Another India
Goa is India’s Sunset Strip. It’s where people go to party. By day, backpackers, ageing hippies and escapees from India’s urban centers lounge on the shores of the Arabian Sea. By night, they dance, powered by thumping music, pills and booze.
I didn’t go to India’s smallest state to party. I went to see Gina and Manny, friends from LA who have a condo in Benaulim, a coastal village in South Goa. Manny is Goan; his family lives near Benaulim. He and Gina have visited Goa three times since they were married almost four years ago. When we exchanged photos of India after my first trip, it seemed as if we’d been to different planets.
Goa is known for its beaches: long stretches of wheat-colored sand shared by sunbathers, fishermen and cows. During the tourist season, the beaches are lined with small huts that serve as guesthouses and bigger huts that serve food and drink. They look like they were built by the first little piggy; they’re dismantled before monsoon.
Chennai has beaches, too. I live within walking distance of one, but I rarely go there. Once, at twilight, I went for a stroll on Chennai’s Marina Beach. I walked as if drunk, head down, zigzagging to avoid piles of shit. The crabs darting across the wet sand reminded me of the aliens in a game of Space Invaders. I looked up when a dog emerged from the shadows and growled at me. A leathery fisherman ordered the dog to desist, and I continued on my way. There were many piles of shit, and I worried about crossing paths with other territorial dogs. When I looked up again, I saw men squatting by the water. I realized I was safe; it wasn’t dog shit.
In Goa, you can wear a bikini. Chennai’s too conservative for that; a mid-calf skirt is considered short. In Goa, you can sip a Kingfisher beer and watch a Western retiree practice fire twirling while waiting for a burger. Most of Chennai’s restaurants are dry, and beef is rarely on menus in this predominately Hindu city.
Goa, unlike most of India, never belonged to the British. Portugal held it for some 450 years. Until 1961, when the Indian army booted the Portuguese, visitors needed a passport to enter. The Portuguese missionaries were cruelly efficient; Catholic churches and chapels are more ubiquitous than ATMs.
Goa was just what I needed, a break from my break. I bobbed in the ocean with Gina. I ate home-cooked meals with Manny’s family. I bought jewelry from gypsies. I sipped strawberry juice with sloshed tourists. I inhaled sea air instead of rickshaw fumes. In the shower, the sand came off easily, not like the black film on my arms after a day on Chennai’s roads.
Thanks, Gina and Manny, for sharing your paradise.
Manny and Gina
fishermen
I didn’t go to India’s smallest state to party. I went to see Gina and Manny, friends from LA who have a condo in Benaulim, a coastal village in South Goa. Manny is Goan; his family lives near Benaulim. He and Gina have visited Goa three times since they were married almost four years ago. When we exchanged photos of India after my first trip, it seemed as if we’d been to different planets.
Goa is known for its beaches: long stretches of wheat-colored sand shared by sunbathers, fishermen and cows. During the tourist season, the beaches are lined with small huts that serve as guesthouses and bigger huts that serve food and drink. They look like they were built by the first little piggy; they’re dismantled before monsoon.
Chennai has beaches, too. I live within walking distance of one, but I rarely go there. Once, at twilight, I went for a stroll on Chennai’s Marina Beach. I walked as if drunk, head down, zigzagging to avoid piles of shit. The crabs darting across the wet sand reminded me of the aliens in a game of Space Invaders. I looked up when a dog emerged from the shadows and growled at me. A leathery fisherman ordered the dog to desist, and I continued on my way. There were many piles of shit, and I worried about crossing paths with other territorial dogs. When I looked up again, I saw men squatting by the water. I realized I was safe; it wasn’t dog shit.
In Goa, you can wear a bikini. Chennai’s too conservative for that; a mid-calf skirt is considered short. In Goa, you can sip a Kingfisher beer and watch a Western retiree practice fire twirling while waiting for a burger. Most of Chennai’s restaurants are dry, and beef is rarely on menus in this predominately Hindu city.
Goa, unlike most of India, never belonged to the British. Portugal held it for some 450 years. Until 1961, when the Indian army booted the Portuguese, visitors needed a passport to enter. The Portuguese missionaries were cruelly efficient; Catholic churches and chapels are more ubiquitous than ATMs.
Goa was just what I needed, a break from my break. I bobbed in the ocean with Gina. I ate home-cooked meals with Manny’s family. I bought jewelry from gypsies. I sipped strawberry juice with sloshed tourists. I inhaled sea air instead of rickshaw fumes. In the shower, the sand came off easily, not like the black film on my arms after a day on Chennai’s roads.
Thanks, Gina and Manny, for sharing your paradise.
Manny and Gina
fishermen
posted by Badass at 3:48 PM
1 Comments:
Anna, I loved your story... not just because it's about me! Reading your blog made me realize just how special Goa is to all of us who've had the opportunity to spend time there. You've actually inspired me to start my own blog. I hope we can meet up in Benalim again in the future.
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