Goa - Part 1

Let me once again begin a blog with the phrase 'let me begin.'

Let be begin by making a disclaimer - although the title clearly states 'Part 1,' at the rate I've been writing in Goa - let along waking up while the sun is in sight or forming coherent sentences without a whiskey in my hand - the second two parts may never come.

I've broken down the three main elements of Goa as I see them to the following - partying, beaches, and renting motor bikes. The beaches are stunning. The partying is so good it has likely damaged my motor skills for life - for example, this morning I spilled every beverage all over my shirt that even leisurely approached my mouth. Today, I'm going to talk about the least interesting topic of the three - motorbikes.

It is a veritable a right of passage for Caucasians to rent a bike while in this chilled out state of India. The longer term residents or biker bad asses choose the powerful Enfields. The reasonable, unexperienced, or terrified choose 150cc scooters. On a day like any other, with a slightly more reasonable hangover, I decided to join the ranks of the terrified.

I've heard and seen many accident stories about foreigners on motor bikes. An American friend was in Nepal, driving on a highway when and 8 year old playing with a tire darted in front of him. He plowed through the child, confident he killed him. The kid was okay with minor injuries and luckily Eric wasn't lynched (I'm tempted to make a "that kid should have done like any other smart 8 year old and played with guns" joke, but I will refrain). An Australian girl in Goa was driving her bike when she was harassed by a bike of Indian guys, who proceeded to ram into her, knocking her and her sister down and positioning her arm perfectly in a cast for the next week. One of my favorite accident stories comes from the southern islands of Thailand. I shared a taxi with a man one morning missing a fair proportion of the skin on the left side of his body and face. When I inquired, he was pretty sure he crashed his bike late the night before. But after the 2nd bottle of vodka, he really couldn't be sure.

For those of you who recall my earlier blog about traffic in India (see - "I'll Never Work Again"), Goa is similar in the form of organized chaos, only with much easier, calmer, less crowded roads. I chose a renter who heckled me for a sale as I passed, knowing that if I approached anyone on my own behalf I would have to tell them that the last time I even looked at a bicycle I fell down. My lack of experience irrelevant and my 200 rupee's speaking on its behalf ($5 for the day), I got a quick run down of the vehicle.

I positioned the bike in the direction I wanted to go, and made sure no other cars were anywhere near Goa. I revved the engine and lifted my feet from the ground, shooting off of the dirt path onto pavement. I desperately tried to break with my flip flops, wobbling back and forth across the road until I realized that this particular bike - like many others this day and age - came with functional brakes of its own. I utilized them, regained my composure, and gave it another try.

For the first five minutes, I genuinely feared for my life - at 10 miles an hour. Simple tasks like going over speed bumps was petrifying. G0d help me should another vehicle pass on the other side of the road. As I often followed my normal inclination to drive on the right side of the road - generally frowned upon here due to their left-leaning English ways - I constantly found myself playing chicken with anyone who dared to be on Anjuna road. If I had been wearing a diaper, I would have taken full advantage.

Once you get the hang of the bike - a process a normal person can usually manage within 30 or so seconds - its actually quite fun. There is something to be said for a style of driving where instead of following mundane laws like using turn signals and not tailgating, you honk like hell and just go for it. If someone is driving too slow, you pass them - oncoming traffic or not- as long as you can make it work. If they have to slow down, fine. It's almost as if whoever honks first has the right of way. If you're trying to turn right and an oncoming car wants to go straight and honks, you wait. If you honk and make the turn, they have to slow down. You take responsibility for yourself and making others aware of your presence.

I'd love to continue to completely deface myself, but it's getting late, and it's going to take me a couple hours to push my bike home. Ladies - call me. I'll take you for a ride - as long as you don't mind going 10 miles an hour.

Nothing Happens

Good morning readers, and thanks for stopping by. I say reader(s), but if you think about it, there is really no way to tell how many people are actually reading my blog. Based on my own scientific calculations, it's close to about a million.

