Dogster: The Great Stumble Forward - India
Jun 15th, 2008, 10:09 PM
#61
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Like all religious sites, this great white confection of a church stood proudly at the top of a mountain of steps, a morsel of Portugal plonked in the middle of somewhere else, the kind of cultural confusion that religion delights in. Jaded eyes would see the intrusion, the culture-clash, the sheer brute force of a religion that once thought it ruled the world – but that’s another story. I thought it looked rather pretty, in an odd kinda way. To the people trooping towards it, this wasn’t a church – this was a Faith.
By the time I got there the service had begun, the pews and any other available area jam-packed with worshippers. I peered over the heads of the crowd, into the soaring blue, white and gold cathedral. The back wall was hung with black drapes covered in stars. Huge European chandeliers hung above the centre nave and along the side aisles. The wooden altar was surrounded by candles and priests, in the middle of it all stood the Bishop making a very, very long speech, not one word of which I understood.
Men in red satin cloaks hovered around him while he talked. Pillars of gold held up a host of plaster angels whose fate it was to listen, into infinity, to this dreary, unctuous drone. The congregation alternately sat - or knelt - or stood when it was time to sing. Their faces were those of the faithful everywhere – respectful, simple people for whom this public demonstration of their belief was both a duty and drudge. Some were more attentive than others – they sucked up those words as if they were life itself – some were clearly bored - but all were paying public respect to something bigger than themselves. Everything went ahead very, very slowly - solemnly – which was no surprise – they weren’t after all celebrating a win at the soccer – rather the crucifixion and death of their Lord.
Outside the church, listening on speakers, were as many people again – their numbers growing by the minute. These were the more pragmatic of the worshippers – they knew it was important to be SEEN worshipping than to actually DO the worship. They sat wherever they could, mostly on the walls surrounding the church, silent, devout, severe. About the only sign of levity were the frilly white socks their children wore, little girls on their best behaviour clad up in their confirmation dresses looking for all the world like pious kewpie dolls.
The crowd prayed, knelt when appropriate, listened as the speech continued and whispered amongst themselves when the sermon got too dreary to bear. Which was often.
This was probably great devotion – but it was lousy theatre – to my eyes, at least.
It went on and on for what seemed like hours. I was practicing a Zen response, standing off at the side – serious, respectful, head cocked as if I understood every word that was said. My body was there, to all intents in prayer, but my mind and my eyes were racing, taking in the crowd – and not a few secret pictures as well. This was not an occasion to bring out the flash.
The hymn singing was, frankly, woeful. I particularly remember ‘The Old Ragged Cross’ sung so slowly it sounded as if on valium. There was no joy in this particular religion, I had to admit - this was tedium of the highest order; no style, no pace, just a grim, deathly slow plod through the service.
Finally – mercifully - it seemed to be over and there was a gentle movement in the crowd. Those outside took off their shoes, lined then neatly beside the entrance and formed two huge lines either side of the church. Inside the congregation stood up and began to shuffle into the central aisle, each on a slow-motion mission to greet the priest, get their blessing, touch the altar and then file outside again to be replaced by those outside. This process must have taken an hour but my attention was suddenly diverted by the sound of drums, recorded music and car horns.
Down the street, directly leading to the church another, rival procession had formed. The Muslims were having a birthday party. Prophet Mohammad was born in the month of Rabi' al-awwal, the third month in the Islamic calendar, in the "year of the Elephant" - probably 570 – and, however you work out the dates, in Panjim, this Good Friday, this particular event seems to have been celebrated on this day, right at this moment, just to piss off the Christians.
As an act of provocation it very nearly worked. Their drums and car-horn drowned out the amplified hymns, that Christian dirge disappeared beneath the joyous cacophony of 5 or 6 thousand Muslims, all shapes and sizes, all ages, waving banners and flags who marched down the main street right up to the front of the church.
Cars were covered in plastic flowers and red and green flags - lorries were cunningly disguised as minarets, young children dressed up in brightly coloured costumes – everybody wearing a hat, a scarf, even a handkerchief wrapped around their head. Groups of fierce youths stood proud on the roofs of buses, waving their flags wildly, chanting and shouting their love for their Great Prophet Mohammed. It was fine little party - and as a piece of pure theatre left those dreary Christians for dead.
I stumbled down those flights of stairs - of course – stood at the bottom of the steps, balanced precariously between two great faiths – the hymns in one ear, the shouts of the parade in the other. It was a delicious cross-cultural moment. Then I moved even further, right in the middle of the procession, smiling broadly, taking many pictures, walking with the crowd.
I’d left ‘The Old Wooden Cross’ far, far behind.
By the time I got there the service had begun, the pews and any other available area jam-packed with worshippers. I peered over the heads of the crowd, into the soaring blue, white and gold cathedral. The back wall was hung with black drapes covered in stars. Huge European chandeliers hung above the centre nave and along the side aisles. The wooden altar was surrounded by candles and priests, in the middle of it all stood the Bishop making a very, very long speech, not one word of which I understood.
Men in red satin cloaks hovered around him while he talked. Pillars of gold held up a host of plaster angels whose fate it was to listen, into infinity, to this dreary, unctuous drone. The congregation alternately sat - or knelt - or stood when it was time to sing. Their faces were those of the faithful everywhere – respectful, simple people for whom this public demonstration of their belief was both a duty and drudge. Some were more attentive than others – they sucked up those words as if they were life itself – some were clearly bored - but all were paying public respect to something bigger than themselves. Everything went ahead very, very slowly - solemnly – which was no surprise – they weren’t after all celebrating a win at the soccer – rather the crucifixion and death of their Lord.
