Dance to the Music in Your Head

(Written in Anjuna, March 15^th)

Goa’s had a rep for about 400 years.   Way back when, Portuguese sailors used to call into Goan ports to live it up in drunken debauchery after months at sea coming around Cape Horn.  It’s maintained that, in successive centuries.  As recently as the mid-20^th century, Calengute was a favourite watering hole of the Portuguese elite,  arriving each year in May.  In subsequent decades, it was hippie heaven in the 1960’s and 70’s, centred in and around Anjuna, giving way to the pounding trance beat of ravers in the 80’s and 90’s who took over Anjuna and Vagator.

How times have changed. 

There are still parties to be had in Goa — Calengute and Baga are non-stop, party-central till the wee hours of the morning, with mainly European package-holiday tourists hell-bent on having a good time in their two weeks in India.  (The Portuguese aristocrats of 50 years ago must be turning over in their graves, to see what`s happened to their favourite holiday spot.)  But the rest of the beaches have quieted; locals, concerned about the effects of Western hedonism on the morals of their youth, pressured the police to put a stop to the scene.  Now, there`s a crackdown and sound is turned off early; you can still find the music for a short while, but your rave will be over by 10 pm, when it would just be getting started in other parts of the world.

I took a day trip to Vagator today, just up the coast from Anjuna, on a little local bus that cost me 10 rupees (20-odd cents) for a return trip.  Vagator was the home of monster raves in earlier decades, from the stories I’ve heard, and you can still see the evidence on the beach.  There’s a huge depression in the sand, about midway up Vagator Beach, surround by large red and orange feather-shaped banners; when I asked about it, I was told this was “Disco Valley”, where enormous outdoor parties are held.  (Well, till 10 pm anyway.)

The police turn a blind eye (or a deaf ear) to parties over the Christmas and New Year season so the music can carry on later, and Baga, for some reason, has escaped the ban year-round.  I’m guessing it’s got something to do with large amounts of baksheesh changing hands.

But this time of year, Vagator and Anjuna are pretty quiet.  You can still hear a trance beat pumping out of some of the shops in the towns, or coming out of the windows of passing cars.  But your chances of finding anywhere to dance till the wee hours of the morning are pretty slim.  You’ll be going to bed early whether you like it or not, when the speakers shut off well before midnight.

Further south, though, they’ve come up with a way around the noise ban.  Starting in Palolem and gradually spreading to other beaches, “silent parties” sprang up.  You can dance, till all hours of the night and into the next day, without anyone getting upset about the music.  That’s because you don  pair of wireless headphones, pick one of the channels of music on offer, crank it up as loud as you like and party the night away.  In outer silence, but inner bliss, as you dance to the music that only you can hear.

What a brilliant idea.  I asked around about such a thing in Anjuna or Vagator, but there’s nothing going on here yet.  So maybe I’ll have my own private party:  crank up my iPod, and dance like a madwoman, down there on the beach.  Dance, to the music in my head.

P.S.  No one will think I’m crazy, will they?

Return of the Yogi

(Written in Anjuna, March 14^th)

I’m starting to really like this yoga thing.  I know it’s all very trendy, and probably very pretentious to come to India and take up yoga, but hey, it’s fun.  And it’s on offer everywhere, and usually pretty cheap, so what the hell.  I’ve done it sporadically at home, but it’s a lot more fun on a shady outdoor platform in Indian sunshine than in the back corner of some gym somewhere.

I walked to the Brahmani Yoga Centre yesterday, just outside Anjuna.  As the class started at 2 pm, I was walking in the hottest part of the day; that 45 minutes felt a lot longer.  (Maybe this is why no one seems to walk in Anjuna; everyone bums around on scooters or motorcycle taxis.)

But it was worth it, in the end.  The pleasant Swiss-French instructor Sondra is a bit of a nomad; she spends “the season” teaching in Goa (October to March, or thereabouts), and spends the rest of the year working variously in Sri Lanka, Thailand and Indonesia.  From the sounds of it, she hasn’t lived in Europe in years, preferring to spend her time wandering Asia and teaching yoga. 

This class was a three-hour “Yoga for Women”, designed to give women yoga routines to help them cope with common physical ailments.  Migraine, for example, or fatigue and insomnia, or painful menstruation.  (Boys, I swear, that’s all I’m going to mention about that last one, so you don’t need to get grossed out.)