With one million people reading my blog, that puts quite a bit of pressure on me. And I'm not going to lie to you - I'm starting to feel it. In an effort to keep my writing style fresh, new age - POST MODERN, if you will - I'm going to experiment with a new style that I am inventing right now. I'm going to call it:

Nothing Says It All.


And to prove my commitment to a fresh, unique voice that will constantly keep said 10 million readers intrigued (it went up while I was typing - it's science) my first order of business is to change the name of this new style to:

Nothing Happens.

So without further interruption:

Nothing Happens.

November 13, 2007. Alwar - Rajasthan - India - Asia - Earth. Today we saw a marble store. Our parents went into the marble store. Possibly to look for something made of marble. I sat in the car with Sharon. People stared at us. We stared at the marble. There were no marbles, only marble. Why do they call marbles marbles? They're not made of marble - although I'm pretty sure you could make marbles out of marble. But usually, they're made of glass. Why don't we call them glasses? Who named the Earth?

They have marble floors in the marble store, with blocks of marble. My feet slide on marble floors, especially when wet. But not the marble floors of the marble store. I was still in the car.

I think about having them make me a bag of custom made marbles out of marble, although I would still call them glasses - so I can play marbles. Night turns to day. Cows chew their cud. Humans make love. The marble makers make marble. One day, we'll all be dead.

Fin.

Queer Eye for the Indian Guy

Because of the male dominated-ness of India's society, women get the shit end of numerous sticks. For example, in the increasingly western, liberal India, many young men in this country pursue sex before marriage. A large percentage of these same men would refuse an arranged marriage with a women who is also not a virgin. Women are also branded harshly for living a comparatively cosmopolitan lifestyle, and even going out drinking can warrant extreme labels. For this reason, you very, very rarely see Indian women out at bars short of major cities, thus turning most Indian establishments into non-beef sausage parties. It takes a while to get used to being around so many men and so few women in social settings - in fact sometimes when confronted with such a situation, I'm still taken aback.

It is for this reason that I was fairly confident - though couldn't be sure - that my first night in Goa I was taken on a date to a gay bar.

I met this alleged Indian homosexual on my flight to Goa. Although he'll never see this blog without extensive googling abilities (which, as an IT guy, he probably has), I would still like to protect his identity, as much of this country is far from being homosexually friendly. So let's instead call him Jesus Mohammad....no that doesn't sound right...let's call him Kevin Malloy.

Sitting in the window seat of an exit row with Kevin Malloy in the middle seat, I was getting the standard information about my potential hero status in case an emergency should occur. I couldn't even manage a "don't worry, I'm American," or flex to invoke the flight attendants confidence, because Kevin Malloy kept interrupting her to participate in the conversation, whie contributing nothing.

The first thing he said to me - unprovoked - was his name and that he was a Brahmin - the highest rank in the caste system. Within 5 minutes, he was informing me how much more money he makes than I do (around 12,000 to 15,000 dollars a month marketing IT software).

He turned out to be a very nice guy despite the rocky start, and insisted on getting a drink with me in Goa. I was exhausted and disinterested, but his persistence and my lack of a better plan for the evening won out. We got different rooms in the same guest house, he rented a motorbike and went to his favorite bar in a popular town called Calagunte.

My first hint that he might be gay was the flamboyant way he said 'hello' every time he answered the phone - subtle and possibly unfair, I didn't put too much weight in this argument. But I could tell his interest in my company was above par when he put me on the phone with his father when he called after the flight - a jolly and immensely important public figure in Delhi, it turns out. Additional hints came in certain proclamations such as, "I enjoy your company more than that of my closest friends!" But this subtle message came much later in the evening.

Two girls passed - quickly at best - through the bar in the 3 hours we were there. The men there were of a particular flamboyance in dress, possibly more so than the typical metrosexual style of pop culture India - but still I didn't want to jump to conclusions. It seemed perfectly natrual that this financially stable 25 year old Indian man wanted to take me to an all male establishment and buy me dinner and drinks.