Outside the church, listening on speakers, were as many people again – their numbers growing by the minute. These were the more pragmatic of the worshippers – they knew it was important to be SEEN worshipping than to actually DO the worship. They sat wherever they could, mostly on the walls surrounding the church, silent, devout, severe. About the only sign of levity were the frilly white socks their children wore, little girls on their best behaviour clad up in their confirmation dresses looking for all the world like pious kewpie dolls.
The crowd prayed, knelt when appropriate, listened as the speech continued and whispered amongst themselves when the sermon got too dreary to bear. Which was often.
This was probably great devotion – but it was lousy theatre – to my eyes, at least.
It went on and on for what seemed like hours. I was practicing a Zen response, standing off at the side – serious, respectful, head cocked as if I understood every word that was said. My body was there, to all intents in prayer, but my mind and my eyes were racing, taking in the crowd – and not a few secret pictures as well. This was not an occasion to bring out the flash.
The hymn singing was, frankly, woeful. I particularly remember ‘The Old Ragged Cross’ sung so slowly it sounded as if on valium. There was no joy in this particular religion, I had to admit - this was tedium of the highest order; no style, no pace, just a grim, deathly slow plod through the service.
Finally – mercifully - it seemed to be over and there was a gentle movement in the crowd. Those outside took off their shoes, lined then neatly beside the entrance and formed two huge lines either side of the church. Inside the congregation stood up and began to shuffle into the central aisle, each on a slow-motion mission to greet the priest, get their blessing, touch the altar and then file outside again to be replaced by those outside. This process must have taken an hour but my attention was suddenly diverted by the sound of drums, recorded music and car horns.
Down the street, directly leading to the church another, rival procession had formed. The Muslims were having a birthday party. Prophet Mohammad was born in the month of Rabi' al-awwal, the third month in the Islamic calendar, in the "year of the Elephant" - probably 570 – and, however you work out the dates, in Panjim, this Good Friday, this particular event seems to have been celebrated on this day, right at this moment, just to piss off the Christians.
As an act of provocation it very nearly worked. Their drums and car-horn drowned out the amplified hymns, that Christian dirge disappeared beneath the joyous cacophony of 5 or 6 thousand Muslims, all shapes and sizes, all ages, waving banners and flags who marched down the main street right up to the front of the church.
Cars were covered in plastic flowers and red and green flags - lorries were cunningly disguised as minarets, young children dressed up in brightly coloured costumes – everybody wearing a hat, a scarf, even a handkerchief wrapped around their head. Groups of fierce youths stood proud on the roofs of buses, waving their flags wildly, chanting and shouting their love for their Great Prophet Mohammed. It was fine little party - and as a piece of pure theatre left those dreary Christians for dead.
I stumbled down those flights of stairs - of course – stood at the bottom of the steps, balanced precariously between two great faiths – the hymns in one ear, the shouts of the parade in the other. It was a delicious cross-cultural moment. Then I moved even further, right in the middle of the procession, smiling broadly, taking many pictures, walking with the crowd.
I’d left ‘The Old Wooden Cross’ far, far behind.
Jun 15th, 2008, 10:10 PM
#62
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Having made their point, the Muslim parade came to an end, the trucks were parked, everybody disbanded and went off happily to their homes, doubtless to celebrate some more.
By this time the skies were dark, the humidity thick, threatening grey clouds formed above the cathedral as if the sheer melancholy of the proceedings inside had attracted all the surrounding psychic gloom in the air. Something had to give.
Then, just as the Muslims had dispersed, out from the front entrance of the church came the entire congregation of the church, a sea of white and black and blue. There must have been a thousand of them, walking silently down the many steps to the street. Behind them came a hundred men, dressed in red. Each wore a half-length satin cloak with a hood over their shoulders, just covering a see-through lace curtain cum cloak that nearly reached their shoes. They formed two lines, making their way down the three flights of stairs to the street.
About half-way along this procession I could just make out the plaster figure of a weeping plaster Mary Magdalene, her hands loosely clasped in prayer. She wore her traditional blue shawl, an expression of pure, blank piety and a halo of stars. In front of her a dozen men carried a black awning that sheltered a palanquin, open on all four sides, carrying the plaster body of the dead Christ, lit from above by a neon tube.
Jesus lay there dead, the painted blood running down his plaster face. He sported a lifelike black beard and thick, long black hair with an embroidered golden band around his forehead where the crown of thorns had been. A bunch of bright red flowers lay on his chest on top of a gold robe. He looked almost life-like, and at peace – which, I guess, was the point.
Just as the palanquin made it down to the street the rain began. Jesus was safe – He was undercover - but Mother Mary, by the time she got to me, was spotted with great gobs of rain.
All around them the priests and attendants were getting soaked - but not for an instant did they break ranks. Their red satin cloaks hung limply round their shoulders, the rain ran in streaks down their face but the slow march continued. The parade continued down the main street of town, unhurried, unaltered - almost defiant - as the sky turned yellow and green, the thunderclouds moved in and the storm broke.
My faith was not quite so strong. I huddled undercover, with the rest of the onlookers, content to watch as Jesus and Mary headed off into the distance, sodden, solemn, serene.
Perhaps they held off the worst of it with their faith because, by the time the procession had would its way around town and was heading back up the steps of the church, the rain had briefly stopped. Those clouds grew darker, seemed even blacker as the floodlights around the building were turned on. A single red neon cross flickered bravely at the top of the tower as the procession returned inside, ready for more lengthy services, more slow-motion hymns.
Enough public piety for the day.
I needed some food, a beer – and some conversation.
I knew just where to go.
By this time the skies were dark, the humidity thick, threatening grey clouds formed above the cathedral as if the sheer melancholy of the proceedings inside had attracted all the surrounding psychic gloom in the air. Something had to give.
