All The Freaky People

R was a very large black man, a porter at Bar 625 when I worked there several years ago. He was a simple dude, none too bright, but a nice guy who had the ingenuous enthusiasm of the completely guileless. We invited him to join our pool team, and he hung out with us occasionally when we'd gallivant about the Quarter. He also loved to play frisbee golf after we took him out to LaFreniere the first time. So one morning I finish a graveyard shift a little after eight and we all pile into S's Jeep and drive on out to throw a round of frolf, S, J, R, and me. Well I've been up about 24 hours at this point, and it's the sticky wet guts of summer in New Orleans, and we're not five minutes out of the open-air ride before I'm sweating like the proverbial whore in church. A few holes later and it's just pouring off my forehead, running in thick rivulets over my chest and belly and soaking my shorts. R espies me in my fit of schvitz and, with a note of genuine amazement, informs me that "Gollee, Nate, but you sweatin' like a brotha!"

His observation has been on my mind this week, as I've not ceased my Wringing Human Sponge routine since we arrived in Gokarna. Greetings from the other side of the world, folks. It's humid.

But we know all that, right? Here's the crux of my previous aside: I wanna talk about people.

We left Goa a couple of weeks ago, rode inland aboard a train to Hampi, site of Vijayanagar ruins and amazing, megalithic boulders strewn about like they spilled from a Titan's marble pouch. Gorgeous place. We arrived just prior to the tourist season there, which begins in earnest during a cultural and music festival held in early November. The people were eagerly anticipating the influx of tourists and rupees, polishing their spiels and giving the hard sell on every transaction. Every rickshaw you passed on the street would offer a ride, regardless of the fact that you turned down the last ten offers along the row of parked vehicles (or that you and your girlfriend are riding bikes at the time). Every child in town had a stack of postcards or a map of the area to sell you, often running in packs, each vying to be the first to thrust the same map in your face that you didn't buy the first time. When I stopped one morning for a shave on the way into town, the barber offered me a dozen other services and when I declined and asked how much for the shave, he refused to name a price but instead asked me to pay him an amount of my own choosing commensurate with my approval of the job he'd done. I paid too much, even for a good shave.

But a few rupees here or there ain't no shenanigans. The people of Hampi know their market: tourists taking a break from the scene in Goa, short-stay travellers looking for cheap souvenirs to carry home. Everything and anything was for sale, from fine Gujarati rugs to hand-carved marble figurines to coffee-table books and tailored clothing.* And the salespeople were irrepressible. It was a chore to even price an item, because "We're just looking" was taken universally to mean "We are actively haggling at the moment." "Best prices" were reduced 60 and 75 percent, sometimes to the point of hostile assertions that no profit could possibly be made on a number we didn't even throw out, for an item we didn't even want. The bazaar vibe was hectic, and everybody knows that the foreigners--whether they're looking for ruins to scope or souvenirs to buy or a dry change from the muggy coast--are essentially only there to spend rupees. That's at the bottom of every interaction. Here's a little story:

We were staying the last four nights across the river from Hampi proper, in Vipapuragaddi. This narrow dirt lane between the river and acres of paddy had eight or ten places with huts and bungalows for rent at rates cheaper than the guesthouses in town. To get across the river, one had to take a motorboat across the narrow river, as the nearest bridge was 45 kilometers away. This meant lugging all one's belongings into the boat--not a problem if you're travelling as light as we are, but remember that Hampi has boulders. There was this Swiss dude, wiry and dreadlocked and carrying a backpack and two bouldering crashpads, who boarded the last boat across with us one evening. He had enlisted the help of a local kid to carry the larger of the two pads, still a sizeable burden, for a small sum. Upon arrival at the boat, the boy told him that he wouldn't be taking the boat across, but that they could square their debt and one of the kid's friends would meet him on the other side to carry the pad up the bank and to wherever the guy was staying, for a nominal extra fee. Swiss lightheartedly objects, saying he could carry the weight and that the kid needn't bother, but then the kid tells him, without missing a beat, "No worry about money. Money not important, life is important." The way these words of wisdom rolled off his tongue had us all in guffaws. He continued, saying that it was "good business" for him, "good business" for the dreadlocked Swiss boulderer, "good business" for his buddy across the water. This idea of "good business" was all over Hampi, the point being that a few rupees don't make no nevermind to a tourist benefitting from a bitchin' exchange rate, but can make a world of difference to the families touched by the outlay of even the paltriest sums.

So from Hampi we took a long-ass state bus trip up to Bijapur, which couldn't have been further removed from the traveller-friendly (if commercialized) atmosphere we had gotten used to. We were the only foreigners and we sat at the back of the bus, and with every stop along the seven-hour journey we saw more faces and fewer backs-of-heads. It was clear that we were getting off the beaten path, and I liked it. We smiled at the children and nodded at the adults and, more often than not, got big smiles in return. Between the friendly, curious folks and the beauty of rural Karnataka, I had a really good feeling about the place we were headed. We got down in Bijapur just after dark, walked through the smoggy city to a hotel recommended in the Lonely Planet as "basic, but comfortable." The room was okay, but homeslice manning the desk at Hotel Tourist** acted like he'd either never met one (a tourist, that is) or never liked any of the ones he had met. He was curt and standoffish and seemed utterly offended that we'd want to patronize his establishment. But the price was right and we were tired and hungry and we unslung our packs and went in search of a cold beer and a hot meal.