We talked extensively about women. In fact, my extraordinary interest in the opposite sex was about the only topic conversation I was willing to initiate.** He had been in a 7 year relationship with a girl up until this year, and try as I might, couldn't get him to reveal to me the reason for their break up.

I've got a pretty sick sense when it comes to gadar - and it especially didn't help that he had such an incredibly, ragingly flamboyant name such as Kevin Malloy. But true confirmations come in bold statements, like when he tried to put his hand on my leg during our motorbike ride home.

He left Goa the following day for business, so when we parted that evening - to our separate rooms (I can't sell this part of the story enough), it was the last I saw of him. However -probably to give me a relatively solid conclusion to this blog - Kevin Malloy asked for a kiss on the cheek. He did buy me dinner, after all.


**I'd like to take this moment to say hello to all the ladies in the literary audience this evening.

The Art of Religion

Let me begin by first apologizing for the title of this blog. It's truly, truly terrible.

My family left yesterday, and for the past day and a half I have been on my own, having made my way from Delhi to the beach/party oriented state of Goa. In those 36 hours I have succeeded in developing a limp in certain pairs of shoes, seen cows brawl, and was potentially dragged to a gay bar by accident. But as to my usual, backtracking style of blogging, I'm not going to discuss any of this. Okay I'll tell you about the cow fight - it was 8am this morning on a rural dirt path and I was all alone. Two cows kept butting heads, in an escalating level of violence. Eventually the black one (vs. the white one) began backing up as they rammed each other, shit himself, and took off in a sprint when a 2nd white one also began charging. I can't believe how fast he moved. It was pretty awesome.

About a week ago the family and I were in Haridwar, one of the holiest cities in India, right on the Ganges (an incredibly holy body of water). It is so holy, no alcohol or meat is served anywhere (and the only cheese they eat is swiss!! Get it? hol...y... )

We stayed in what would've been known - were it not such a holy place - as the pimp shack of Haridwar. This beautiful hotel lent us one of their boys as a guide to bring us to a very spiritual event called "Arty." If you were reading legitimate travel memoirs, this is where I would explain in fascinating detail not only the intricate details and significance of Arty, but would also provide an even approximately accurate spelling. Instead, I'm at an outdoor restaurant on the beach, using a flashlight to reference my notes and writing a blog. Consider yourself lucky I'm even taking the time to fix some of my typos. What I can tell you is that Indians believe verystrongly in the power of the Ganges, and coming to a place like Haridwar and experiencing Arty is a pilgrimmage many wait their whole lives to take.

Our boy-guide brought us to the most signifcant portion of the Ganges in Haridwar . What we experienced next was one part thousands of years of religious history, and one part quintessential Lonely Planet warning - with a dash of really dirty holy water. We were hustled through the increasingly hectic crowd of probably thousands by sadhu's (religious men) constantly trying to get our attention and get us to follow them to the river - an act the Lonely Planet explicitly warns against, because they always ask for money, and you really don't know if it is legit. Through Elizabeth's Hindi and our boy-guide (who will from here on be referred to as the bouide) we somehow ended up with a white robbed man and his brown robbed accomplice, with our feet at the edge of the river. We were broken up into mother and father, and brother and sister - you try explaining our family dynamic to a society embarassed to meet 24 year olds who are not married. In our hands were baskets of flowers with candles - which at the end of the prayer are sent sailing off in the river. But first we had to repeat many prayers in Hindi to our sadhu, who lead the procession like an auctioneer, pausing only when asking our names (think of a Family Guy style Las Vegas wedding: "Do you take to be your yada yada yada"). We are holding our hands as instructed - with one carnation wrapped in our palms, hands touching. The sadhu tells us that we are praying for the well being of our family and friends (you're welcome). The noise, the crowds, the masses bathing in the river make the whole experience full of an intense energy. I am then told to touch my sisters feet, and both of my parents' feet as signs of respect (I still haven't lived that one down, from any of them). My Dad is very happy to be witnessing such an important event - even when the sadhu's ask us for monstrous donations. The parents oblige - its really only about 12 dollars. I on the other hand chose to barter, and paid $5 for both my sister and I. I wouldn't even be considered a good Jew - so tacking on Hindu hell ain't such a big deal in my book.

