticketing system to a central database? Of course, the consistent power outages would ensure even that solution would be flawed (power has gone out here many times, although not for too long each time).
Kelly and I head off tonight for Kerala (further south). It is the home of Ayurvedic medicine and supposedly has tremendous backwater cruises as well as beaches of its own. I’m excited to get there, but not excited for tonight’s night train, where we will share an 8-person overnight cabin. I am hoping my stomach cooperates by lying dormant. Speaking of, both Kelly and I have had some mild stomach issues, but so far have not gotten sick. We started out super paranoid about all foods, but have gradually increased our repertoire. In the nicer places, milk and cheese have proven just fine, and even raw vegetables can be eaten in certain places that wash them with bottled water. Hopefully our luck will continue.
One other thing: Kelly and I have reserved a spot in a 10 day introductory Tibetan Buddhism class/retreat in Dharamsala (northern India) at the residence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I am trying to change our flights to accommodate the class, which will involve us returning home 10 days later than planned (Dec 5 if the change goes through). After looking at all the places in India we want to visit (a lot), the extra 10 days will really help (as well as free up the necessary course dates). I think we have to stay silent during the 10 day class. I wonder if we can ask for an exception when we find out John Kerry will be our new president (the class starts Nov 2).
Warning: The rest of this post contains (only) an animal story that involves suffering and heartbreak – it may be best for the tender-hearted reader to skip it. As I sat down at the internet café to write this blog (the first time), Kelly came and found me and said I had to come help her immediately. She took me to a pair of (roughly 3 month-old) tiny puppies she had found beneath a tree. While one seemed just fine, the other was a real mess. It had a quarter size hole in its lower back - a really deep hole - and there were flies buzzing around it. A closer inspection revealed the hole was infested with maggots. The puppy was very weak, and his tongue and gums were shockingly white (a sign of bad health for dogs). Kelly wrapped her in a towel, and we intended to taxi it (and her sister) to a nearby vet.
It was around 2pm, and we were told the vet didn’t reopen until 4pm. We waited. Kelly sat with the sick puppy while it whimpered off and on, as it gained and lost the strength to register its pain. It was pathetic and saddening. When we got to the vet’s office, he wasn’t there (he was out on a house call). Kelly could feel the dog had been deteriorating in her arms for some time. After about 15 minutes of waiting, out of the blue the dog threw up in one convulsive motion, and died instantly after doing so. The vomit taught us another of its problems. There in the dark puddle of liquid was a 3-inch long roundworm, a twisted spaghetti-looking thing that was still squirming.
It was a really sad moment. I think it marked the first time Kelly or I have ever seen an animal die up close like that. What was so disturbing about it was the suffering involved. Kelly’s instinct upon finding the dog was to put it out of its misery (though we didn’t know how to do that humanely…since then Kelly has been told two sleeping pills will put a small puppy out of its misery). I was more hopeful, thinking perhaps the infection could be treated and she could recover.
The men present told us the second, healthy dog was very at risk for worms (which made sense). We stopped at a pharmacy and bought her some worm medicine, which we fed her atop some chicken scraps and rice from a generous Mexican restaurant we’ve frequented here. That dog tore into the food and ate much more than I thought a tiny puppy could. After that, I took her into the ocean to wash off the fleas she was infested with. Then Kelly dried her off (in my shirt…thanks Kelly), and we put her back where Kelly found her. We both went to bed that night very upset. I had a big knot in my stomach and Kelly was crying off and on. After a good cry session, Kelly suggested we retro-name the sick puppy Peppy, since she was anything but. So sorry your final hours were so horrible, Peppy, but we’re glad it’s over.
The next morning, Kelly went to check on the puppy, and found an Australian couple holding her. They had found her on the beach at night being attacked by other (full-size) dogs. They had taken her into their room that night, where the puppy had slept with them (and thrown up her chicken and rice). They named her Waif. Part of the reason I (and Kelly I’m sure) had been upset the night before was because of the dog that had died, but part of it was that we had left this tiny puppy all alone out in the trees behind the beach. We had figured/hoped that her mother must be around somewhere, or she wouldn’t have survived this long. So we were relieved to know Waif was now in good hands. The couple was going to keep the puppy for a few days, then bring her to a proper shelter in north Goa, which finds homes for puppies in, of course, Germany. After just seeing Kelly’s face after discovering this information, I somehow predict we may end up at our second dog shelter of the trip.
