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Published: February 16th 2007
This December I found myself in the quaint little village of Gokarna, Karnataka, situated on the south-west coast of India. “Lonely Planet”, every traveler’s bible, describes the place as “a sleepy, charming town with wooden houses on the main street and traditional houses in nearby alleys.” “Rough Guide,” all other travelers’ holy book states explicitly, “Watch out for the hippies.” I thought this to be a funny thing to write in a guide book until I arrived there myself. In Gokarna the most common hairstyle is dreadlocks. Tie dye and earthy tones are the only clothing colors visible and the cafes lining the beach go by names such Café Munchies and Café Peace. Drawn into the sand with a stick one cannot avoid the plethora of announcements for rallies against the World Trade Organization and the World Bank, American imperialism and low minimum wages. It truly is every hippie’s dream. One can spend their nights in a fancy hotel with internet access and air conditioning while during the day decry the mercenary state of man from the comfort of a tranquil beach in this amicable, seemingly quintessentially Indian town. In reality however, Gokarna is just like small tourist towns everywhere; they might as well be painting on a curtain, for their perfect countenances and never-ceasing-to-smile faces are a veil that when pulled back show a hidden underbelly. I learned about this collision of illusion and reality in what I found to be a quite amusing way.
One day I was walking down the road near the center of town when I thought I overheard a conversation in Tamil, the language I have spent the last eight months learning. Drawn by the unmatched pull of a known language in a foreign land, I strutted excitedly towards the source of the chatter, a family of six selling wares at a little stand. “Yes it is Tamil!” I exclaimed to myself as I drew near. I struck up a conversation immediately and while my excitement was substantial, it was made to look like indifference when compared to the elation of this family to find fellow Tamil speakers. Not just Tamil speakers. No! Foreigners who had the desire (or idiocy, it could be said), to learn their beautiful, impractical language.
Littered across their makeshift table, in truth nothing more than a piece of cloth spread over cardboard, were stones of every imaginable color, smooth bead necklaces and intricately tied bracelets. There were rings, earrings and anklets. Everything was ornate, but, one would guess, probably not what they said it was. This family of six, I was to find out, was renting a room in town above their “shop” at 400 rupees per month. To put that figure in perspective, one night in an average hotel costs around 500 rupees. They came to Gokarna every winter, the heavy tourist season, to hawk their wares and hopefully save up some money for the rest of the year. As we spoke to them throngs of Tamilians flocked around to see the sideshow which created a veritable maelstrom of activity.
It turned out that they were all part of a large extended family from the outskirts of Chennai. Tea was offered to me at least twice by each of the roughly 20 people crowding around. Many insisted on me visiting their stands up the road, a middle aged woman named Laksmi being the most insistent. One man even offered to let me stay with them free of charge that night in their rented room. Politely I declined. After a lively 20 minutes everyone except for the original family gradually dispersed to their own stands leaving me with that distinct serene feeling one gets after all the guests have left from a successful dinner party.
It quickly surfaced that the leader of the family was the twelve year old son named Raja. He was short and unassuming in appearance like an Ewok, but after looking into his eyes I had the distinct impression that I was in the presence of a superior mind. Whenever a foreigner walked by he jumped to his feet, scurried over to them with an armful of necklaces and, with a mix of faked bashful innocence and charm he would successfully lure the targets to their stand. This may not sound impressive, but when the entire length of the road is lined on both sides with identical stands selling identical items at identical prices, even getting a customer to your stand becomes a feat unto itself. Once he had them in his domain, he used use his perfect English to make the jewels seem irresistible. No talking head on the QVC channel could have sold them more successfully.
After a couple of triumphant sales a dreadlocked British woman in her mid-twenties happened upon the stand. She was decked out in a dark green t-shirt that had phrase “Treat thy neighbor as thyself” plastered across her chest in bright yellow block letters.
“Oh, not her again,” I thought to myself. The cafes lining the beach average only four outside tables with a view of the Arabian Sea and at dinnertime they become hot commodities. The previous night she had sat alone at a table meant for six people until closing, refusing to move to a smaller table outside or to a different table inside. Neither the line of people waiting to be seated nor polite requests by the management could unseat her. Instead, this woman simply sat there more resolutely than ever, flashing dirty looks towards anyone who had the audacity to meet her gaze.
“I want to buy a sandalwood necklace” she snapped at Raja. Raja quickly went to the table and picked up a rack of necklaces.
“This is pure sandalwood. Smell it” he said as he unclipped the necklace from its position and brought it up to her nose. She inhaled.
“Yes, that does smell exactly like sandalwood.”
“And look at this workmanship. You can only make carvings so intricate without cracks if it is 100 percent sandalwood.”
“Yes. That is intricate. Perhaps it really is sandalwood. How much is it?” she asked with a skeptical countenance.
“50 rupees” replied Raja.
“What!” she blurted. “If that was real sandalwood it would cost 3000 rupees. I won’t be cheated” she said as she turned on a dime and stalked away down the road towards the center of town. As soon as she disappeared from sight Raja ran off down an adjacent back alley that I knew to be a shortcut to town, leaving me befuddled in his wake. A minute went by. Two. Four. “What trick does this kid have up his sleeve?” I wondered. I stepped out into the crowded road to peer around the bend but could see neither the snotty woman nor Raja. I crossed over to the other side of the road and waited impatiently for Raja to return to clear up my confusion. Then, all of a sudden Raja and Lakshmi appeared from around the bend, giant grins smattered across their faces. As they came closer and I saw 3000 rupees clasped in Raja’s hand I finally understood.
Hope you enjoyed. Question Ive been pondering... What do you think is the thing that people identify with the most?
1) Religion
2) Race
3) Nation
4) Class
I really dont know... for different people it is different... maybe there isnt an answer, maybe its not a quesiton worth asking. But nonetheless, what dya think? And why.
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Priscilla
non-member comment
identification
For me Nathan the identification would have to be religious belief. I can immediately bond with a born-again Christian who is from pretty much anywhere. We are afterall in the same family. I went last fall to a Yom Kippur service and found elements of relationship even though my connection to my Jewish friends was only from the shared Old Testament heritage. Neat Huh?