Then, just as the Muslims had dispersed, out from the front entrance of the church came the entire congregation of the church, a sea of white and black and blue. There must have been a thousand of them, walking silently down the many steps to the street. Behind them came a hundred men, dressed in red. Each wore a half-length satin cloak with a hood over their shoulders, just covering a see-through lace curtain cum cloak that nearly reached their shoes. They formed two lines, making their way down the three flights of stairs to the street.
About half-way along this procession I could just make out the plaster figure of a weeping plaster Mary Magdalene, her hands loosely clasped in prayer. She wore her traditional blue shawl, an expression of pure, blank piety and a halo of stars. In front of her a dozen men carried a black awning that sheltered a palanquin, open on all four sides, carrying the plaster body of the dead Christ, lit from above by a neon tube.
Jesus lay there dead, the painted blood running down his plaster face. He sported a lifelike black beard and thick, long black hair with an embroidered golden band around his forehead where the crown of thorns had been. A bunch of bright red flowers lay on his chest on top of a gold robe. He looked almost life-like, and at peace – which, I guess, was the point.
Just as the palanquin made it down to the street the rain began. Jesus was safe – He was undercover - but Mother Mary, by the time she got to me, was spotted with great gobs of rain.
All around them the priests and attendants were getting soaked - but not for an instant did they break ranks. Their red satin cloaks hung limply round their shoulders, the rain ran in streaks down their face but the slow march continued. The parade continued down the main street of town, unhurried, unaltered - almost defiant - as the sky turned yellow and green, the thunderclouds moved in and the storm broke.
My faith was not quite so strong. I huddled undercover, with the rest of the onlookers, content to watch as Jesus and Mary headed off into the distance, sodden, solemn, serene.
Perhaps they held off the worst of it with their faith because, by the time the procession had would its way around town and was heading back up the steps of the church, the rain had briefly stopped. Those clouds grew darker, seemed even blacker as the floodlights around the building were turned on. A single red neon cross flickered bravely at the top of the tower as the procession returned inside, ready for more lengthy services, more slow-motion hymns.
Enough public piety for the day.
I needed some food, a beer – and some conversation.
I knew just where to go.
Jun 15th, 2008, 10:45 PM
#63
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Kingfisher. Fly the airline – drink the beer.
Old-timers in India know not to drink wine. It’s expensive, usually crap and doesn’t go well with Indian food. I’d developed quite a crush on those large brown bottles of Kingfisher beer – and, to my constant amazement, Indian food.
What a revelation, what a delight – every day a new sensation. How I’d managed to get to this great old age without fully appreciating this extraordinary cuisine, in all its variations, is beyond me. I guess I’d never been in India before – that could be why. But what a waste of all those years when I could have been stuffing thalis in my mouth – what a loss. I’ll add that to the long, long list of sensations I managed to deny myself in my youth – out of fear, probably.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Oh well, nothing to do but make up for lost time and guzzle this new addiction from morning till night.
Just down the street from the Panjim Inn I discovered a thriving little restaurant. I wish I could remember its name. It’ll come to me. Not only was the food great, so was the company.
And here is the rub. Solo travel can get solitary, one can turn into a sook at the flip of a dime – one bad word, one hassler too many, one accident of fate – but there are adventures waiting just around the corner, adventures that could never happen if you were NOT on your own. Some you can choose – some you have THRUST upon you.
It was impossible to go to this place and sit on your own. It was too popular, too buzzy – the waiters too young and keen. In this culture a solo traveller looks all a bit pathetic, tragic and alone. Indians live their lives en famille, surrounded by a great host of people, family or friends – it doesn’t really matter. Life is not a solitary thing. You might arrive at *** alone, but pretty soon the place would be full and another solo traveller would be plonked down opposite you, like it or not. That was just how it was – if you weren’t up to it you faced a grim dinner with a total stranger – or you could both choose to embrace the accident, more than make the most of it and dive in deep, both to the food AND each other.
You’d almost certainly never come this way again, never see your companion in a million years – you had a choice – darkest secrets could be spilled, topics uncovered, explored – the whole amazing world was there for the asking if you have the nerve – and the skill – to go there.
I was much practiced in the art in drawing out strangers, an expert in dishing the dirt – there was almost no topic I couldn’t run with – and those I couldn’t, I was happy to listen and learn. Not so long ago, the scales slipped from my eyes and I learnt that it wasn’t necessary to talk just about me, that the detritus of my life was no longer of interest, either to me – or, as it turned out, them. We could go somewhere else. So we did – if they were able. Almost always they were. They were, after all, OTHER solo travellers mostly. There was nothing to fear – but fear itself. The whole world opened up.
When in doubt, ask questions.
But then there’s a most important thing – you have to listen to the answers AND run with them - not just wait for a gap so that you can snap back and talk about yourself – some more.
A conversation is just that... not an interrogation – but not a monologue.
Gawd, that took me a long time to learn.
Old-timers in India know not to drink wine. It’s expensive, usually crap and doesn’t go well with Indian food. I’d developed quite a crush on those large brown bottles of Kingfisher beer – and, to my constant amazement, Indian food.
What a revelation, what a delight – every day a new sensation. How I’d managed to get to this great old age without fully appreciating this extraordinary cuisine, in all its variations, is beyond me. I guess I’d never been in India before – that could be why. But what a waste of all those years when I could have been stuffing thalis in my mouth – what a loss. I’ll add that to the long, long list of sensations I managed to deny myself in my youth – out of fear, probably.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Oh well, nothing to do but make up for lost time and guzzle this new addiction from morning till night.
Just down the street from the Panjim Inn I discovered a thriving little restaurant. I wish I could remember its name. It’ll come to me. Not only was the food great, so was the company.
And here is the rub. Solo travel can get solitary, one can turn into a sook at the flip of a dime – one bad word, one hassler too many, one accident of fate – but there are adventures waiting just around the corner, adventures that could never happen if you were NOT on your own. Some you can choose – some you have THRUST upon you.
