The captain, Ambrose, was really friendly. He thought I came from Israel, especially because of my curly hair. I had asked a local woman the previous day who she considered were among the most difficult tourists. Her answer was immediate: Israelis. I find it an interesting to find out how locals feel about travelers. I remember asking the same question in Thailand. Their answers were the Germans. In both cases, their answers were based upon how they were treated by these tourists. The most common complaint revolved around rudeness and arrogance and the fact that they tipped badly.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Dolphin Watching et al.
The captain, Ambrose, was really friendly. He thought I came from Israel, especially because of my curly hair. I had asked a local woman the previous day who she considered were among the most difficult tourists. Her answer was immediate: Israelis. I find it an interesting to find out how locals feel about travelers. I remember asking the same question in Thailand. Their answers were the Germans. In both cases, their answers were based upon how they were treated by these tourists. The most common complaint revolved around rudeness and arrogance and the fact that they tipped badly.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Palolem, Day 1
On my first full day in Palolem, I stepped out of the bungalow and onto the beach. When I saw Palolem in the daylight, it took my breath away. It was more beautiful than I had expected! It reminded me of Thailand in many ways. The beach is surrounded by green hills and in the corners of the cove are boulders rising out of the water.
This is the beach where the first 5 minutes of The Bourne Supremacy was filmed.
And it is always done with a smile. Indians are beautiful people and the women in their saris and salwar kameez are exquisite. Indians and foreigners alike claim Palolem is the best beach in India and Lonely Planet seems to think so too. During off season, you can expect to pay about 400rupees per night for a bungalow, which is about 8.50US dollars a night (prices in December 2007), but the price will rise to about 1,000 by the time Christmas arrives and for a good month afterwards.
There are an equal number of dogs and cows lounging on the beach as if they own the place and they are all really friendly. The dogs like to hang around you when you eat, hoping for scraps, but they are well-mannered enough not to try to steal. They just wait patiently. These dogs absolutely love the beach. I saw some running into the waves this afternoon. They were having so much fun! It was great to see. But be careful at night. They curl up in the sand, asleep, so you have to make sure not to step on them.
p.s. I saw the sunset for the first time since arriving in India. We are on the west coast. It was gorgeous.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Traveling through Goa
(There are few pictures in this entry. Keep in mind that I spent the day in the bus and I've learned that trying to take pictures from a bus is a wasted effort. And since I had a film camera at the time, I decided not to waste film on blurred images.)
I'm sitting in a bus in the town of Vasco de Gama. I arrived in Goa about an hour ago and immediately went to the tourist office for information. One guy told me to take a taxi for the price of 1,200rupees. A woman suggested I take the bus because it would cost less. I opted for the bus because I'm in India and I don't really want to travel like a bourgeois. This, I feel, is more authentic. So, here I am. I have no idea when the bus will leave, though an old man (there are two old men and one old woman in the bus with me) told me this bus would go to Chaudi, which is fairly close to where I want to go: Palolem.
The inside of the bus is painted in crazy aquamarine and there are painted signs for "senior citizens" and "ladies only". The conductor is sitting in the cabin, which is caged off, but he has hung two old water bottles from the ceiling and has plants growing out of them. Their leaves have been wound throughout the rest of the bus. It adds atmosphere...
The bus is moving now. It sounds like it's 50 years old and just wants to die. More people have got on now. The buildings outside are old and the paint's chipping off, but it's very green here and there are coconut trees everywhere. It's over 30 degrees Celsius and I'm in heaven!
I think I could walk faster than this bus! :)
On the bus, there are signs asking people not to eat Paan.
Paan salesman (picture taken in Kerala): paan is made with a betel leaf, in the upper left of the picture. The way they make it in Bangladesh is with a crushed palm nut that is placed inside the betel leaf along with a kind of white paste made with crushed shells. Feel free to correct me if my memory is wrong. In India, though, there seems to be a slightly different way of making it, though I don't have the know-how to explain it. It is also very possible that different states in the country have their own twist on it.
(check out the recipe for paan on www.Food-India.com. While reading the recipe, I realized that there is no indication of crushed shells in it, but I'm leaving my explanation up here because that was the explanation I remember receiving at the time; the mind is tricky though, so if you do want to try this for yourself, definitely trust the website!)

Some observations while riding on the bus:
-There are lots of bougainvillea here and everyone plays cricket; I saw cricket fields from the plane. Wouldn't it be nice to watch part of a game and have the rules explained to me...
- Driving by a bunch of beautiful old colonial houses set back off this country road; surrounded by trees, they are amazing
- Saw a funeral procession; everyone was wearing blue
- There are so many shades of Indians; from the very light-skinned to the dark cocoa that is so rich and beautiful
- The women are brightly colored peacocks and the men drab, in comparison.
