Too Much of a Good Thing

(Written in Mandrem, March 18th)

Wow, this place is really quiet.  It’s been nice, being able to just chill out and laze on the beach and stare at the waves.  But it’s a little unsettling, though, to actually spend some time alone after spending the past couple of months surrounded by hordes of people everywhere I go.  I thought Anjuna was pretty quiet, this late in the season, but there was at least one place (Curlie’s) where I could reliably find people pretty much any hour of the day or night.

My little home in Mandrem (right)

Now, you know I like my space.  I’m never going to be someone who chooses to spend 24 hours a day in the company of other people; to stay sane, I need to carve out time for myself every day, where I can think and write and read and just daydream in the solitude of my own company.  I go squirrelly after a while if I am constantly surrounded by other people.  But, it seems, even I can have too much time alone.

I had a long wander up and down the beach yesterday, and Mandrem really is just a few huts and cafes strung out along the sand.  There’s a village, up over the hill, but it’s far enough away that it’s really a separate place.  I was confused yesterday as I walked up and down the beach, trying to figure out where Mandrem actually was; I walked north and found myself in Arambol (second only to Anjuna as the traveller haunt of choice in north Goa), and walked south and found myself in Asvem Beach (a little scruffy, and for some inscrutable reason, mainly frequented by Russian travellers).  Then I realized that Mandrem Beach really is just this, this long and mostly empty stretch of sand. 

It probably isn’t always quite this quiet, but it’s the tail-end of the season now and there aren’t so many travellers around.  Everywhere I enquired when I was looking for a place to stay had rooms available, and I think I’m the only one staying in the little hut complex where I landed.  The only people here, after the sunbathers go back to wherever they’re staying, are the Indian guys who work in the little cafe. 

It’s nice, but I think more than a night or two might be too much of a good thing.  Both Arambol and Asvem are under half an hour’s walk away, and both have lots of options for things to do during the day and lots of nightlife (well, Arambol does, at least); problem is, there`s no way really to get there except to walk.  If I went out at night, and took a taxi back, I`d still have to walk down to the beach from the road through the deserted woods and empty sands.

As for walking along the beach, well, there are no lights or buildings most of the way, and it isn’t really safe to walk it by myself late at night; women travellers in Goa have been attacked at night doing that very thing.  So even though there are lights, and people, and action, at Arambol and Asvem just a short way away, I’m not really comfortable seeking out any night life there when I have no good way to get home afterward. If I was with someone, I’d feel okay going out late and walking back down the deserted beach; as it is, I feel a bit trapped after dark (as it is now).

So I think tonight will be my last night here.  I had almost decided, my first night here, to go look for somewhere closer to the “civilization” of Arambol to the north; the lack of options at night, other than hanging out by my hut, made solitude feel less of a choice and more as if it had been foisted upon me.  I like spending time alone, sometimes, but it feels better when I am alone because I’ve chosen to be, not because I have to be.

But I decided in the hot light of day that I’d embrace the solitude.  Do a lot of reading, a lot of writing at night, and seek out other activities during the day if I really wanted to.  It’s done my writing productivity a world of good, as I sit with my little netbook and pound away at the keyboard, listening to the waves crash and watching the moonlight play across the sea.  And I like my little hut, basic as it is; the mosquitoes aren’t bad, there are no geckos to chirp me awake (unlike Varkala) and no cockroaches (unlike Anjuna).  It’s been a good little home for a couple of days, and I’ve loved being able to walk straight out my front door and across the sand into the sea.

But I think I’ve had my fill.  Tomorrow, then, I’m going to head up to Arambol.  Who knows, I might even stay somewhere where other people are also staying, and go out tomorrow night; now there’s a thought.

Write Like You Mean It

(Written in Mandrem, March 17th)

Mandrem is proving to be the complete opposite of the other places I’ve been in Goa.  It’s a world away from the frantic hussle of Calengute and Baga, quieter than the trippy trance soundtrack of Vagator and Anjuna, and the only place I’ve been in India where there isn’t one single shop, as far as I’ve been able to tell.  (I didn’t even think that was possible!)