We were then led to a small temple a few feet away, where we went through a similar process, all four of us together, concluded with the infamous Indian forehead dots. They then ask for 12 dollars each. To spare this religious man of my expert bartering skills, Elizabeth pays for us.

We stepped outdoors to witness religious men waving huge flames of candles, with as many as 30, 40 people holding on to their arms, shoulders, bells being rung constantly by hand. There were so many Indians pointing video cameras in everyone's face, I quickly got over any self consciousness of photographing the event. It all lasted about an hour in total. Our bouide was never heard from again. Until we left, when we found him standing where we left him, guarding our shoes.

The next two days were an existence of pure relaxation. There is not a lot to do in Haridwar as a westerner/tourist, so we spent a lot of time at the hotel. Confined to an alcohol-free city and struggling to find any excuse to even leave the hotel, we sought entertainment in very....let's be diplomatic here...low brow ways. For example: we played a game called speed chess. None of us were really very interested in actually playing chess, so we insisted on rushing the game by shouting "speed!" at each other constantly until our opponent would move a piece. We must have spent at least 2 hours one day reading a Hindi phrase book in thick American accents, reverting to sound effects made only by humans of an IQ of 40 or lower, and then laughing hysterically.

Then came the attack. It started on November 8th, while walking down the street. An explosion so loud, the sound sat in my ears for seconds after it concluded, refusing to let any other audible waves enter. I was struck in the chest with the shrapenel. As the remains of the explosion bounced to the floor, I thought it silly to consider the paper remnants of a firecracker shrapnel. And it didn't end there. Excalating the following night, November 9th, for a holiday called Diwali, the town erupted in explosions. A blind stranger to the holiday would have been sure Pakistan was attacking. Like almost every aspect of Indian culture, there is little regulation on lighting fireworks, and apparently every person in Haridwar decided to take advantage of this. The fireworks show was spectacular, because it was so random. Standing on our hotels roof, the pattern was completely sporadic. Often the most amazing displays were when the sky was lit up in a seemingly coordinated performance, knowing that it was all dumb luck.

The hotel's security wouldn't let any of us leave the premises once the fireworks began that night, because the streets were too dangerous. From our balconies we could see children hurling m-80s at every passerby below. I didn't see one person in the streets who wasn't running. The explosions were so loud and so frequent (until about 3am), that you could have gone on a murderous rampage with a machine gun and no one would have noticed. Unless, of course, they saw you shooting people with a machine gun.

Lonely Planet, Part 2....okay Part 1 for real.

In my family's final week, we are traveling up north at the foothills of the Himalayas - Haridwar, Rishikesh, Mussoorie. In an effort to wing it with some structure, we tried to book hotels in advance based on the Lonely Planet's good name. We failed, miserably, in every capacity. We got the dates wrong, somehow reserved a cattle farm in Poland for 3 weeks, and killed a man. We have been lucky, and found an excellent hotel in Haridwar that has continually found availability for us through its fully booked schedule. But before we knew that, we stayed there for one night, not knowing our fate, and went to check out the hotel my sis Shari blindly booked for us for the following two nights. It is called Bhaj Govindam, and it is in the mid-range price range in the LP. They offered us the rates of 800 rupee's a night per room. Here is what the Lonely Planet says about Bhaj Govindam: "Haridwar's most relaxing accommodation in a wonderful location on the bank of the Ganges, these comfortable bamboo huts are set in a pleasant garden adn are equipped with fans, air cooler or AC, and tiled private bathrooms. The accomodation is absolute riverfront with its own private ghat (space on the Ganges) - ask to be dropped at 'Bhimgoda Jhula.' " Sounds great!

While trying to book the rooms from afar, they often didn't answer the phone, and gave us mixed answers on basic questions like whether they had hot water in the rooms. This was in both English and Hindi.