- I have only seen one man wearing a lungi. I was told that wearing a lungi was considered old-fashioned and that no one in the north wear them anymore (unless they are in the comfort of their homes), but that I might find some wearing them in the south. And I did! It brings back fond memories of Bangladesh...
I have arrived after almost 12 hours of traveling! Big difference from the 3 hour cab ride I could have taken! But it was worth it.
When I got off the bus, night had already fallen hours earlier and I was immediately accosted by loads of young men paid to bring you to their beach hotel/motels. I tried to find the place that I had wanted to stay at, (recommended in Lonely Planet), but couldn't figure out North from South (rare for me, I'm pretty good at getting my bearings.) And with my heavy backpack and the fact that I walking in sinking sand in the dark, I soon gave up and decided to check out a place one of the many young men had to offer. I finally found one that wasn't really that great, but it was clean enough and I had my own bungalow steps away from the ocean. The people there were really nice, though, and very helpful; and best of all, it was cheap (the equivalent of $10US per night)!
After settling in, I was ready to eat; one of my favorite pastimes. I was initially going to find another place to eat at, but the managers and guys working there convinced me to stay. I was led to a table in the sand, facing the water, a candle lit and waiting for me. It was wonderful.
Fish, freshly caught that day, were laying on a bed of ice in a glass case, waiting for patrons to take their pick. I let myself go and asked for the young man's opinion. He suggested the red snapper. I've since learned that snapper come in all shapes and sizes depending on the country you're in. This one was pretty big, but I was up for the challenge. The snapper in New Zealand were smaller, but perhaps it's because I fished off the coast and they were therefore smaller. And how would I like it cooked? He suggested tandoori.
That meal will remain one of the best meals of my entire life. I will never forget it.
Arrivals and First Impressions
But first things first, I was off on a two-week adventure to the South!
At first, India reminded me a lot of Bangladesh; with regards to traffic and the insanity of their driving techniques. After having spent a year in South Korea, however, it was a welcome breath of fresh air to hear people say "excuse me" or "sorry" when I was bumped along the crowded airport. But unlike Korea, the men stared. A LOT. I guess it comes with this part of the territory.
At the guesthouse where I was to stay the night before going to Goa, I met a Brahmin Hindu and we talked of religion. Perhaps not the most PC start to my trip in India, but I'm not the average traveler either. He was quite interesting. We spoke of honesty and who, among the Indians, were the most honest.
Muslims are 10% honest
Hindus are 30% honest
Sikhs are 99% honest
Interesting...it would be nice to hear what others think about this breakdown.
Apparently Sikhs are the most honest because of the way they follow their religion. They are great people of honor who donate regularly to charities and other such organizations as part of their role as humans here on earth. So when doing business, they uphold that sense of honor, hence their trustworthiness.
I once worked for a Sikh family in Montreal. They owned a textile company and made beautiful things. They came from the North-west part of India, the Punjab region. A very nice family, though I couldn't say whether they were more honest than other Indians I met while in India.
Day 1 over, I was ready to rest and get ready for my adventure to the south the next day!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Contradictions with Salience
Blinded by the god of pharaoh
20 paces to the beach
Sand scorches the feet
Urine soaks the air and plunges lungs into the depths of water’s history
Purple flowers line the railroad tracks
4 feet wing spans on a bat?
It’s nice to see bouganvilliers again
A camel on the right, a horse on the left and emaciated cows everywhere
Carts so overloaded they can’t possibly be pulled by a man
The sea is cold when the wind picks up
Sometimes I can cry
Any time of the day I can step outside into the warm tropics
Large Chinese fishing nets are fading into the past
How does a man fall asleep standing?
Roaches come out of the crevices of the trains at every station
How many contradictions can one pile on top of another?
Mountains soaked in white and a lake made invisible by hanging water
I have to work
Can one drown by breathing in the pungent odor of urine?
Can feces be the national bird of a country?
The train doors are open and my legs are hanging in the wind
It’s so gray here. Gray and brown
So many people, so little contact
Why is this man waking me up?
I have to leave, I’ve used up too much electricity
You can add a foreigner to the list of the homeless tonight
I don’t think I can go another 2 months
I’m so bored, I’m so exhilarated
New years eve with strangers in a strange land
The red of pan
The colors of the desert, yellow is just the base on which the rainbow is built
The weed here is mild but I’m crazy stoned
When do I get out of this place?
