Negotiating strange lands...

You are not lost you are here. India is everything that I have read it to be. Our taxi spewed out of Goa airport onto chaotic streets. These unmarked roads seem to operate under a take way, opposed to a give way system. A constant backdrop of bass engine thrums and beeping horns give a feeling of constancy to a country swept up in a multitude of cultural conflicts. Tin shanty shelters neighbour colonial houses. Their green and pink ornate balconies peep between palm trees onto the lawless roads. Street vendors serve food beside houses decked in bright red corporate logos. Baboosh, our taxi driver weaves between gleaming fords and tuk tuk. Scooters whiz by on the left and right sides. Ladies draped in pink, gold and lime green saris sit side saddle, arms cradling the waist of their male driver akin to the riding habits of equestrian ladies of colonial England. Peppered between half completed construction projects, rubble piles and coconut trees are ornate shrines to Ganesh, Shiva, Buddha and Jesus. They glint dazzling golds through the haphazard city around them.

It is dark when we arrive at the Panjim YMCA. I’m almost disappointed to find a throne toilet in our spotless bathroom. The air conditioning system hums like the engines on the streets. A small boy in a Nike t-shirt leaves his shoes before our door and deposits our bags as quickly as he arrives. Afterwards, we realize we should have tipped him and feel the first flush of cultural insensitivity. Later we find him with four other lads around the same age, similarly decked in frayed labeled t-shirts and hand him 50 rupees. Feeling lost in the Panjim night, we skim the pages of the Lonely Planet. Campal, where we are staying, has no entry. Small surges of pride and rivulets of nervous sweat wave over our bodies as we realize we are already off the beaten track. However, there are two things to remember in situations such as this. Firstly, the laws of physics still apply, secondly, as the twit observed, “Where there are people, there will be people selling food”. So we prepared to venture into the bustling night with a map of neighbouring Panjim torn from the lonely planet. The lonely planet becomes both a bible of aid and a badge of amateurism. You want to consult it and at the same time fear that the image of you clutching it will scream out to locals that you are new, that you are not entirely sure what you are doing, that you are vulnerable.

In a break from my narrative of last night, I’ll just take a moment to make mention of our taxi ride from Panjim bound for Vagator. Baboosh again drives us. His cheerful tones resonates back to us as he asks us where we will go, how much do we pay at the YMCA, and points out markets, buffalo, coconut stands, his own village home and laughs with us as we veer to avoid the cows that spill into the road. His boss is a Christian, so he spends his Hindu sensibilities sat at a depiction of Jesus on the dash board. His pentamic language flows musically into his Nokia handset as he discusses his next job with mission control. He shares with us his dreams; he will take up the fishing trade of his father when he has worked the taxis for six months. Only then, when he has his own job will he find his wife who will bear him the gaggle of children who will look after him as he grows old. His smile reaches his dark eyes and his young skin shines with youth upon his lithe frame. He earns 20 pounds a month, this he shares with his family and saves for the day he may have his own home.

So, we enter the lobby of the YMCA clutching the torn off map of Panjim. In the reception area, a thin middle aged man lies on the floor with a towel draped over his face. He senses our footsteps and soundlessly jumps to life. After much map pointing, he emphatically gestures us to take the street to the main road and follow the bend. Only upon exit do we realize that he is mute, and must have felt our footsteps resonating against the tiles.

The night was close. I love the smell of tropical climates, like musk of spice and hot earth. We headed down the main street towards Panjim, turning left at the Jesus shrine, avoiding the three way convergence of mopeds, taxis and tuk tusk. The municipal gardens hung a leafy backdrop on the left. A myriad of pathways meandering uplit Buddhas and nativity scenes. In front the twit and I stopped by a street vendor serving turmeric chickpeas amidst family members perched on the wall and a sari wrapped grandmother cross legged on the floor. Determined to begin our bartering skills we paced to the middle aged man behind the counter. “How much for a bottle of water?” “15 rupees sir”. “Ok…we’ll have two.” The twit ruffled through his pocket and pulled out the smallest note. “Have you got change for 100?” The incredulous look uniformly presented upon the family’s faces told all we need to know. “Wait up, I have 30”, I ploughed through my wallet trying to seize the notes quickly. We paid for the water and walked away slightly embarrassed, and also subdued. How are we supposed to barter with people who only earn 2 pounds per day and can’t change up the smallest note we have?