Whether or not any of it actually works, I don’t know.  But I’ll have to give the routines a shot the next time I have a migraine, or when it’s “that time of the month” and the cramps are so terrible that I’d prefer to actually die.  (It has gotten better with age; when I was much younger, I used to have nausea and vomiting along with the cramps.  At least there’s some benefits to getting old!)

I think I have to keep this up when I get home.  I really enjoyed my beginner yoga course in Varkala, and the occasional classes I’ve done since (most of them not hours-long like this workshop!).  I haven’t yet managed to put my ankles behind my ears, or hold a headstand unassisted by the support of the instructor or a wall, but I’m ever so slightly closer.  And I can usually get the crow posture now (rest your knees on your elbows and balance yourself on your hands only), and can occasionally even get my heels to the floor during downward dog.  Baby steps.

This could be the perfect complement to running, actually.  I hate to stretch, normally, so I give it the shortest possible attention after finishing a run, really just enough to make sure I can still walk the next day.  But not stretching enough has really hindered my flexibility; I was never able to do the splits, but I never used to be quite so embarrassingly stiff as I am now. 

I’d like to change that.  So if I run, and then do yoga, that could be perfect.  I probably won’t join a gym again immediately after I get home; finances will dictate otherwise for a while.  But I can run for free, as long as I have the gear, and since I’ve already told people I’m going to do the Toronto marathon in the fall I’d really better get on that.  And there are yoga courses all over the city, from the expensive trendy places on Queen West to the free sessions at Lululemon stores.  So I’m sure I can find something that works.

So, new plan, after my yoga reality check ... by this time NEXT year, I’ll be the chick who can put her ankles behind her head.

Come Look My Shop

(Written in Anjuna, March 13^th)

I’m curious, after so long in India, just how much of their economy derives from the spending of tourists.  I’m guessing it has to be a sizeable amount; judging by the amount of shops, the variety of goods for sale, and the sheer numbers of foreigners buying all kinds of rubbish.  The flea market here in Anjuna is immense, catering to this insatiable foreign appetite for stuff.

Everywhere I’ve been, there are a plethora of shops all geared to tourists.  It gets a little bewildering, after a while, trying to differentiate one from the other, as they all seem to sell variations on the same things.  Shopkeepers expect that tourists will buy stuff; I heard one guy in Kochi yelling after some tourists in frustration, “Why did you come to India, if you don’t like to shop?”  So as soon as they spot you, oh white-skinned rich foreign tourist, you’re marked as prey.

You probably know I’m not much of a shopper.  Other than shoe stores and bookstores, I don’t generally go into stores just to browse or buy things on impulse.  (Getting out of the World’s Biggest Bookstore or David’s Shoes without a few purchases, on the other hand, is an effort of will; it’s an even greater one just to walk on by without going in.)  One of my shopaholic friends tells me that I shop like a man; I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. 

But Indian shop owners don’t know this.  They see “tourist” and they want me in their shop.  Every one I walk past, I get cajoled or bullied in an effort to get me inside.  “Come look my shop,” they croon at me as I go by.  “Very good price, madam, just for today.”

Sometimes they mix it up a little; in Thekkady/Kumily, the favourite line was “Come inside, looking is free”; in Kochi’s Jewtown, they would urge me inside, pointing with a beaming smile to the sign on the front proclaiming theirs a “hassle-free shop”.  I assume they didn`t count the hassling they did outside trying to get you to come in.

And if you do go inside .... well, brace yourself.   If I shop at home, the salespeople will probably smile and ask me if I need help, but then just leave me alone to browse if I want.  Here?  You’ll be swarmed.  A overwhelming array of goods will be thrust under your nose or into your arms, with constant entreaties to buy.  You won’t physically be left alone from the moment you walk in to the moment you leave, and when you DO try to leave, you may find your arm grabbed or your path blocked in an effort to keep you there just a little bit longer and maybe make that elusive sale.  Window-shopping is not a term that means anything here.

I started out being very polite, and responding to shopkeepers’ entreaties with “No, thank you”, and answering the inevitable questions that would follow.  (“Where are you from?”, “Your first time in India?”, “How long are you here for?” and so on.)  But any answer led to yet more questions, and eventually to a discussion of why i didn’t want to buy anything. 