I’m tired and I need a shower
The water here is cold and I can see my own breath
A faron and some kawava and I’m ready for the day
I can’t believe someone thought they should add salt to tea
Another chai stop
The dogs are thin but the beach life seems to suit them
I’m home and so far away
How many fish can still be left in the seas?
No, I won’t pay more than 500 rupees my friend, thank you
12 dollars
I’m broke but I’m just a walking wallet
And no, I have no chapatti
Chicken on a bed of rice sounds wonderful
salam alykum in this part
The charas is so chanti
Indian sweets suck
800 miles to go
There’s no more time left
How much longer can this cliff be a home to this town?
It’s incredible how much green there is here, how much water
Pigeons fly in circles at the will of a man
How does one win at this?
Yes, I often eat leftovers from a previous day, we don’t always cook every day
I’d like to buy a place here one day
I could never live here
I’m rich again
There is no way we’re going to get to see a tiger people
It’s so nice to see everyone again
I wish I could smoke openly, but it’s too weird
I’m so free here, in many ways so much more me
It’s almost time to go but I just got here
I wish I could hang glide
10 o’clock and the music stops, in the land of goa psy
I should have gone to see the banyan tree
There’s just not enough time
I have to work again
I’m only getting 20kb/s, I’m going to be here all day
I feel like watching tv
Monkeys on the terrace and an elephant just last night
Bureaucracy is superficial and loopholes are law
Time is up, 36 hours of transportation, a moustache I can taste, brown on my face and body, dirt is a state of mind, and I miss it already.
How do you define salience?
Colors of time
It is incredible how intoxicating the smell of urine can be. Molecules of water once pure adopt a curious personality as they travel through a living body so that by the time they achieve freedom, they have been soured by the weaknesses of the soul. And once airborne, they can suffocate even the strongest lungs. Yet, just as impressive is one’s ability to adapt to the pungent lethality of it and carry on forward with no ill-effect, even given some time, without the recoil previously associated with it. Undoubtedly, one can never be so acclimated that it goes unnoticed, but time does come when the hairs of the nostrils don’t even curl up any more. This is when you’ve gone from tourist to traveler.
Amongst the depravity, the rawness, the purity of the environment, there is a remarkable acknowledgement of the beauty of the human condition. While feces line the railroad tracks, colors grace the eyes in a chaotic unpatterned kaleidoscope. While rats cross your path, the smell of fried foods tickle the pit of your stomach. It is within the constant and permanent extremes that wonder finds a home, calling your name with a seduction that you can’t imagine finding anywhere else.
Rajas and the untouchable pass each other on the streets without a thought while you question the sanity of such a culture, all the while admiring its ability to work with such longevity within so much undeniable contradiction. The awe is palpable to the viewer, the foreigner, the outsider. Such things are commonplace here, they are overlooked and invisible, but shock makes for a keener eye. Perhaps my eyes weren’t as keen as they could have been, for I found less shock in this magnificent story than I did pure amazement. But it did not escape my attention that shadows were dotting the landscape, desperate, broken, unsupported shadows in the brilliant sun. All around, shadows drove touk-touks, pulled inhuman loads, poured stench onto the streets, rested their haunches on their heels, found dark corners in which to rest overworked bodies and minds. Invisible shadows in an eclipse during the height of the day. These are the truths that attack one’s sense of normalcy.
Where there would be hot dogs, there are biryanis. In place of pizza are samosas. At every pause from here to there via rail, fried products from every corner of the country soar through the cars, infusing the air with grease and temptation. It does not take long for the body to cringe at the idea of another fried food. Kormas, pakoras, chapattis, dahls all race by at lightning speed, stopping in an instant and for an instant in response to a raised hand or a raised voice, then onward to the closest door just in time for the screech of the wheels to signal the continuation of the journey. Cramped, hot, patient brown bodies sway in unison in every direction but all on a common path to areas unknown. Hundreds of standing and sitting waterproof bags of water and blood, each in constant contact with 5 others at any given time manage means of sleep unimaginable to any creature. Feet millimeters from another’s face is no justification for consciousness as 2 or 3 share a space designed for one. Verticality is no excuse for not resting the mind and body, despite the demands it makes on that same body. The sheer fascination these views provide forces the mind open and begs a thousand questions, many of them to do with the very nature of humanity, the very nature of nature itself. That any creature would voluntarily subject itself to these circumstances boggles the mind. That any being can adapt so fundamentally to such an environment, such a society, such aberrance within nature is both absurd and beautiful. For those moments in each individual’s life, they have broken the rules nature wrote up. Never had nature intended that creatures be in such close proximity for such extended periods of time throughout their lives. Nowhere in the natural world does one see a congregation within a species of so many individuals in such close physical contact with one other, even as a means to an end. When rats are forced into confined spaces in large numbers aggression ensues, insanity begins to propagate, and a myriad of aberrant behaviors are all not far behind. Yet, here, it is the accepted collective consciousness. In these moments, understanding trumps nature, individual needs in common override the biological need for the security of personal space.