The deserted location means I pretty much stay put after dark, as it isn’t wise to wander down the empty unlit beach at night.  Oh, I go out in front of my hut, and went for a swim at about midnight last night, but walking back from Arambol, for example, would be a very bad idea by myself.  So I don’t go out at night; there’s nowhere to go in Mandrem.

Fortunately many of the things I love to do are best done while spending time on my own.  I’ve had lots of time to write, and read back over the things I’ve written earlier this year;  unfortunately, it also gave me enough time to realize that something I’ve been working on is currently written from the wrong character’s point of view, so there’s some extensive rewriting in my future.  (This might be harder once I go back to working full time.)

And I love to read, voraciously.  I’ll read pretty much anything I can get my hands on, if I don’t have any other choice; this has meant that my reading material this year has been inconsistent in quality, as I exchange books on the road when the opportunity presents itself or trade with another traveller.  Once or twice, I’ve gotten to read things I’ve really loved and that I will seek out again at home (given the extra weight and volume to carry, I didn’t keep the books in question). 

Let’s see, what books?  I don’t think I’d read anything of John Irving’s before, but I loved A Prayer for Owen Meany; the only trouble with that book, though, was that the copy I acquired was missing pages 1 through 15.  (So I still don’t know exactly how it starts.)  I picked an Anne Tyler somewhere else, that I really enjoyed; I’d read many of her novels before and I always enjoy the quirky little worlds she creates.  I re-read Heaven and Hell recently, the last novel in John Jakes’ North and South trilogy; I read the series years ago and loved it all (and the TV miniseries, although I think I loved that mostly because Patrick Swayze played the character Orry Main). 

And I have a copy of a novel by Kiran Desai (a writer from India), which won the Man Booker prize in 2006.  I’m saving as a treat for the long plane ride home as an appropriate way to say goodbye to the country.  In the same spirit, right now I'm reading The Jewel in the Crown.

 

But other than those, I’ve read a lot of very forgettable stuff.  Oh, I’ve enjoyed most of it, and I wouldn’t say that most of them were really bad (with one or two notable exceptions); it’s just that they didn’t leave much of an impression.  I like books that make me think or laugh uproariously or cry like my heart is broken, or books that are so beautifully written that the words veritably sing.  The music of Michael Ondaatje’s prose awes me, every time, and he is an entertaining storyteller to boot (it’s a rare combination).

Most of the books I’ve read haven’t been that.  They’ve been run-of-the-mill, formulaic thrillers or mysteries or chick lit that entertained me while I was reading but that went completely out of my head the second I closed the book.  I’ve found myself thinking, after I’d finished some, “Hey, wait a minute, I can write better than that!”  And you know what?  I CAN.  I can write bloody brilliantly sometimes.  (Other times, not so much, but we’ll ignore those times.)  So why on earth are these people getting published, and I’m not? 

Oh, right, I haven’t tried.  That would be a good first step, wouldn’t it?

I started to get inspired last year when I went to a book launch; a friend from a writing class a few years ago got published and her first book came out in the fall.  She’s currently working on book number three of the series about her fictional detective Clare Vengel, and I can’t wait to read more.  (Check out Robin’s first book Dead Politician Society if you haven’t come across it yet; it’s an excellent read.  You can find her here at www.robinspano.com.)

Right, then, chalk that up on my to-do list when I get home.  Somewhere in the innumerable pages I’ve written this year has to be something worth polishing, that could finally get my name on bookstore shelves.  (You will all, of course, be buying copies when that day finally comes; I’ll give you plenty of warning!)

It doesn’t actually really matter, though.  Enjoying it is reason enough to keep doing it, and I feel happier and more fulfilled at the end of a day in which I’ve written something (even if it never sees the light of day). 

So whether or not the rest of the world ever recognizes my genius, I’ll just keep on writing. 

