Something about a beach-town

Angela, Reid and I stepped off our Kingfisher Red flight in Goa just after sunset. Warm and tropical, the humidity made my jeans stick to my legs as I walked. A small regional airport, Goa’s terminal reminded me of Santa Barbara municipal with its tiny terminals, quick baggage claim and palm trees lining our walk to the taxi stand.

An hour later, we were arriving at Paradise Village resort in Goa. We pulled into the gates, checked in, and rigged the A/C to stay on even after we left. (One detail about India is that the A/C only comes on when the keychain in hung on the inside wall. Personally, I can’t sleep very well when I’m sweating so I’ve learned that by disconnecting my roomkey from the keychain, I can leave the Keychain attached to the wall sensor while I’m out to dinner so that I can return to a cool room when I retire for bed.

We set out to Baga beach, where we ate at Brittos. The shack on the beach felt right out of a Jimmy Buffet song. We ordered some Calamari, Garlic Butter Grilled Fish & Chips and a pitcher of Kingfisher. Angela got something girly with melon and a slice of pineapple on the rim and I promised myself a Pina Colada for later. While waiting for our meal, I thought to myself that the Seafood at a beach-side shack like this would be good. When it came, it completely exceeded my expectations! In hind sight, this really became the staple meal of our trip, and we ordered the same thing 3 or 4 more times at various beach-side bamboo shacks up and down the coast.
After dinner, we ventured out onto the beach where I witnessed a new Indian juxtaposition. People (and a few dogs) were laying everywhere. I imagined that some of them (and certainly the dogs) might be homeless. I inferred that some were there to stargaze, while other young couples might be laying side by side with a burning desire to hold each other had it been socially acceptable to do so. I reflected briefly on the varying accounts of “love marriages” I’ve heard of and varying degrees to which it’s considered acceptable here in India.

We kept walking down the beach and closer to the next shack, a number of people sat in lounge chairs smoking hookah while American Hip-Hop blared at an empty dance floor and spinning disco ball. We stopped for a Haywards 5000 (a brand of beer I’d yet to encounter, and found to be a bit foul) before heading towards the local party spot where we could go to Mambo’s or Tito’s.

We befriended a bartender named Bubai at a bar where it was encouraged to leave your mark on one wall. Given it was the night before the BRUTE LABS Wine to Water event I took the sharpie pen from Bubai to write our URL on the wall and I took a picture to document the occasion.
The three of us then walked down to Mambo’s where Angela and I (a “couple” as defined by our white skin) got in for free, and Reid paid a $16 cover charge (single man tax)which we all later split.

The bar was empty until about midnight, but by 1:30 we were exhausted and decided to call it a night.

On Saturday morning, Reid and I walked down to the restaurant inside Paradise Village and had omelets. We then walked to the beach to take our first look at the ocean before heading back to shower and get ready for the day. Angela had gone out early to explore and discovered a shop down the road willing to rent us motorcycles. The price was $5 a day for a motorcycle or $4 a day for a Vespa-like scooter. We decided that since Angela was going to be my ‘biker babe’ and ride on back, I’d get the more powerful (150cc) motorcycle for $5 a day. We paid in cash for two days, told the shop-owner our room number at the hotel down the road, and she asked us for collateral of some kind. I reached for my wallet and she happily accepted the expired Student ID I presented to her.

As we got ready to depart, she scoffed at our request for three helmets (with working straps) before finally obliging. I figured that even going slowly through relatively deserted beach-town roads, a helmet was a must-have.

We had wheels! I felt like a sixteen year-old with my newfound freedom. After almost two months of being totally dependent on others to get around, riding the bike was incredibly liberating and the picturesque beach-town backdrop made it all the more satisfying.

A warm breeze blowing past us, Angela and I followed Reid’s lead towards old Goa to do some sight-seeing. We stopped to see a beautiful catholic church where the relic of Saint Xavier is held. Constructed in 1631, the church was a magnificent display of traditional Goan heritage. As evidenced by the annual parade that takes place around the church, it was a monument that locals took pride in.

We then followed Reid to the top of a hill above central Goa where we could see for miles. For half an hour or so the three of us took turns posing and taking photos with the lush fields of palm trees spanning into the distance in every direction, pierced only by a couple of church steeples in the middle of old Goa.

Sweaty and damp from the humid air, we returned to our bikes and rode back to Paradise Village. I thought to myself how lucky I was to have ended up here on the other side of the world in this little seaside oasis.

