Following Zee Wind To Goa

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Life was easy in Goa.


With my eyes fixed on the Arabian sea-I kicked back in my loungechair,sipped on banana lassi after banana lassi,soaked up the rays of the sun,observed the white european-looking travellers strip off all their clothes with no pretense of modesty,as the Indian tourists preserved theirs; wearing nothing less than their sari's,full length collared shirts and jeans as they frolicked in the water-all whilst listening to the cruisey tunes of Bob Marley and The Eagle's 'Hotel California' drifting out of the restaurant beach-shack nearby, where I had become such a regular that whenever I tried to pay my bill I was always told to "just fix it up later",knowing that I would surely be back for more,either that, or just a really good tactic of theirs to make sure that I would come back (I did consider downgrading my 'regular' status one night after the male staff had 80's Madonna and Bryan Adams blaring out of the stereo in celebration of a worker's birthday;only their great food could restore such a loss in credibility).

I became the type of traveller that I have always mocked in true self-righteous disgust.

I had surrendered to the the beast within, one who I thought only preyed on that of a holiday maker and not of an independent traveller, but now fear, it roams inside us all.

Yep, I hate to admit it, but I shamelessly embraced my inner beach bum-and what's worse,much worse- is that I really, really enjoyed doing so...*now hangs head in shame*...

But in my defense, I was in Goa,the beach state of India-a destination in itself- attracting hoards of tourists every year in search of their own little piece of paradise;a trend started in the 70's by hippies who probably stumbled across the palm trees, the sandy beaches and the beautiful brown skinned villagers with their dazzling smiles and thought this might just be the physical embodiment of their idealised utopian dream.

And the great migration to Goa to drop out of the "real" world, continues-by old and new hippies alike;Russians-so many Russians (alot of them coming into new money apparently?); young Israelis looking for freedom after completing their mandatory military service commitments;people who have momentarily relinquished their identities from home to escape, dressing in the uniformed beach attire of fisherman and ali baba pants,'om' symboled t-shirts and bohemian flavoured jewellery until the trip back home when their straight-faced,branded clothes wearing former identity suddenly re-emerges;elderly British retirees who spend half of the year in the sun and the other half back home in pastey complexion inducing, England;heaps more Europeans and random travellers like myself all wanting a piece of the action and coming to see what all the fuss is about.


I didn't..in all honesty, start off my days in Goa as a complete sloth-instead-reserving all that energy for the latter half of my stay.


Contrastively,the beginning was filled with much more spontaneity.
I had jumped off the train at one of the first northern stops in the state,at the invitation of two French guys I'd met in my cabin,winning me over with their travel philosophy-"all of us who travel like zis,we should travel with zee wind,it's zee best way"...enough said.

So Ben and Franck were my companions for a few days,both of them solo travellers who had just met one another in Mumbai;Ben, 20 years old and journeying around the world for a year and Franck,38, and who preaches for a living;I was particularly fond of Franck and his fascinating way of life as a preacher man and the character that he was,the type of person who hangs on every word you say like they are the most important words ever spoken and his studious dedication in improving his english- I taught him the word 'architecture' one day, then furtively watched him walking around,silently mouthing "arrrrr-keeee-tec-sherrr" to himself over and over again.
We hired scooters to ride around 'Old Goa'-the most exhilarating experience-wind in hair,riding on the back of Franck 's scooter as he joined the crazy Indian motorists in their pursuits to overtake impatiently on blind corners (being stuck between two massive trucks,scary..and fun),stopping to get directions from all the locals to the nearest temples-flipping a coin when they all differed, and reminding ourselves that we were actually in India and not Portugal as we explored the buildings and churches left behind from the days of Portugese colonisation.
We also attended the 'dance party on the hill'- along with a small cluster of ravers, and an old hippy contributing his own rave- about how the world will end in 2012...not that it will matter to him too much if or when it does end;I think the world left him behind decades ago after he fried his brain smoking too much of the 'Mary Jane',having never stepped a foot out of Goa since.

When the time came for the boys and I to part I was ready for something different- it could be tiresome at times getting an Indian to work out what I was trying to say let alone help translate what the Frenchies were attempting to articulate.
Franck's english was too intermediate for the Goan to understand, his too quickly spoken for me to decipher, and mine,well that's just too bloody Australian to be called english apparently.


On my lonesome again on Colva beach-with backpack on- I went in search of my own little paradise,finding it in the form of a little beach shack,$5 p/n,50 metres from the water and with 5 large ghecko roomies to play house with.

Indeed-life was tough on the beach.

