I was welcomed to Goa my first morning with an unpleasant onslaught of pink eye. Yes yes, I can hear your "ewwws" and "yucks" from across the pond, but I assure you that this problem was quickly fixed by the local optomologist. My grandma (practically a local in Calangute, Goa - her winter home for the past 12 years) had already scheduled an appointment with the doctor to renew her eye drop prescription for the next year to save money on medical bills at home in the U.S. We heaved to and fro down an upturned road in a rickety tuk-tuk (a small three-wheeled automobile) to our destination, where we obligingly took our shoes off before entering the waiting room where several more stinky feet and saris waited to be seen. As foreigners, we miraculously skipped over everyone and were immediately called in to see the doctor. He observed my eyes with a flashlight. Not one of those small, tech-savy bulbs but a true handy-man's flashlight. "Ahh. Yes I see. You have mild infection," he diagnosed as he wrote down a few prescriptions and off we went. The entire visit for my grandma and me amounted to a grand total of 200 rupees ($4) after which I paid 260 rupees ($5) for three medications. On the way back from the pharmacy I passed by two transvestites dressed in traditional saris - the hindu woman garb.
Calangute is an overcrowded, bustling beach town filled with gawdy foreign and Indian tourists and blanketed with soot, filth, crows - both dead and alive - and roaming dogs that have made the beachfront their personal potty. On the first day, as we maneuvered our way through endless beach chairs and umbrellas, the three of us agreed that while we could tolerate the beach for evening meals with our grandmother, we would have to relocate during the days. At night we dined on fresh seafood, local fish curries, chapatti and naan. One evening we were treated to a home-cooked meal by my grandmother's long-time friend Ismail. Ismail is a Muslim entrepreneur from Shrinigar, Kashmir. He sells artisan products among which are the beautiful pashminas and shawls that my mother sells in CT. We helped him prepare my mother's next shipment over chai tea and cane juice on various evenings. For dinner we went to his apartment where he cooked an over-abundance of rice, curried cauliflower, chappatti, and a chicken curry stew which you would all be proud to know I tried out of respect and curiousity (the last piece of chicken I ate was a soggy, demented looking chicken nugget from McDonalds in the Spring of 2002!!). Although Ismail doesn't drink according to Muslim rules, he bought beer especially for us which we drank happily with our meal. Meanwhile, he sat cross-legged on the floor and smoked filling hits of tobacco from his hooka-sized pipe. He also provided many other services such as organizing our cab rides at a very cheap local rate, changing our American dollars, informing us of the best beach spots, and so on.
Our days were filled with more exciting ventures. We visited Arambol, a beach oasis for foreign yogis, mellow families, and nudists. Dreads and other creative hairstyles were in abundance. Along the beach, straw-thatched huts shaded by palms and an alluring yoga retreat made us wish that this was our choice of residence for the week. Our daydream soon ended as we realized that we were due back for supper, but Arambol proved to be as remote as we suspected when we couldn't find a single cab to drive us home. As we pleaded with various locals to give us a ride, a group of Indian tourists from Bangalore offered to give us a ride in their rented vehicle. And so, we squished in with 8 men: I on the floor at a bearded man's feet with Dimity on Bobby's lap amidst conversations in Hindi, cheesy pop music, wafts of body-odor, and countless head-wobbles.
Another day we visited Small Vagator. This beach consisted of precious coves with rocky headlands and laid-back restaurant shacks. A bit more touristy but far more impressive and serene than Calangute.
Another day we hired Ismail's trusty driver, Narem, for the day to take us on various excursions. We visited the churches in Old Goa, Panaji (a Portuguese colonial town with brightly colored rambling streets along a canal), and a spice plantation. The spice plantation was an overwhelming respite from the chaos of Calangute. We crossed a swampy lake where water buffalos trolled through with hovering white birds and entered an open-air lodge where we were welcomed with lemongrass-ginger-mint tea to refresh our senses. Then we were taken about a large plot of land and shown various spices and herbs ranging from pinneaples, cardamom, cinammon, curry leaves, cashew trees and pepper. Upon finished we were treated to a sample of fenni, alcohol made from fermented cashews, which is truly potent in taste and power. Then we ate a meal filled with an array of aromas and tastes that pulled our senses in multiple directions.
My last Goan highlight is about our only night out (overcoming 10-hour jet lag is a tiring process). The three of us went to Club Cubana located on a hill overlooking the ocean and beachfront towns. Ladies enter and drink for free, while men have to pay a minimal cover for all-you-can-drink. The club was designed in tiers of open-air bars, a swimming pool and jacuzzi, indoor dance floors, and lofty couches all bathed in a flow of trance and electronic music. A fire dancer mingled with the crowd of almost purely foreigners. We sat at a bar table overlooking the view and swigging Kingfisher beer until our personal curfew (the next morning we had an early morning start for the spice plantation). As walked down the hill to a taxi stand, we encountered a swaggering Brit with a pile of curly blond hair claiming that he needed help finding his bike (mopeds are rented by tourists here but we were too petrified to brave the roads, especially after seeing several injured tourists during our stay). Amused at first, we helped him search for his moped amidst 500 identicle bikes but were soon missing our own chance at getting a ride home and thought it better to leave him stranded then to help him acquire any mode of transportation.
And that my friends, was Goa.
Peace and smiles, Emma