Back at Paradise Village, we decided to hit the beach for the sunset. We walked north for a half mile or so until we reached the first bamboo shack serving beers and Calamari. It was about 5 PM and we had two hours set aside to bask in the sun, sip a cool beer and enjoy the fresh fruits of the fisherman’s harvest. Then we met Veer.
Or I should say, Veer found us. “Hello Friend, Hello Friend. Hello FRIEND!” he called to us from three yards away. Two empty 1 liter Kingfishers sat beside him and the bartender brought over a third. Veer harassed another white woman, who was traveling alone and sitting a bit closer to him than we were for the better part of an hour before getting up to head home. Stumbling directly towards us I set my book down and looked up. “HERRO FRIEND” he slurred.
Veer insisted that he was “a good” and didn’t want anything from us except for our friendship. Given that he was too intoxicated to run, I figured we were safe in public, in broad daylight and with sobriety on our side so I indulged him in conversation. I felt Angela kick me and when I looked back, her digital camera was perched on her knee pointing directly at Veer and myself. I smiled knowingly and she burst out into laughter as she recorded the next 15 minutes or so of Veer’s slurring banter. We discussed traveling in India, and he bragged of the 11-12 beers he’d consumed since 10 AM. He asked about the United States and insulted Reid (inadvertently) by claiming that Reid didn’t look American, he “looks like an Asia”. A few more Indian locals ventured closer to Angela and I to pose by us while they took photos. We decided that we’d get their picture too and had fun posing for eachother and celebrating the mixing of our cultures.
As the guys left, Veer scolded us for being so willing to let them ‘take our snaps’. I apologized and because the Sun was low, I removed my sunglasses. This really got Veer’s attention.
My “cat’s eyes” as Veer called them (referring my eyes’ greenish hue), indicated to him that I could not be trusted. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I put my sunglasses back on, but Veer demanded, “remove your goggles!”. Reluctantly, I removed my sunglasses again wondering where this was going, and contented, Veer stared deeply into my eyes from 4 feet away.
We continued on like this until the sun had just dropped below the horizon on the west coast of India. We paid for our drinks and snack, and Veer got up and unceremoniously stumbled off. Angela, Reid and I returned to Paradise Village tired from the heat of the afternoon but tickled by the people we’d encountered and the harmless attention they’d paid us for so long. We definitely stuck out here and the day’s events had made this all the more apparent.

After a quick nap, I awoke to my cell phone ringing. It was Angela, whose voice had an air of concern. She had accidentally stepped on a large cockroach in her room and disgusted by the inch long carcass on her marble floor, my death-verification and body-disposal services were in need. A bit grossed out myself, I swallowed hard, grabbed a tissue and as they say in India, “performed the needful.”

That night, the three of us enjoyed another beach-side seafood dinner. Reid retired early and Angela and I headed to Tito’s. At Tito’s it was Bollywood, House and Hiphop night. At first we held out for some Hiphop but quickly the energy of the crowd had overcome us. I’ve never seen such an enthusiastic group of young people at a dance club. At the beginning of every song, the entire crowd came alive with a roar, hands in the air as they moved synchronously to the beat. Everyone was a fantastic dancer, but there was something strange about the entire scene. All the guys were dancing with eachother while the girls behaved the same on the other side of the dance floor. In fact, besides Angela and myself, there was only one other couple dancing together in the entire place! Now I’d grown accustomed to male displays of affection and friendship in public including holding hands and embracing but this still put me off. These guys were literally grinding on eachother! It was fine until Angela took a break for the rest room. As another guy moved towards me on the dance floor asking where I was from and invading my personal bubble by just the tiniest bit, I decided to wait for Angela in the lobby.
To be clear, the guys were not gay and in fact, homosexuality is considered taboo in India. As I forced myself to face this fact, I thought to myself how enthusiastically my Sociology professor in college would have commented on such behaviors when visiting other cultures.
Towards the end of the night I found myself standing in the lobby next to Kapil and his wife who were the other couple who had so patiently taught Angela and I a few Bollywood moves on the dance floor. He introduced himself and we chatted a few minutes before catching a cab back home.
On Sunday we set out for the beach. We traveled north towards Anjula beach where we walked through a small market. Noticing that the beach was a bit rockier than expected, I broke out my Google Phone and used the GPS feature to identify the location of the sandy beach about a half mile south of us. We got back on our bikes and meandered through the deserted dirt roads.
When the road became a trail, and as we began to pass sleeping cattle on both sides, we thought we might have taken a wrong turn. Stopping briefly to ask directions towards the beach, we headed down the right path which dead ended into another beach shack. “We found lunch!” Angela exclaimed as I parked the bike under the shade of a palm tree.
The three of us enjoyed a lazy lunch on our own private beach before heading slightly to the north where we swam in the bath-like water, read our books and soaked up some sun until it was time to head back to the airport.
All in all, Goa was my type of vacation and I’d definitely return. There is something about a beach-town I simply can’t refute. It reminded me of Santa Barbara; it’s a combination of the salty air, the warm breeze and the universal preference for flip-flops that makes it feel like home.