Some of the hardest decisions I had to make on a day to day basis were whether I should try a different flavoured lassi for lunch,or should me and my new buddy Bill branch out and give that other restaurant a go... the one just a 20 metre walk up from our 'regular' ,which was the best angle to position my loungechair under the sun (to make this whitey not such a whitey anymore) and figuring out how many new ways I could say 'no' to the beach seller girls pacing up and down the sand all day long trying to sell their trinkets of jewellery and offering to henna my body up.
I tried to refuse, I really did-but it was Shantel who broke me in the end-16,gorgeous and living away from home, she found me every day,remembered my name and insisted that I would look much more beautiful wearing one of her ankle bracelets or toe rings,or both, preferably. I knew that establishing loyalty was all apart of her game plan but after she sat down next to me and told me a bit about her life,it lost all significance . I was shocked that at just 10 years of age she had moved interstate, away from her family to start the monotonous beach seller girl life ("you can study and then go and do something with your life, but this is all some of us can do, we don't have the opportunities you do"...enough said)-I was even more shocked when I realised that my inquisitive questions had made her cry,slyly tucking her face into her pink sari to wipe away her tears.
Leaving Goa with 2 ankle bracelets, 2 toe rings and one henna covered hand,arm and breast-my loyalty to Shantel in the end was without question.


I continued to adapt to the ways of travelling in India;stealing napkins from restaraunts any chance I had, to substitute for the lack of toilet paper in the ubiquitous squat toilet(buying actual toilet paper just wouldn't have been as adventurous);shrugging my shoulders and repeating the well used phrase "arrr..this is India" whenever the power went out (being on the toilet for one of those power shortages was definitely a new experience);feigning mock outrage whenever the price of a meal went over 150 rupees,the equivalent of around 3 aussie dollars. I was truly upset though when I found my packet of apple tea, purchased in Turkey, was ruined by a plague of ants...ohhh the humanity! *shakes fist*
I also continued to wonder at the idiosyncrasies of India; a shared cashew and electrical gadget stand (as ya do); traffic waiting patiently for two cows to finish their finish their fight in the middle of a busy road;a huge pile of rubbish next to a huge sign stating, that any person who dumps rubbish here is subject to a big fine; and of course talking to the Indians ,hoping they'd respond to my questions with a head wiggle ( Bill had the idea that if we went around doing it as well, it would endear us to them..the result, about a 50/50 success rate-some noticed and smile,some would have thought that their vision was playing up,others didn't realise or care..but two little kids had noticed-laughing out loud,they followed us down the beach hoping we'd do it again.



I enjoyed the anonymity,whities everywhere up and down the beaches,every fine day in Goa- I wasnt that unique or exciting.....well not much anyway,as there were two memorable exceptions.

Three university boys asked me for a photo one night on the beach,I thought it was weird-but I said yes, drawing the line when they asked if one of them could kiss me for the photo.."what about on the cheek?"...ok,even weirder I thought, but it couldn't do much harm...So he puckered up- and just as the flash went off I felt his tongue slide across my face..disgusted I was, but I froze in shock as they ran off giggling like the juvenile little boys they really were...how I regret not kicking every one of those little pricks in the balls-it upset me that they seemed to think that just because I was a white girl, I must be more 'open' to that kind of thing and treating me like a piece of meat was just fine and dandy.

At least the other experience, that followed the former, was funny ( or creepy and strange,depending how you look at it)

Walking along the market streets, I heard the soft rumbling of a motor next to me on the road- I looked to see an old town bus slowly following along the side of me, 5 Indian men sticking their heads each out of their own window, flashing me their glorious white smiles as another stood in the doorway asking if I'd like a lift.."ahh no thanks guys I'm ok"..and with that I turned away- but the bus wasn't disappearing- looking back they were all still watching and smiling.."no really, I want to take a look at the market, but thanks anyway..".Wondering why the bus driver was tolerating such interest, I caught sight of him through the window- he was turned around in his seat, and he too flashing me a huge smile, hoping as much as the other men that I'd accept the invitation...but they eventually drove off, reluctantly all the same,still smiling of course and returning the wave I gave them with much enthusiasm.



My beach bum days inevitably came to an end-as hard as it was to let go with Bill, a 50 year old professional photographer, indulging me with all his stories of his worldly expeditions- I listened in envy, but was also inspired by his words, knowing that I am still a baby in this life and my own stories are only just beginning.




With such optimism in mind I jumped on the train to Hampi...where I was gifted with my own personalised stalker.


Hey, I did mention that I seem to attract interesting people.

You lose some,you win some.

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Photos

Sunset, Goa
Beach seller girls making their way home

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Reenacting a famous bollywood movie, apparently

...if only Dad's cows knew what they were missing out on
..They would probably just continue to chew on their cud...and moo.

sweet sweet love
Wasn't meant to be blurry, but I think it works..kind of

Old Goa
The swastika began its life as an ancient symbol of Hinduism before its life as a symbol of hate

Shantel, and her friend
Taken just after I bought them a drink..hence the smiles.