It was impossible to go to this place and sit on your own. It was too popular, too buzzy – the waiters too young and keen. In this culture a solo traveller looks all a bit pathetic, tragic and alone. Indians live their lives en famille, surrounded by a great host of people, family or friends – it doesn’t really matter. Life is not a solitary thing. You might arrive at *** alone, but pretty soon the place would be full and another solo traveller would be plonked down opposite you, like it or not. That was just how it was – if you weren’t up to it you faced a grim dinner with a total stranger – or you could both choose to embrace the accident, more than make the most of it and dive in deep, both to the food AND each other.
You’d almost certainly never come this way again, never see your companion in a million years – you had a choice – darkest secrets could be spilled, topics uncovered, explored – the whole amazing world was there for the asking if you have the nerve – and the skill – to go there.
I was much practiced in the art in drawing out strangers, an expert in dishing the dirt – there was almost no topic I couldn’t run with – and those I couldn’t, I was happy to listen and learn. Not so long ago, the scales slipped from my eyes and I learnt that it wasn’t necessary to talk just about me, that the detritus of my life was no longer of interest, either to me – or, as it turned out, them. We could go somewhere else. So we did – if they were able. Almost always they were. They were, after all, OTHER solo travellers mostly. There was nothing to fear – but fear itself. The whole world opened up.
When in doubt, ask questions.
But then there’s a most important thing – you have to listen to the answers AND run with them - not just wait for a gap so that you can snap back and talk about yourself – some more.
A conversation is just that... not an interrogation – but not a monologue.
Gawd, that took me a long time to learn.
Jun 15th, 2008, 10:54 PM
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Panjim was not just a collection of quaint old Portuguese houses, not just the Panjim Inn [much as I loved it]. It was a succession of amazing meals and extraordinary conversations. One by one, dropped down at my table [or me at theirs], visiting from Planet Mongo, came some of the oddest people in the world.
Remember – the travel mantra is: ‘Everything is interesting.’
Interesting can be good.
Interesting can be bad.
But ‘interesting’ is everywhere – if you have the eyes to see, the ears to hear – and can stop, for an hour or so at least, thinking that YOU are the most interesting person in the place.
That also took me a bloody long time to learn.
Remember – the travel mantra is: ‘Everything is interesting.’
Interesting can be good.
Interesting can be bad.
But ‘interesting’ is everywhere – if you have the eyes to see, the ears to hear – and can stop, for an hour or so at least, thinking that YOU are the most interesting person in the place.
That also took me a bloody long time to learn.
Jun 16th, 2008, 05:55 AM
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i have been in the tourism business in india for over 25 years. NEVER NEVER EVER have i ever come across india the way you continue to bring it out - realistic, living, right there in your face,as it actually is. we should replace the Incredible India campaign with Dogsters India campaign. amazing. keep it going and if you don't mind can i have your permission to quote parts of what you write to others? no commercial intentions - just sharing great writing on india with others. if u want to write a guide book on india - i can be your local support !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jun 16th, 2008, 06:18 AM
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Somehow, without any problem at all, my accidental week in Panjim cruised by. I’d forgotten all about the M.S. Ocean Odyssey and the voyage that never occurred. The extra days at the Panjim Inn passed just as the first four had – lunch, beer, conversation, a wander through the streets – into town for a shave, an ice-cream and a coffee – a massage, a chat – more wandering, a bit of internet, a shower – then dinner at my favourite restaurant, beer, a new companion, another amazing conversation – a think – a wander, then bed. I’ve learnt that when fate, Pouilly Fume and stupidity combine to drop you somewhere strange – best to relax and enjoy it. Sometimes one needs a holiday from the holiday.
I was completely content.
My rather dull-sounding routine was of course interrupted by Good Friday, The Prophet Mohammad’s birthday party, the rest of Easter, the multi-coloured festival of Holi, the abortive voyage to nowhere, a rather dull afternoon in Old Panjim and the Church of St. Francis, a museum or two and an adventure that doesn’t bear repeating – so it wasn’t quite as middle-aged as it seems.
The staff at the Panjim Inn had grown friendlier by the day – I was an easy guest, non-threatening, undemanding, rather elderly to their youthful eyes – they gradually adopted me, called me ‘Uncle’ or ‘Papa’. [When that starts to happen, then you KNOW you’re getting old].
The breakfast guy, the guard on the door, the room-boys all stopped by for a chat. Even the patron started to talk. He was the kind of man who could not be approached – I knew I had to wait till he came to me – and, gradually he did. Little by little, day by day he warmed to me – and I to him. Every day at breakfast he’d drop by for conversation. We discussed the news – the Scarlett Keeling case – two old guys with quite a bit of wisdom between us, one way or another. We were straight with each other, as guys like us tend to be. No need for bullshit – anymore.
One morning, late in our acquaintance, he gently enquired about my life. Up until then he’d respected my privacy - and I his. We knew to take it slow.
‘So,’ he said gently, ‘where is your family...’
It’s the inevitable question – as discussed, in India a solo traveller is still a bit of an oddity - a self-contained, seemingly content, benign and friendly older one, one who smiled, seemed relaxed – one not apparently angling for sex – or drugs – or rock ‘n roll - even more so.
I looked at him over my glasses and shrugged.
‘They’re all dead, my friend.’
And they were.
He nodded and smiled – then his eyes filled with tears.
We didn’t talk for a while. He’d been there too.
On my last day he strolled over.
‘I want to give you a discount,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a good guest.’
‘My friend, I’ve already paid my bill,’ I smiled, ‘but thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Then take this,’ he said gently – and produced a beautiful little miniature, painted on a thin strip of marble, about the size of a small postcard. On it, a pink, blue and orange sari, a gentle woman holding a lute. She’s holding out one hand to the peacock standing behind her – in the background a blossoming tree - blue sky.