“I don’t have any money” meant they’d lower the price, or berate me for not realizing that it was a very-very good price and far better than I’d ever get at home.  “I don’t need that” brought confused looks (I don’t think “need” enters into the equation of most tourist shopping), and more reminders about what a good deal it was.   They’d ask me why I didn’t want to shop, didn’t I like India?  Sometimes the manipulation would be more subtle: they’d seek to lay a guilt trip on me for not wanting to buy something for my mother, or my sister, or my best friend, or beseech me to buy since I was the very first customer and it would be bad luck for them if I didn’t buy anything.  (Amazingly, I was the “first customer” a lot of places I went.)

I’ve learned, since starting out, that if I’m genuinely not interested to just keep walking and not respond. 

And then there’s the haggling.  I can tolerate shopping when there’s a price tag clearly displayed, and I know what I’d have to pay and I can make up my mind from there if it’s worth it to me.  But fixed prices don’t exist here; everything’s a negotiation.  Some tourists seem to approach it with the mindset of screwing every possible rupee off the price and becoming gleeful if they think they’d put one over on the shopowner.

I hate that.  I’ll haggle if I have to, but I’m not out to screw them over.  I figure if it’s worth it to me to pay that, then I’ve gotten an okay deal.  Whether or not I could’ve squeeze another 50 rupees out of the Indian woman selling it to me doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, though, what I’d be willing to pay for something isn’t nearly what they have in mind, and my usual response is just to say no, thanks, and walk away.  They’ll often chase after me, offering a lower price; sometimes they’ll rebuke me, as a rich tourist like me surely must be able to pay a more reasonable price.  I’ll smile and shrug, and tell them to sell it to someone else who’s willing to pay more.  (This got me my hippie dress in Goa, quite accidentally, as I walked out of the store the second time; the price immediately dropped to what I’d initially offered.)

I haven’t bought much, though, which makes me an anomaly among the tourist hordes.  The sheer volume of stuff some people I’ve met have bought is mind-boggling; I’m sure they won’t look at most of it again once they get back home.  Ali Baba pants, long mirrored cotton skirts, saris, spices, 5-kilogram silver elephant statues, rabbit-fur hats, statues of random gods and goddesses that they can’t even identify, pairs of identical tailor-made pants in a variety of colours, plant seeds (some of which definitely won’t grow in their home countries – papayas in Switzerland, anyone?) ... the list goes on.  You name it, I’ve seen someone buy it.  Most of them had much larger bags than I do and still managed to fill them beyond capacity; in one case, she even had a bag made just to carry all her extra purchases home. 

Not me, thanks.  I’ve bought a couple of things, that I’m wearing while I’m travelling, and I’ll probably buy a couple of presents before I go home.  But that’ll be it; I don’t feel the need to accumulate material things just because they`re there, or because they`re better deals than I’d get at home.  For one thing, if I wouldn`t buy it at home, then I don`t actually need it and a cheaper price here is irrelevant; for another, I have a small apartment and don`t really want to crowd my space any more than it already is.  (And I definitely don't want to become one of those people who has to rent a storage locker just for all the extra crap I`ve accumulated!)

But it might be a good thing for the Indian tourism industry that not everyone is like me.  The whole economy just might grind to a halt.

Hippie Days are Here Again

(Written in Anjuna – Mar 11^th)

Anjuna Beach. 

Hippie capital of India, former home of the Goa Freaks and trancehead ravers, and scene of countless volumes of drugs inhaled, snorted, swallowed or injected; still living on the infamous but fading glory of decades gone by and drawing travellers like a magnet to what-used-to-be.  My home for a few days, perhaps a week, as I further indulge my inner hippie (who, by the way, is never buried that far beneath the surface — my corporate-world self is only ever a veneer).

This particular beach, somewhere in the middle of the northern beaches, has probably the most colourful past of any Goan destination.  It was a mecca for young Westerners in the hippie heyday of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s — the “Goa Freaks” who lived on the beach and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on its long stretch of sand.  A couple of decades on, raves took over the scene, with a different generation doing different kinds of drugs as they danced under the moon.  (Right ... why didn’t I come here then, back in my rave days?)

Now?  Traces of its past exist, but they’re getting harder to find.  The famous flea market still runs every Wednesday, sprawled over a vast spread of land at the south end of the beach, and you could spend an entire day there without managing to visit every stall. But these days, for the most part, all those hundreds of stalls sell a hundred varieties on the same tourist things; good if you’re looking for that, but not particularly hippie any more.  There’s a little bar in the middle of the market, though, that clings to its hippie heritage; grey-haired pony-tailed musicians belt out an array of 1960’s tunes from its miniscule stage.