This morning, Dad Sharon and I walked there. We navigated through this holy cities gauntlet of beggars to eventually find a large sign for the hotel directing its readers nowhere. Through inquiries, we were led down a dark, deserted alley (this is at 11am), whose sides were lined with dilapidated, crumbling brick buildings, whose floors were too mangled with debris for even the most desperate beggar to sleep on. 100 meters later, there is another large entrance sign for the Hotel over a courtyard. Entering, the L-shaped building inside seemingly came from the same family as those in the alley, only at its infant stage of repairs with about 20 builders in site, working in various rooms. The grass in the field looked as if it had died a terrible death.

A security guard eased our concerns by pointing us out of the coutryard, down another side alley towards a man in a orange plaid shirt welcoming us to the Bhaj Govindum. Entering the property, it was indeed along the water, and the grass's struggled greenish hue was grateful. The exterior of the thatched huts brought first to mind a Hollywood set, built by handicapped infants, on a budget of whatever they could make on black market sales of breast milk. For those of you that have no idea what that sentence means, they looked like shit, and possibly ready to collapse.

Then we saw the warning sign, like a beacon, a stop light flashing in our faces. A white guy in a red robe. Sadhus, or the religious men, come in droves from all over the world to live here, wear these stylish outfits and pray in this holiest of locations. Many are true, respectable priests, and many are convicts fleeing the law and hiding in plain site. There have been cases of these bad sadhu's robbing tourists and raping women. I am sure that many of the white folk joining the party are also religious scholars seeking enlightenment, but often they are just confused, spiritually lost ex-surfers. Westerners choosing to join this post-hippie bandwagon can often find rooms to rent for as cheap as 50 rupees a night for long term stays, and I could only imagine this was the case here. He said hello. Not taking any chances, I made a cross with my fingers and walked past.

The orange shirt man showed us a room for 4 as we requested. He didn't turn on the lights, probably out of fear or knowledge they didn't work. Inside was 4 bare mattresses. No sheets, no pillows. There may have been an attached bathroom, possibly hanging fans, I'm really not sure. The only light was coming through the doorway and tiny holes in the walls, and I'm pretty sure the bed bugs were on strike for cleaner living conditions.

I wish there was a dramatic conclusion to this story. But there isn't. My Dad said, "Nahee danyavad" - no thank you, and we left. We cancelled our reservation over the phone with no trouble beyond ignorance. We got lucky enough to find accomodation in the same hotel as last night for the next 2 nights, and may take advantage of the ayurvedic spa. And I'm already plotting out my slightly more diplomatic letter to the Lonely Planet.

Lonely Planet - you fucked that one up

Let me begin by thanking my allegiant readers of this blog for their valued allegiance. I hope you will continue to allege.

And to all you clown shoes wearing ass clowns in clown-like shoes who don't write to me; Just know I'm forming a violent religious army to squash you for your traitorous non-acts. Oh, I'm also forming a religion.

Before I reference the title of this post, I'm going to casually meander through my various Indian thoughts and experiences in no relevant order.

For example, I saw a bus driver violently dragged from his vehicle by two shouting, angry motorists in Delhi. My assumption is that he caused some minor accident, though nothing major was apparent while in my passing tuk tuk. Elizabeth asked the driver of our wall-less taxi if they were going to beat up the bus driver, and he said, in Hindi, "Definitely. Bus drivers are dirty drivers, the worst, everyone hates them and how they drive. Also, all praise Ganesh - he totally rocks." I've read about such brutal motorist responses when someone is at fault for harming another, and it was interesting to see it in effect. Clearly I'd prefer problems of the sort to be settled over tea and elaborate exercises in utilizing both parties' vocabulary, but regardless of my presence, the outcome was apparent.