We shook hands.
'Come back,’ he said simply.
I will.
I was completely content.
My rather dull-sounding routine was of course interrupted by Good Friday, The Prophet Mohammad’s birthday party, the rest of Easter, the multi-coloured festival of Holi, the abortive voyage to nowhere, a rather dull afternoon in Old Panjim and the Church of St. Francis, a museum or two and an adventure that doesn’t bear repeating – so it wasn’t quite as middle-aged as it seems.
The staff at the Panjim Inn had grown friendlier by the day – I was an easy guest, non-threatening, undemanding, rather elderly to their youthful eyes – they gradually adopted me, called me ‘Uncle’ or ‘Papa’. [When that starts to happen, then you KNOW you’re getting old].
The breakfast guy, the guard on the door, the room-boys all stopped by for a chat. Even the patron started to talk. He was the kind of man who could not be approached – I knew I had to wait till he came to me – and, gradually he did. Little by little, day by day he warmed to me – and I to him. Every day at breakfast he’d drop by for conversation. We discussed the news – the Scarlett Keeling case – two old guys with quite a bit of wisdom between us, one way or another. We were straight with each other, as guys like us tend to be. No need for bullshit – anymore.
One morning, late in our acquaintance, he gently enquired about my life. Up until then he’d respected my privacy - and I his. We knew to take it slow.
‘So,’ he said gently, ‘where is your family...’
It’s the inevitable question – as discussed, in India a solo traveller is still a bit of an oddity - a self-contained, seemingly content, benign and friendly older one, one who smiled, seemed relaxed – one not apparently angling for sex – or drugs – or rock ‘n roll - even more so.
I looked at him over my glasses and shrugged.
‘They’re all dead, my friend.’
And they were.
He nodded and smiled – then his eyes filled with tears.
We didn’t talk for a while. He’d been there too.
On my last day he strolled over.
‘I want to give you a discount,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a good guest.’
‘My friend, I’ve already paid my bill,’ I smiled, ‘but thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Then take this,’ he said gently – and produced a beautiful little miniature, painted on a thin strip of marble, about the size of a small postcard. On it, a pink, blue and orange sari, a gentle woman holding a lute. She’s holding out one hand to the peacock standing behind her – in the background a blossoming tree - blue sky.
We shook hands.
'Come back,’ he said simply.
I will.
Jun 16th, 2008, 07:20 AM
#69
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Okay..your report is starting to be like a novel, that u just can't put down cause u can't wait to see what happens next!!
Love that u stayed in Panjim...instead of the crowded beach hotels..The Panjim Inn looks beautiful, i will check it out when we go next...
Love that u stayed in Panjim...instead of the crowded beach hotels..The Panjim Inn looks beautiful, i will check it out when we go next...
Jun 16th, 2008, 09:49 AM
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Siolim
I didn’t really have much idea what to do next - the Calangute experience had scared me off the beaches – but then, exposing this skinny, white fifty-eight year old body in public has never been a favourite occupation of mine.
Imagine an albino Stick Insect sprawled abandoned, gently frying on a beach – you get the picture. I know when I’m past my use-by-date.
Fate - and a rather interesting sounding boutique hotel - directed me to Siolim – a tiny inland town about an hour north. I fed myself to the small army of taxi-drivers stationed outside the Panjim Inn, paid the inflated tourist price and - a few million rupees lighter, arrived at Siolim House.
www.siolimhouse.com
The pictures on the website lie. It’s even nicer.
I was in Macassar – the first floor suite, not the provincial capital of South Sulawesi – and spent the next three days pretty damn content. I had one of the best meals of my trip in Siolim House, sitting, all alone with a Kingfisher and plates of the most delicious food. I was in heaven. The rest weren’t quite up to that standard – but I didn’t care. I was strangely relaxed by then...
When in Goa..,
I wanted to see where Scarlett Keeling was murdered. Well, not the exact spot – but the beach, the scene, the famous ‘rave’ culture for myself. My car and driver set off for the coast, about half an hour away. First stop Vagator Beach, an unimpressive cove that has been drawing the counter-cultural crowd for years. This was not filled with package tourists - not at all. There were Indian families there doing what Indians do at the beach - which is mostly to run fully clothed into the shallows, wait till a wave hits them and then run squealing back to shore.
I’ve never really understood this behaviour but I’ve seen it many times.
Perched around the rocks were a couple of restaurants made of sticks and string; perched on the restaurants were the Beach Boys. Not the Sixties singing group but a breed of handsome young men who prey on every beach in a straight line from Goa to Sri Lanka.
There were plenty of ‘Go-o-o-od, go-o-o-o-d, G-O-O-O-D Vibrations’ to be had from these young fellows – probably a good dose of the clap as well. Not that the prospect of that ever worried the hundreds of young, middle-aged or even elderly women they’d serviced over the years.
Or, for that matter, the young, middle-aged and elderly men.
They saw me coming – but I saw them first.
This was a phenomenon I was not unfamiliar with – the dog had been around. He knew another dog when he saw one.
You know the first thing two dogs do when they meet each other?
Well, I wasn’t gonna do THAT.
I look in the mirror when I’m shaving each morning. I’m perfectly aware that some miracle of youth didn’t happen between the bathroom and the beach, that those lines and wrinkles were still etched on my face, no matter how big the smiles from the Beach Boys are.
This is not a uniquely Indian phenomenon.
Friends of mine once wrote a song. It was entitled [forgive me Ladies] ‘S.H.I.T.’ - an acronym for ‘Suddenly Handsome In Thailand...’