The drugs are still here, I think; as I walked back from the market the day I arrived, people kept calling out to me, “Smoke? Smoke?”.  And I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean cigarettes.  A British guy I met today told me that you can still find stronger stuff than marijuana; he’d managed to procure some acid and was going in search of ecstasy tomorrow.  I think I’ll pass; I have nothing against drugs in principle (and I think we might solve a lot of problems for ourselves by removing the criminal element from drugs, legalizing and standardizing their production).  But I’m not here for that; I just want to chill out in peace (and, er, not run the risk of Indian jail time).

My hotel, one of many on the shallow cliff overlooking the northern end of the beach, is very cheap at 250 rupees (about $5) a night.  It’s nothing fancy — just four walls, a fan, a bed and a tiny bathroom without hot water — but it’s enough.  And there’s a gorgeous common area overlooking the sea, with lounges to recline on as you gaze at the view, chat to the people on the next couch over, sip your Kingfisher, or whatever else strikes your fancy.

Along the cliff and down the beach, there are cafes and restaurants and cheap hotels a-plenty, interspersed with shops selling the usual tourist wares of Indian cotton dresses, Kashmiri shawls, Tibetan jewellery, and other assorted “authentic Indian handicrafts”.  The infamous Anjuna flea market is still running as it has since the 1960’s, every Wednesday over a vast area at the south end of the beach; these days, though, it sells more touristy souvenirs than anything else, with hundreds of shops offering variations on the same theme.

Away from the beach, dirt paths and twisting back roads lead to cooler haunts in among the trees, cafes where they’ll let you lounge all day for the price of a lemon soda; I’ve found a couple of perfect spots to camp out and write.  Along the main road leading away from the beach, there are more restaurants and shops, with a few travel agencies if you’re into organized day tours instead of bumming around on a scooter.  There are no ATMs, but there’s a few places that will exchange foreign cash for rupees, and one bank that will change travellers’ cheques in the most complicated way possible (more about that later). 

There’s even a grocery store — actually, two — which I haven’t seen anywhere else in India.  They sell an interesting mix of goods from pasta to spices to sunscreen; my favourite item, perhaps, is the “Barbie India”, a dark-haired (but still pretty fair-skinned) version of the infamous doll clad in a vibrantly-coloured sari.  There’s a mind-boggling array of alcohol on offer, from local beer and wine to more expensive imported stuff, some of it perplexing:  I can’t imagine there’s a huge demand for the 5700-rupee bottle of Krug champagne on offer, but you never know.  I tried Indian shiraz and cabernet sauvignon at a mere 240 rupees a half-bottle; quality was, well, about what you’d expect.

Anjuna Beach - almost sunset

All over town, cows wander the streets freely, and wind their way in among the beach chairs as they plod slowly down the sand.  Towards sunset, a group of them gather near the north end of the beach, laying down on the sand with their legs tucked neatly under their bodies.  There’s a few goats around as well (although not nearly as many as in Kochi), and a veritable army of scooters and motorbikes weaving crazily down the backroads and dirt paths (usually with a sunburned tourist or two aboard).  Walking down the street is a high-stakes obstacle course, as you attempt to evade the cows and goats while not getting mown down by the maniac drivers playing chicken with each other. 

It’s near the end of the season here, so it isn’t as overrun with people as it likely would be in December or January.  Most travellers are the solo backpacker kind, with a few package-holiday tourists wandering among them looking lost and bewildered by all the dreadlocks, piercings and tie-dye.  Some travellers come for just a night or two, but most come and stay ... and stay ... and stay.    For weeks, or months, or even years.

So, even if its hippie days are largely a memory, and whatever it might be now ... Anjuna’s still got some magic.

Goa Freak

(Written in Anjuna – Mar 9^th.  Internet access here is very sketchy, so you’re seeing this a few days late!)

So I’ve arrived in Anjuna, in the northern half of the tiny state of Goa, stepping off the night train from Kochi in Margao/Madgaon further south and getting a prepaid taxi to the end of road by Anjuna Beach.  1100 rupees (about $25) and an hour and a half to travel the 60 kilometres from the train station, such is the state of Goan roads.

Goa is Portuguese India —as recently as 1961, it was still claimed by Portugal, and only ceded to India when the Indian army marched into the state.  But the Portuguese had a pretty good run here, having first arrived at the tail end of the 15^th century, and — by the way — hanging on to their Indian territory longer than the Brits did.  There are still people living in the state who speak only Konkani (the local language) and Portuguese, with nary a word of Hindi or English (I’m guessing they don’t travel much in the rest of India).