My father made an interesting, yet simple observation that I'd like to dwell on for a paragraph. As stated, he is extremely well educated on India's history and religions and takes some aspects of the faiths to heart. After being blessed by a guru in a rural temple and later discussing the history of the Hindu g0ds, he said, "It's really amazing that people actually believe this. These aren't just interesting stories - People live their lives by it." A billion people. And it's true. Hinduism is fascinating on many levels, with certain elements that are at the top of the philosophical pyramid in my eyes in terms of lessons to live by. But it is more than that here. Ganesh, the elephant g0d of good luck, who clears away all obstacles from your path - is the first invited to every wedding to do just that. Modern Indians who wear Armani, eat cheeseburgers and drink 5 times a week send him an invitation before anyone else - he is always the first invited to clear the way. Every one of the many, many g0ds has their specific relevance. Whats more are the stories, such as that of Ganesh and how he came to be the elephant g0d: that his father, Lord Shiva, decapitated his son at night, believing him to be an intruder. Swearing to bring his son back to life, Shiva took the head of the next creature he saw - an elephant - and brought his son back from the dead. Now I'm no torah scholar, but I don't remember Moses crossbreeding species.

I wore a seatbelt the other day. I was in a toyota SUV - what stunning luxury here I might add - and in the back seat , for the first time I actually got to wear a seatbelt. It hadn't happened yet, and I felt like royalty (read: King of Caucasia). Not only was I amazed that I got to wear one, but I was amazed that I was amazed. Amazing.

While venturing from rural house to house in Jodhpur, we saw a small textile operation making rugs, an impressive family business making anything and everything out of clay, and an opium addict. The old man crushed up the opium, mixed it with water, strained it, offered some to Lord Shiva by flicking it from his finger at the g0d's image while praying, and then drank it. While 9 white people sat and watched. First of all, its pretty cool for him that he got paid for us to come to his home and watch him do drugs (clay walls dividing up 4 rooms: the smaller two were a bedroom for the whole family and a storage room - being the only ones with dishevelled rooftops). He talked - translated by our guide through his distracting mustache - about how he began doing drugs when he was 14, and now through the hard work in the field he uses it as a pain reliever. Women in the family are not allowed to do drugs, and yes it is illegal. It costs about 40,000 rupee's per kilo (approx $1,000), and he spends about 4500 rupees a month ($115). He goes through, by my estimate, about 3 grams a day taking it once in the morning and night. He estimated his family's monthly income at about 6000-7000 rupees a month.

Well that is about it. There is absolutely nothing else of any relevance that I have to say. Not one more story referenced at any point in this blog worth mentioning. ...bye!

Royalty

They scream as we pass by, waving, running towards us. Thrusting their hands through the crowd. Screaming with joy when we shake it. We are followed by a mob so thick, its reminiscent of the closing scene of a coutroom movie, where the defendent approaches his final trial only to be shot. We are ambushed as well, with two phrases, "what is your name? What is your country?" We are royalty. Princes and princesses. I am the King of Caucasia.

By India standards, Nimaj is a small town. With 30,000 people, its not even listed in the Lonely Planet. It is a new stop on the Gecko tour, by far the most valuable stop so far, and we are only the 4th group to pass through. The children followed us in packs like yipping dogs, begging us to take a digital photo so they can glance at it for just a moment, before squealing and running off. Everyone was incredibly friendly, and our 9 white people parade basically stopped traffic, to stare, smile, say hello or duck away shyly. We are staying in a building that up until recently was home to the Maharaja family of Nimaj, when Maharajas ruled their own empires. Now the Maharajas' family runs the place, cooks the meals, and houses us in immaculate, beautiful rooms. The food is authentic home cooked Indian food, tastes healthy and by and large the groups favorite meals.

But I'm not there anymore. I'm in Udaipur, the Venice of the East, my favorite city to date in Rajasthan. But I don't want to talk about that either. I want to talk about cows. I've mentioned the often overwhelming number standing or walking through every town, market, or 15 million person city. Apparently, every one of them is individually owned. Every one. They just wander, and when its time to be milked, possibly fed, they find their way back. All of them. That includes the cows standing in the medium of bumper to bumper traffic as veritable road blocks. Its incredible, and hard to believe, but our guide insists on its truth. And I can't argue with that mustache.

I have plenty more to say, but for now it will have to wait. I look forward to hearing your comments about how I glorified my position as tourst to the height of President, and then spent the rest of the blog talking about cows.