I discovered LONG ago that my sudden attractiveness on the beaches of Sri Lanka was in direct correlation to the size of the bulge in my pocket – and by this I mean my wallet, not my willy – so I was strangely unmoved by the phalanx of young men who snapped to a rather louche attention on my arrival at Vagator Beach.
It was off-season. I was only game in town.
I have a stock routine in India, whenever I’m accosted by someone who wants to sell me something – which, for the run-of the mill tourist, is pretty much everybody you meet. I pause and wiggle my head, smile benignly and, after a second, say:
‘How’s your business today?’
It puts things on an even keel.
They know that I know what’s going on - despite all appearances, despite the smooth talk and that ‘oh, so friendly’ smile, despite their need to ‘practice their English’, to take me where I really don’t want to go. That doesn’t stop the conversation – I’m often happy to chat, pass the time. They’ve got nothing to do – often, neither have I – but I ain’t buying.
‘Can’t buy me lo-o-o-ve...’ somebody else in the Sixties once sang.
Still true.
I didn’t really have much idea what to do next - the Calangute experience had scared me off the beaches – but then, exposing this skinny, white fifty-eight year old body in public has never been a favourite occupation of mine.
Imagine an albino Stick Insect sprawled abandoned, gently frying on a beach – you get the picture. I know when I’m past my use-by-date.
Fate - and a rather interesting sounding boutique hotel - directed me to Siolim – a tiny inland town about an hour north. I fed myself to the small army of taxi-drivers stationed outside the Panjim Inn, paid the inflated tourist price and - a few million rupees lighter, arrived at Siolim House.
www.siolimhouse.com
The pictures on the website lie. It’s even nicer.
I was in Macassar – the first floor suite, not the provincial capital of South Sulawesi – and spent the next three days pretty damn content. I had one of the best meals of my trip in Siolim House, sitting, all alone with a Kingfisher and plates of the most delicious food. I was in heaven. The rest weren’t quite up to that standard – but I didn’t care. I was strangely relaxed by then...
When in Goa..,
I wanted to see where Scarlett Keeling was murdered. Well, not the exact spot – but the beach, the scene, the famous ‘rave’ culture for myself. My car and driver set off for the coast, about half an hour away. First stop Vagator Beach, an unimpressive cove that has been drawing the counter-cultural crowd for years. This was not filled with package tourists - not at all. There were Indian families there doing what Indians do at the beach - which is mostly to run fully clothed into the shallows, wait till a wave hits them and then run squealing back to shore.
I’ve never really understood this behaviour but I’ve seen it many times.
Perched around the rocks were a couple of restaurants made of sticks and string; perched on the restaurants were the Beach Boys. Not the Sixties singing group but a breed of handsome young men who prey on every beach in a straight line from Goa to Sri Lanka.
There were plenty of ‘Go-o-o-od, go-o-o-o-d, G-O-O-O-D Vibrations’ to be had from these young fellows – probably a good dose of the clap as well. Not that the prospect of that ever worried the hundreds of young, middle-aged or even elderly women they’d serviced over the years.
Or, for that matter, the young, middle-aged and elderly men.
They saw me coming – but I saw them first.
This was a phenomenon I was not unfamiliar with – the dog had been around. He knew another dog when he saw one.
You know the first thing two dogs do when they meet each other?
Well, I wasn’t gonna do THAT.
I look in the mirror when I’m shaving each morning. I’m perfectly aware that some miracle of youth didn’t happen between the bathroom and the beach, that those lines and wrinkles were still etched on my face, no matter how big the smiles from the Beach Boys are.
This is not a uniquely Indian phenomenon.
Friends of mine once wrote a song. It was entitled [forgive me Ladies] ‘S.H.I.T.’ - an acronym for ‘Suddenly Handsome In Thailand...’
I discovered LONG ago that my sudden attractiveness on the beaches of Sri Lanka was in direct correlation to the size of the bulge in my pocket – and by this I mean my wallet, not my willy – so I was strangely unmoved by the phalanx of young men who snapped to a rather louche attention on my arrival at Vagator Beach.
It was off-season. I was only game in town.
I have a stock routine in India, whenever I’m accosted by someone who wants to sell me something – which, for the run-of the mill tourist, is pretty much everybody you meet. I pause and wiggle my head, smile benignly and, after a second, say:
‘How’s your business today?’
It puts things on an even keel.
They know that I know what’s going on - despite all appearances, despite the smooth talk and that ‘oh, so friendly’ smile, despite their need to ‘practice their English’, to take me where I really don’t want to go. That doesn’t stop the conversation – I’m often happy to chat, pass the time. They’ve got nothing to do – often, neither have I – but I ain’t buying.
‘Can’t buy me lo-o-o-ve...’ somebody else in the Sixties once sang.
Still true.
Jun 16th, 2008, 09:52 AM
#72
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Your report has had me laughing and smiling and also a little misty eyed.
I have copied a few of your words to take with me when I embark on my solo trip to Asia.
Please keep it coming, am anxiously awaiting the next installment.
I have copied a few of your words to take with me when I embark on my solo trip to Asia.
Please keep it coming, am anxiously awaiting the next installment.
Jun 16th, 2008, 10:07 AM
#73
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Thanks Nywoman:
What a lovely thing to say. I kinda like the idea that there's a little bit of me travelling around with you on YOUR great adventure. I hope I can keep you good company..
What a lovely thing to say. I kinda like the idea that there's a little bit of me travelling around with you on YOUR great adventure. I hope I can keep you good company..
Jun 16th, 2008, 11:11 AM
#75
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Thanks Kathie -
I'm kinda surprised myself at just how much was sitting there in my mind, too - at how much I HAD absorbed - and already processed.
This is all pretty much just first draft stuff - I write it, re-read it, then download it - but it seems to be coming out nearly fully-formed... it's a great mystery to me how I even walk around with all this trapped in my head, just waiting for someone just like you to simply ask...