We walked further down the buzzing main street and took a left into the market. Primary yellows stacked fuscia pinks and gleaming whites as women draped in twinkling saris sat upon tables and strung flower necklaces. Three graying women wiped clean the white metal shelves of the now empty fish stalls. Joints of meat hung in spotlights over the open meat counter. Silks and cottons of multicoloured arrays lay in neat piles, waiting to be selected and folded into somebody’s sari. Opposite, t-shirts adorning the badge of any English football club you could name were piled high above a counter row of Levi’s. Turning left through the market, we felt our English upbringing avert our eyes as a young woman draped in rose silk lifted her skirt to urinate in the gutter.

With stomachs feeling like cavernous balloons we heaved a sigh of relief as we came to a well lit, busy vegetarian café. Families and friends sat clustered in groups, hand feeding themselves dishes scooped up with naans and poppadoms. We sat down in a window seat under the light cast from the green neon sign. A young waiter immediately came to our table and laughingly took our order. “Is he laughing because we are Western, or because he is happy to see us?” I asked the twit. “Probably both” he replied, brow furrowed at the alien names scrolled down the menu card. I had a momentary panic as I couldn’t tell which dishes contained meat, and laughed at the wash of relief as I remembered the green lit sign spewing “Vegetarian Restaurant” into the night. We ordered Goan Thali with a side of Samosas and Watermelon juice (emphatically saying “No ice” while waving our hands in a gesture of finality).

The food arrived on a large metal plate, naan, poppadoms and rice surrounded by a circular selection of pickled chillis, curried vegetables and three white dishes, looking suspiciously like dairy which we avoided. Afterwards we took a long sip of the watermelon juice and recognized the momentary panic in each others eyes as we wondered if it had been watered down. “Its fine, the lonely planet said fruit juice is ok if it has no ice cubes” I repeated like a mantra.

The time spent after dinner, and after lunch today I noticed, is like you are playing a waiting game. Hypersensitive to the conditions of your stomach, you wait and seek out any twinge, or gaseous movement that could signal the start of the horrifying twisting cramps and liquid expulsions that you hear about from every traveler you meet who has crossed the paths of India. Will this dish be the one that leads to my own version of the traditional traveler shat myself in public story? The early hours of this morning were prominently tense in this game of wait. Especially as the twit chuckled at my rookie mistake of cleaning my teeth with the tap water. I lay in the rooms hypnotic humming of the air conditioning, time elapsing as my stomach grew with gas. Each time the twit and I fart now we declare with pride “dry”, “dry”, “phew, dry again”. We wait for our first onslaught of dysentery.

We are now staying in Vagator, Baboosh has left us at the Jolly Jolly Lester’s. We had to turn down two rooms because of the unfeasibly high prices until they slashed their price offers and showed us a room we preferred. It seems that when we can’t afford something we are actually rather good at bartering. The twit and I are sprawled out on an ethnic print cover draped over our double bed. I’m again disappointed to find that we have a throne toilet. I would like to get used to emptying my bowels into a hole as soon as possible. We’re in the hub of tourism now. Outside the door of our room bikini clad girls chat to young men in shorts sat astride hired scooters. We’re going to drink some cocktails and kick back, act like we are on holiday and join the partygoers. After we’ve holed up here for a few days we’re going to head South. Out of the tourist trap and into the fishing villages that surround the Kerala backwaters. I might try and write a story, unless I am too busy absorbing the dazzling arrays of smell and sounds that make up this run down, vibrant country.