At times, you can sense that even the roaches have gained a deep respect for human adaptability. While they have found their own means of navigating an artificial landscape, they seem to do so in a more logical manner, exposing a certain ironic truth; that they are the more civilized entity. Hidden from sight while the train displaces masses of air, they reliably and eventually predictably begin their expeditions into the visible human world once the view from the windows becomes static. Scurrying about in search of what tiny scraps were deemed too small to retrieve by a population on the verge of starvation, they scour the floors, walls, and ceilings, even venturing into the frightening depths of the defecation centers. Tiny as they are - and understandably so if they are to fit in the crevices available to them, if they are to escape detection - they prove themselves to be fearless, either out of ignorance or insight.
Incredible sights. Incredible infirmities. Poverty beyond the most terrifying dreams, hopelessness, injustice, all line the streets of every city, while faith, acceptance and survival add a hint of rose to the picture, making it just palpable enough to endure. And in time, enduring turns to resignation, to understanding, to appreciation, and eventually, without realizing it, to sheer enthrallment. Rabid, emaciated dogs still invoke pity and sorrow. Cows dining on plastic bags, cardboard boxes and occasional organic detritus still create emotional reactions of disgust and anger. Scores of homeless and impoverished shadows still tug at the pits of your stomach, but in the constant emotional bath that is this place, confusion and fatigue turn into love. Stockholm syndrome focused on an entire nation, an entire people. Beyond the absolutes a new moderation takes hold, a new sense develops that begins to discover the subtleties, the nuances that both polarize and soften the extremes. Spiritual wealth and corruption stroll hand in hand down every street, excess and destitution stroke each other a hundred times over in every shop, success and failure create an impregnable bond so tight even light cannot shine through it. This is nature in its purest form, where the strong enjoy the delicacies once reserved for gods and the weak become the playthings of demons.
In the face of it all, whether as a product of the Hindu belief in reincarnation and karma, or whether generations of exposure to contradiction and confusion have colored the minds of all, brown skinned men and woman manage to carry the seeds of genuine gentleness and tolerance. If the meek will inherit the earth, this sub-continent will make up a substantial majority of earth borne survivors. The ability to find not only the desire to endure but to pursue life amid this insanity is inspiring and humbling. One has to wonder whether they themselves are inspired and humbled by this very observation.
1.1 billion incarnations of Shiva and Vishnu. 1.1 billion children of Ganesh and Hanuman, of Guru Nanak, of Mohamed, of Siddhartha, exchanging glances, rupees, cell phone calls, seats and meals. 1.1 billion in a land designed to house no more than half that. Incredulity has a home in this place, alongside ignorance and tolerance. Each of these three little pigs is threatened by the presence of the other, anticipating the emergence of its neighbor, yet coexisting peacefully in the interim. A precarious and longstanding, unwritten, unspoken truce covers the realm, invisible to most, but there for the curious and skeptical to see. Non-violence may have been perfected here, but on occasion its counterpart bares its teeth and tears flesh from bone with a cold ruthlessness that seems sprung from the mind of a psychopath. Yet in those moments, the world appears finally to make sense. For that stretch of localized history psychosis is the only state of being that fits. It is in fact the consistent lack of psychosis within this cauldron of contradiction that is the most shocking revelation this loose assembly of states presents.
Here communism and democracy are not opposing forces. Capitalism and religion don’t engage in battle. Spirituality and enslavement aren’t foes. Coexistence is the norm. Muslim and Hindu, Buddhist and Sikh, Christianity and Zoroastrianism all find a place, even if they are never sure how they will pay the next month’s rent. Inclusion on a national scale is tempered with exclusion on a social one. Federal goals are thwarted by regional philosophies. Power shifts hands from the government core to the financial center, from bread basket to organized uprising upon news of the latest tragedy, the latest assault, the latest success. In the constant displacement of power, balance is found as no one entity can calm the frenzy of momentum that has become the nature of this particular strain of endowment. Miraculous.