Then out it comes.
I do seem to spend hours at the end of each day when I'm on the road tho', lost in thought, downloading my pics and processing the events of the day. I hardly even look at a television. Maybe that's when I do it all. The rest is memory. Dunno.
Bed now. It's late.
I'm kinda surprised myself at just how much was sitting there in my mind, too - at how much I HAD absorbed - and already processed.
This is all pretty much just first draft stuff - I write it, re-read it, then download it - but it seems to be coming out nearly fully-formed... it's a great mystery to me how I even walk around with all this trapped in my head, just waiting for someone just like you to simply ask...
Then out it comes.
I do seem to spend hours at the end of each day when I'm on the road tho', lost in thought, downloading my pics and processing the events of the day. I hardly even look at a television. Maybe that's when I do it all. The rest is memory. Dunno.
Bed now. It's late.
Jun 16th, 2008, 11:54 AM
#76
I didn't get to read all of this this morning before I went off to be a guinea pig, but after a lunch-time Viognier it reads even better. Such a great trip, dogster, I hope it more than made up for Bhutan! (And none of it possible on the Tuesday-it-must-be-Jodhpur kind of trip being pushed on that other recent thread!)
"not just the Panjim Inn [much as I loved it]" - that's a relief (lol), after all those posh digs in Bangalore and on the train,
I thought there might be some recriminations coming up for recommending the Panjim Inn. Of course, the Palace bit didn't yet exist when I stayed there.
Glad to hear the owner is still doing well.
Your Easter mass reminds me of Christmas Eve mass in Kochi, which was in Latin, would you believe - unlike the Anglican service I went to earlier which was in Malayalam and English.
"not just the Panjim Inn [much as I loved it]" - that's a relief (lol), after all those posh digs in Bangalore and on the train,
I thought there might be some recriminations coming up for recommending the Panjim Inn. Of course, the Palace bit didn't yet exist when I stayed there.
Glad to hear the owner is still doing well.
Your Easter mass reminds me of Christmas Eve mass in Kochi, which was in Latin, would you believe - unlike the Anglican service I went to earlier which was in Malayalam and English.
Jun 16th, 2008, 12:05 PM
#77
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Ahhh thursday - it was YOU! I was racking my addled brains trying to think who had recommended the Panjim Inn. Thank you, thank you so much for that. Yup - it was perfect.
Dog moves happily up and down market on his travels - I love the contrast. By no means do I NEED the suck and grovel - but it's perfectly fine when it occurs.
Gawd, the places I've laid my weary head in the past few years...
Here's one final installment just before I sleep. If I don't post it now I'll have second thoughts in the morning. I may as well propel myself over the edge. You'll see what I mean.
Dog moves happily up and down market on his travels - I love the contrast. By no means do I NEED the suck and grovel - but it's perfectly fine when it occurs.
Gawd, the places I've laid my weary head in the past few years...
Here's one final installment just before I sleep. If I don't post it now I'll have second thoughts in the morning. I may as well propel myself over the edge. You'll see what I mean.
Jun 16th, 2008, 12:07 PM
#78
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I left the Beach Boys for the next lonely tourist, drove past the hokey masseurs and souvenir shops, past the coffee-shops and rickety restaurants. Those same dread-locked back-packers from Hampi had evidently moved up here. The looked exactly the same - sprawled in cane chairs staring blankly at the road, sucking on their lhassi, feeling oh, so very cool.
Perhaps they cast a sideways glance at the old sun-burnt tourist whizzing down the road, curled their unshaved lip and rolled their bloodshot eyes.
‘How could that guy know - how could that guy see the REAL India, stuck inside his hired car, with his hired driver and his expensive boutique hotel...?’
Perhaps they turned away with a ‘Pffffft!’ of contempt, a twitch of their grubby face, pushed themselves out of their chairs and wandered down the road, stopping to scratch their mosquito bites, pick their hairy nose.
Perhaps they pushed that rickety door aside, stumbled into their shacks, battled with their mosquito net and lay down on that filthy mattress to roll another joint, all the time congratulating themselves that they were having a real-deal Indian experience, that THIS was the way to go....
Just like me, a hundred years ago.
It was bloody hot, a scorching midday when I sauntered along the main drag at Anjuna Beach. This was where Scarlett met her end. The street [can you call it that?] was just one long tacky shop: sarongs, shorts, beads: the same hippie shit that I could have bought in 1968. Even then I thought it was crap. Clearly I was in the minority – someone must have bought it otherwise they wouldn’t still be selling it.
The shopkeepers were barely awake – there was nobody around to sell anything to. I was the only thing moving and they could sure see at a glance that I wasn’t their target audience – this guy wasn’t gonna buy – I was just some old fart wandering down the street. It was quite a relief.
There were a few half-heated entreaties, a few ‘you wanna buy...’ but their heart wasn’t in it – nor was mine. The occasional gap-year adolescent passed by, fresh faces, tangled hair, baggy Indian pants and Goa T-shirt, a back-packer or two lugging their life, bent over under the strain, extra shoes dangling from their back-pack, a water bottle in their hand.
I saw two lads inspecting hovels, reeling back from muck and flies, closing the door behind them with a look of mild distaste – heading off to the next one, anxious to stretch their 100 rupees a night to a castle by the sand.
That same sand where 15 year old Scarlett was murdered, that same sand that clogged her nose and mouth, that same sand that witnessed five – or was it six - local brutes rape her from behind - then leave her to drown in the incoming tide.
Ahh Goa... what a heart-break shithole you are.
But - if you’re a gap-year baby, if you’re a student child - with the whole world in front of you, if you’ve discovered sex and drugs and India in one glorious moment, found freedom and the sun – Goa’s a pretty damn fine place, I guess – till the scales fall from your eyes.
