Behind the high end office building across the street, a huge bang erupted. It caught everyone's attention - rickshaw drivers and panhandlers on the street stopped what they were doing to look, tourists paused in their conversations and looked up from their Lonely Planets. A few Indians started slowly walking toward the sound's origin as plumes of smoke started billowing out from behind the building.
A truck backfiring? A large object falling over and spraying up clouds of dust? I kept my eye on the area of concern for another minute as we entered the German Bakery and Malin looked for our friends. I then turned my attention to the crowded street. All the tourists went back to their previous activities. The only people still watching, waiting, were the locals. The look on their faces was fear. They were scared. Accidents happen constantly in India, and this was just another one to be forgotten. Many travelers changed their plans after the attacks; they avoided Mumbai or left India as fast as they could. But there are over a billion people that live here, and they can't just leave. After such a brazen attack, they are scared of what could happen next.
The day I left Pune, many public facilities were closed because there were bomb threats across the city. I remember after Columbine a seeming increase of school threats throughout the US. I vividly remember going to school on the day of a bomb threat at my high school, when half of the student body didn't show up. The aftershock of this kind of attack is the empty threats of others who want to capitalize on this new kind of fear while it's still fresh in the air.
My Swedish family and I traveled down to Goa for my last 5 days in India. The atmosphere was calmer, more relaxed. But even in this state, a 12 hours drive from Mumbai wasn't immune from the attack's consequences. 20-25% of hotel reservations in Goa were cancelled the following week. As the high season officially started and hotel prices went up, the number of travelers went down. The clubs felt a little quieter than a week ago, the restaurants a little emptier.
After a . . . turbulent overnight bus ride to Goa to say the least, I tried to take a nap the following afternoon. As I lay in bed, I heard in the distance a familiar crash. Perhaps this time it was two caucasians crashing their motorbikes into each other, or perhaps it was more serious. Whatever its origins, it kept me up. I peeked through the windows of my ground floor room, to see only the cement wall separating my hotel from the street. I got back into bed and listened for any casual Hindi conversation from the hotels employees to be reassured that all was well.
The Swedish State Department warned of traveling to Goa after the attack, because it is a major tourist destination and accessible by sea - which is how the terrorists entered Mumbai. I didn't check the US State Departments website, and will not until January 20 - but I'm sure it said something similar. The result in Goa was noticeable heightened security. There's nothing quite like sunbathing on the beach only to look up and see 20 armed security personnel in combat boots walking casually across the sand. Any unease was put to rest when a Russian man started waving at them to pose for a picture, and they lifted their rifles and kindly obliged.
There are two big markets in or around Anjuna, my favorite beach in Goa where I've been staying. The Wednesday Flea Market, and the Saturday Night Market. Ed and I experienced the Saturday Night Market only briefly on the day we arrived in Goa, managing an hour or two of mindless wandering before jet lag threatened our consciousness. Having scouted these markets many times, I was regularly criticized by my Swedish companions for the excessively organized lists of people and presents I planned to buy for them. As a backpacker it's not easy to carry home presents, and I'm generally of the if-you-want-something-from-India-get-it-yourself school of thought. But for some reason, this trip I was inspired. I went as far as buying a duffel bag just to transport said presents. I knew the shops, the merchandise, and I knew the right prices to pay. I was a bartering machine with brand new batteries waiting to be turned on.
As the sun set on my final day in Goa and I began my shopping calisthenics, my friends at the hotel told me the bad news. The market had been cancelled due to a terrorist threat. Defeated, I went out and bought the only Indian gifts I could find; a dozen packs of cigarettes and my favorite Indian cookies - which I then ate. As I paid $70 at the Sydney airport for my extra piece of luggage I was now carrying to Tasmania that was sadly 2/3's empty, I couldn't help but think that not nearly enough of my friends at home smoke.
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