At the whim of a breeze the mind is snapped back from lavish thoughts of philosophy and politics into the world of the physical senses. A brightly colored sari wrenches ideals from you and replaces them with the calming attraction to the superficial. Bright orange embroidery on purple and yellow worn by an attractive young rajasthani woman with hazel eyes reminds you that there are many levels of glory here. A graceful man with a Raja moustache and a bright green desert turban lazily meanders in the opposite direction, bringing color to the otherwise dirty yellow background of a territory rarely acquainted with the exquisite violence and tranquility of water. From the grays and browns of the Muslim north I have been carried on wheels of steel to the warm days and cold nights of a multicolored conspiracy of sand dunes and barren rock mountains. As though to compensate for nature’s lack of hued expressions, the human inhabitants have signed an unconscious pact to infuse vivid color into every article they wear, produce, eat, sell, and share. Reds interact with aquas, yellows brighter than the sun mingle with lime greens, oranges do battle with violets, and the cacophony of visual stimulants injects warmth into the air and its people. Here, the lack of resources is bearable. Life without, still appears to hold meaning and purpose. The warmth of a million noons has left beautifully patterned scars on the hearts of this wasteland. Solar energy has been cultivated via photosynthesis by humans and cows, dogs and birds so that each has the surplus energy to find pleasure in the slightest breeze and the shyest smile. Pockets of water demand the immediate outcropping of habitations. The presence of trees begs for the cultivation of the surrounding acres. Temples shine brighter, side strewn garbage lining the highways glows innocuously. Stern faces of the north are replaced by toothless smiles etching the face with awkward and pleasant lines. The power of the sun on the human condition is more obvious in this part of the world than anywhere else.
A few hundred kilometers closer to the summer home of Helios reveals this truth in additional detail. Yellow is replaced by greens even the gods did not foresee. Fields of ripening rice aside stretches of predominantly unblemished forest make for consecrated land. Streams flow into rivers and rivers into the sea. Sunsets wage war on the night with a brilliance of color never intended for any eye. Mango trees are separated by brush and violet flowers thick enough to hide the infinite armies of plastic liquid and solid receptacles. So alive is this place that even the presence of the high-pitched flying sound machines is almost welcomed for a short time. All is as it should be. Life has taken a different path in this land of water and flora. Churches begin to replace hindu temples and the mind desperately attempts to reconcile these new forms of architecture and symbolism. Indian huts turn into European homes, the streets seem wider and less congested, the air is cleaner, the land is fresher, and that smile that was at home in the desert has begun to creep onto my face.
The nights are tolerable here. Save for the mosquitoes, this seems to be the place my body can call home. Poverty has lost all its immediacy. Filth has acquired charm, infirmity has hired capacity, dogs have subjugated rabies and cows have managed to entice layers of fat to make a home under their hides. Salt travels freely in the air, ice cream finds its way into a million mouths, and meals are not ashamed of their meat content.
Here you are either immobilized by the comfort of the warmth of the sun’s rays combined with its niece the breeze or you are seduced to put one foot in front of the other in a repetitive manner with no destination in mind. Waves crash upon the shore while skin makes its first appearance in 2 months in strange new shades of white and tan and other tints not seen since the summers of the west. Scantily clad men and women frolic in the ocean, walk in embraces across scalding sand, lie for extended periods in the glow of the day next to local fishing boats mysteriously beached on the shores. Bamboo huts and thatch roofs line the coast, serving foods from around the globe, alcohol flows with fervor, lassis call upon the aid of mind altering substances to entice the weary and adventurous. If not for the elevated monetary consequences of the acquisition of this bounty and the absurdity of the restrictions on where and when vibrations of melody and thumps can grace your ears, this place would have no other name but paradise. But this island of tranquility and comfort, like the entire nation, is not sustainable. Time is closing upon this journey as it does with all journeys, as it has with all forms of matter, and shortly this will become a series of fragmented visuals and smells, thoughts and sounds, ideas and reactions. Elephants and camels walking beside one another, each dawning a look of superiority over the other, pigeons and eagles sharing the same sky, dogs and goats ignoring the other, cows and horses envying the other for their freedom or their security, monkeys and men fighting over bowls of sugar, neither confident enough to strike at their former or future selves; these are some of the random occurrences that come from this bastion of purity, innocence, cruelty and depravity. From a night shared sleeping with all the homeless in the world to the excesses of a week’s rent spent on one preparation of ingestibles, and a thousand salient and forgettable moments in between, this place has written an unintelligible and irretrievable story in Sanskrit across my many chakras and I still cannot put to words or symbols what it has chosen to share with me. Enchanted, disgusted, inspired, depressed, excited, peaceful, chaotic and wonderful as it was, I still can’t help feeling as though the bulk of its teachings was lost on me. Cherished as an experience can be, I was and will always be incapable of grasping the unfiltered wisdom that was offered so generously and genuinely to me by the people, the life and the land I called home for such a fleeting spec of time.