But that’s not gonna happen for years and years – in the meantime the Goa tourist industry will eat your very soul – suck your youth and rot your teeth and you’ll have a wonderful time.
“You want Manali? Grass? You want powder? Cocaine? Ecstasy? You want Smack? Acid? Speed?’
I was feeling old.
So - of course - when the next young man whispered ‘Manali Hash?’ I nodded like the fool I was and followed him down a lane, into his room, just like a thousand fools before me - sniffed the black lump in his hand, paid too much, stuffed it in my pocket and scurried straight back to the car.
When in Goa...
Perhaps they cast a sideways glance at the old sun-burnt tourist whizzing down the road, curled their unshaved lip and rolled their bloodshot eyes.
‘How could that guy know - how could that guy see the REAL India, stuck inside his hired car, with his hired driver and his expensive boutique hotel...?’
Perhaps they turned away with a ‘Pffffft!’ of contempt, a twitch of their grubby face, pushed themselves out of their chairs and wandered down the road, stopping to scratch their mosquito bites, pick their hairy nose.
Perhaps they pushed that rickety door aside, stumbled into their shacks, battled with their mosquito net and lay down on that filthy mattress to roll another joint, all the time congratulating themselves that they were having a real-deal Indian experience, that THIS was the way to go....
Just like me, a hundred years ago.
It was bloody hot, a scorching midday when I sauntered along the main drag at Anjuna Beach. This was where Scarlett met her end. The street [can you call it that?] was just one long tacky shop: sarongs, shorts, beads: the same hippie shit that I could have bought in 1968. Even then I thought it was crap. Clearly I was in the minority – someone must have bought it otherwise they wouldn’t still be selling it.
The shopkeepers were barely awake – there was nobody around to sell anything to. I was the only thing moving and they could sure see at a glance that I wasn’t their target audience – this guy wasn’t gonna buy – I was just some old fart wandering down the street. It was quite a relief.
There were a few half-heated entreaties, a few ‘you wanna buy...’ but their heart wasn’t in it – nor was mine. The occasional gap-year adolescent passed by, fresh faces, tangled hair, baggy Indian pants and Goa T-shirt, a back-packer or two lugging their life, bent over under the strain, extra shoes dangling from their back-pack, a water bottle in their hand.
I saw two lads inspecting hovels, reeling back from muck and flies, closing the door behind them with a look of mild distaste – heading off to the next one, anxious to stretch their 100 rupees a night to a castle by the sand.
That same sand where 15 year old Scarlett was murdered, that same sand that clogged her nose and mouth, that same sand that witnessed five – or was it six - local brutes rape her from behind - then leave her to drown in the incoming tide.
Ahh Goa... what a heart-break shithole you are.
But - if you’re a gap-year baby, if you’re a student child - with the whole world in front of you, if you’ve discovered sex and drugs and India in one glorious moment, found freedom and the sun – Goa’s a pretty damn fine place, I guess – till the scales fall from your eyes.
But that’s not gonna happen for years and years – in the meantime the Goa tourist industry will eat your very soul – suck your youth and rot your teeth and you’ll have a wonderful time.
“You want Manali? Grass? You want powder? Cocaine? Ecstasy? You want Smack? Acid? Speed?’
I was feeling old.
So - of course - when the next young man whispered ‘Manali Hash?’ I nodded like the fool I was and followed him down a lane, into his room, just like a thousand fools before me - sniffed the black lump in his hand, paid too much, stuffed it in my pocket and scurried straight back to the car.
When in Goa...
Jun 16th, 2008, 01:12 PM
#79
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hmmm...u really had a different experience than we did in Goa...maybe because we mainly ate, drank and toured with the locals that we know...and spent alot of our time in Mapusa and Betim and ate at restaurants mainly where the locals go..
Infact, nobody ever offered to sell us any drugs in the 3 times we were there!! Interesting...
However, when we go back in November, we are gonna explore Anjuna and Vagator, as i don't know when we will be going back next....so i will see if we see the same picture that u have painted in my mind!!!
I looked into staying at the Siolim House on our next trip but found another place called Presa di Goa, which also looks very nice.
Wow..u sure have a way of explaining things..i feel like i was on the trip with u!!
Infact, nobody ever offered to sell us any drugs in the 3 times we were there!! Interesting...
However, when we go back in November, we are gonna explore Anjuna and Vagator, as i don't know when we will be going back next....so i will see if we see the same picture that u have painted in my mind!!!
I looked into staying at the Siolim House on our next trip but found another place called Presa di Goa, which also looks very nice.
Wow..u sure have a way of explaining things..i feel like i was on the trip with u!!
Jun 16th, 2008, 01:41 PM
#80
You know, I think I feel cheated! I spent four nights at Sterling Vagator along with the Indians at the north end of Vagator beach,
and hanging out at the sticks and string cafes, and nary a Beach Boy in sight! There were a few stalls selling clothes up above the beach at the south end, and I bought a couple of books, but not one offer of drugs or sex to be had.
Maybe it has to do with when you're there - the season hadn't quite started then, and there weren't that many westerners around. Young or old, although I vividly remember one portly middle-aged gent with an attache case headed north up the beach. Unfortunately, his only other acoutrements were a hat and a g-string. Not a pretty picture.
and hanging out at the sticks and string cafes, and nary a Beach Boy in sight! There were a few stalls selling clothes up above the beach at the south end, and I bought a couple of books, but not one offer of drugs or sex to be had.
Maybe it has to do with when you're there - the season hadn't quite started then, and there weren't that many westerners around. Young or old, although I vividly remember one portly middle-aged gent with an attache case headed north up the beach. Unfortunately, his only other acoutrements were a hat and a g-string. Not a pretty picture.