Living at the Edge of the Sea

(Written in Mandrem, March 16^th.  You will note I'm a few days behind, but I'm trying to spread out my posts instead of adding them all at once -- I didn't have internet access for a couple of days so am playing catch up.) 

Wow, I’ve gone 25 kilometres up the coast and I’ve landed in a completely different world.   Anjuna, even this late in the season, was still relatively full of people by comparison; here, in Mandrem, I sit on the porch of my tiny little bamboo hut and stare out at the dark sand.  No lights, except the moon.  No people.  No sounds except the waves and a barking dog somewhere in the distance.   

I left Anjuna Beach this morning, after breakfast overlooking the sea (food always tastes better that way).  I set out to get a rickshaw, having decided (for no logical reason) that I would pay 200 rupees for my taxi ride to Mandrem.  It isn’t well-served by public buses — getting there would involve a bus from Anjuna to Mapusa (inland), up to Arambol, and a final hop down to Mandrem — so I decided a taxi was worth the money to save myself the all-day journey. 

Well, it seems that the taxi drivers had other ideas.  The first guy I approached wanted 500 rupees to make the trip, citing the ridiculously high price of fuel and the horrendously long distance.   (Did I mention it was 25 kilometres?  Hardly the other side of the world.)  I declined graciously, and — as inevitably happens when I start to walk away — he was prepared to negotiate.  I couldn’t get him to budge below 450, though, so I thought I’d carry on and see if I could do better.

As I went further down the beach and onto the road leading inland, the prices started to drop.  I never did manage to get away with 200 rupees — but then, I didn’t really have any good reason to expect to — but I did catch a ride for 300, or about $6.50.  We wove through some lush green countryside and a few chaotic and colourful villages on the way, reaching Mandrem about 45 minutes later.

Sunset view from my front porch

At least I think it’s Mandrem.  There’s no actual village, just a scattering of huts and cafes, which sounds about right to be Mandrem Beach.  But I wasn’t quite sure, as the driver dropped me at the side of the road and pointed out the path down to the beach, speeding off as soon as I’d closed the door behind me.    (I was even more confused later in the day when I took an exploratory walk along the beach and found myself in Arambol after about half an hour’s walk.  Either they’re much closer together than I’d realized, or I’m not where I think I am.)

It looked beautiful when I got out of the cab, anyway, wherever it was, so I was prepared to stay a while whether or not it turned out to be Mandrem.  I wandered for half an hour or so from hut to hut, seeking one for 300 rupees a night or less.  (Yes, I had another arbitrary price in my head.  Well, maybe not quite so arbitrary as it was reasonable based on Anjuna prices.) 

It took a long and sweaty walk down the beach, but I finally landed in one costing only 300 rupees.  It's not the nicest one I saw (that one was 1,500 rupees), and it’s probably the flimsiest structure I’ve ever seen — I think my camping tent would stand up to high winds better than this hut!  But it’s got four walls, a door that locks, and a bathroom with running water; I have learned that these are all things you cannot take for granted in Goa cheap-hut beachland.  (If you really want to live on the cheap, you can give up luxuries like a lock or a bathroom and sleep for about 150 rupees.  I didn’t want to save money quite that badly.)  It does not have a mozzie net, which I may live to regret by tomorrow morning, particularly since the sole window has no screen or shutter to keep the little monsters out.

But for now, it’s working for me.  As I sit here on my tiny front porch, the Arabian Sea crashes into the shore about 20 metres away.  There’s hardly a sound, except for the rhythmic pounding of the surf.  There’s not a soul around; miraculously in this country of a billion people, I’m completely and utterly alone.   Getting my fix of solitude, after the constant crowds and chaos of previous weeks, ought not to be a problem here.

There’s nothing between me and the water except fine white sand, almost glowing in the clear soft moonlight.  The sun set a couple of hours ago — it’s now about 9 pm — but a hint of radiance still lingers in the sky. 

I think I’m going to like it here.