The cultural influence of the Portuguese is still apparent here, giving Goa a flavour that’s very different from the rest of the country.  The food is much more meat-oriented, and the chicken cafreal, a local specialty, is mouth-wateringly good.  Some of the drinks appearing on menus are things I haven’t seen since Brazil (caipirinha, anyone?) with a few local twists:  feni, the Goan specialty, is fermented from coconuts or cashews, and packs a lethal punch. 

Some of the architecture dates back to the Portuguese arrival, most noticeably so in the towns of Old Goa and Panaji (the capital).  Away from the beach towns, crumbling heritage mansions still linger, reminders of the lost glory of the Portuguese empire.

Here on the beach, however, it’s a different Goa yet again.  And it depends very much which beach you’re on, which particular flavour of the Goan experience you’ll get.  Head to Calengute and Baga (where I first went on my way down south), and it’s package-holiday central, overrun by European tourists on two- or three-week vacations and with the facilities to cater to these crowds.  Oh, I had a good time there (a couple of very late nights out), but it could have been anywhere in the world; there wasn’t anything, particularly, to distinguish it as “India” instead of any other anonymous beach resort anywhere else.

In the south half of Goa, there’s a few beaches like that, too, I hear; Palolem gets referred to dismissively as “Palaga”, a reference to the hordes of lager-swilling British tourists who invade each year (and to the resort town in the south of Spain that has the same experience).  There’s some quieter beaches as well, where you can kick back and relax without the throngs of people; a Vancouverite I met in Kochi especially liked off-the-beaten-track Agonda (except for the sea-bound stream which doubled as a sewer and cut directly across the beach).

Here, in the north half of Goa, it’s a mix; there are quiet beaches like Mandrem where travellers go to do a lot of yoga and gaze meditatively at the sea, and others (like Arambol or Vagator) that cater more to travellers seeking the non-stop party that used to be Goa.  There’s a scattering of old Portuguese forts and churches in among the beach shacks, and a few high-end yoga resorts catering to moneyed people seeking enlightenment (or at least an improvement to their downward dog). 

Anjuna, somewhere in the middle of the northern stretch of beaches, has probably the most storied history in recent memory of all the Goan beaches.  It was a major destination for hippie travellers in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, who became known as the “Goa Freaks” and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on the long stretch of sand.  In later decades, it became famous for its raves, particularly around the full moon, with a new generation of travellers doing different kinds of drugs as they danced till dawn.

That’s where I’ve landed for at least a few days.  The season is winding down here, as it is in other Goan beaches, so it’s pretty quiet.  There are hints of its hippie and raver pasts, but the present is a tamer, faded version of those.  There are still tie-dye-wearing, dreadlocked travellers around, with a scattering of package-holiday tourists, and you could, if you wanted, still find drugs from hippie pot to raver ecstasy.  Trance music still pumps out of some of the beach shacks (if I closed my eyes, I’d think I was back at a rave), and there’s a stage or two where you can hear musicians playing 1960’s rock.

But it’s not what it was, I don’t think.  I still like it, and I can see the odd glimmer of the hippie past that I find so fascinating.  But there are more cafes, more restaurants, more hotels, more shops ... and more tourists, period, than would have ever existed in Anjuna’s hippie heyday.  Everyone’s a wanna-be (including me); few remain of the original “Goa Freaks” (although I think I may have spotted a few).

But I still like it, even if I can’t quite live out my hippie dream.  I think it will be a good little home for a week or so.   After that, though, I think I’ll head further north; I like what I’ve heard about Mandrem in particular, a quiet and peaceful little beach with a lot of simple huts to sleep in and an abundance of yoga classes to occupy your days.  Last chance to soak up some serenity before heading back to the airport for my marathon journey to Delhi and then Toronto, and then the madness that is called the working world.

Real life.  Huh.  Not sure I remember what that is, but it seems to be starting to intrude.  I had a message from my boss the other day, with information about a job opening he thought I might be interested in; I can’t even conceive yet of going back to work at all, never mind whether or not I’d want this particular one!  So I might just have to think about it for a while.

In the meantime, I think I’ll have another Kingfisher, and write some more of the Great Canadian Novel, while I listen to the sound of the waves.