That was our first mistake. Nowhere in the books did it warn us that a restaurant serving booze in that part of the state would likely be a dingy drinking den, an all-male crowd of boozers gathering in really seedy surrounds for guy talk, bro time, manly shit like cricket and such. But neither did the folks running the joint seem too perturbed that a woman (gasp!) would want to have a seat and sip some suds. It was a weird atmosphere, but it was okay enough and the beer was cold.

So on around our third beer, by which time we've established with our server that--regardless of what it says on the decades-old unbound English fare card--no food is currently being served, (and probably hasn't been since Gandhi was in short pants) the power goes out. It's a fairly common occurrence throughout India, we've found, and we paid it no mind. The staff brought out candles and we were just leaving anyway. But after I've put the notes in the dish for our server to return to the cashier, something hits D in the shoulder. She thinks it's a bug, and is even more eager to leave. Then something else hits me on the back. I reach down the back of my chair and find a peanut. Then another hits the table on a trajectory that says it ain't just falling out the sky. Now we're both furious that somebody would take the opportunity, with the lights out, to act like a chickenshit and throw food at the visitors. And we're even more angry that we can't tell, in the dark, who's doing it. So we walk out scowling, scanning tables for the telltale snack dish, ready to berate the perpetrators in all the colour and flourish that English has to offer, with maybe some Kitchen Spanish thrown in for good measure and its colorful variations on hijo de puta and chinga tu madre en su culo. We get back to street level and collect our wits, just wanting a bite before we retire for the evening, and we get bum steers from everyone--including homeslice at Hotel Tourist--when we enquire about any open restaurants. The lights are still out, so we don't know that the restaurant at the hotel (!) is still open, but we chance it after walking up and down the main drag and not finding anyone still serving. Sure enough, it's open and delicious and all the fuckstain behind the counter would have had to do, in reply to our query, was point one bony, dirty finger across the lobby.

But he didn't, and we went to sleep that night dreading the next day. We had paid two nights in advance (a bad idea, it seemed then) and felt okay about skipping out early and calling the 165 rupees an asshole tax. But we woke up and decided to see what we came for (the Islamic architecture) and just get off the street before dark. It was a good decision. In fact, that would be an understatement. Bijapur (pictured above left) during daylight hours was like another city, full of friendly hellos and warm smiles and genial curiosity as to our provenance and how we are finding their beloved India. Children ran up to us on the street with open amazement, shouting Hello! like it's their mother's name, and older kids practiced their few nice-to-meet-you-what-is-your-good-name English phrases. We said "America" more times that day than I ever had in my life, as everyone was wondering where the foreigners had come from, so far off the tourist trail. Parents handed us their babies so we could pose for photographs, and families asked to snap our picture to show to their loved ones back home. It was a bit like being a movie star, but for our utter anonymity***.

That curiosity and the warm welcomes given us by the locals extended to our next stop, Badami (pictured above right), where we were less of a novelty. Even so, changing buses in Bagalkot en route I was swarmed by fifty or more boys and girls up to 17 or 18 years old while waiting for D to find a ladies' room. I introduced myself to one kid with the fuzzy beginnings of what will surely one day be a great Indian moustache, and he asked me to autograph his school notebook. He showed me the last page, where a traveller from Belgium had signed a simple message of greeting, and I did the same. He thanked me and the crowd was smiling and staring and nobody was saying anything. Overcome for a moment, I just started laughing. I must have looked like a madman, the sweaty white dude in the Indian threads and wraparound shades, laughing with his whole body until his eyes misted, because the kids started laughing in return. We fed on each other's amusement for what was probably only a handful of seconds, but it was a strange and foreign and beautiful exchange that I will remember for the rest of my days. D found me behind the throng of giggly onlookers and signed below my autograph for Fuzzstash and we waved goodbye and boarded our next bus, which didn't leave for another five minutes, and the kids outside were still standing and staring and whispering outside our window until the bus pulled out of the station.

So from Badami to Gokarna, back to the beach, where I'm sweating like a turkey at the end of November. We're staying 2 kilometers over a rocky headland from the main town beach, and it's like another world. Gokarna proper is a pilgrimage site, where Hindu devotees come to worship before one of the most famous shivalinga in all India, after cleansing themselves by shaving their heads and bathing in the sea. Kudle Beach, our home base for the moment, is populated almost exclusively by dreadlocked, painfully skinny stoners from Israel and England and Continental Europe, all refugees from the high-season tariffs up north in Goa. Om Beach (pictured), the next beach south from Kudle, is the new home of a luxe resort served by the only road south of town. This being a prime holiday spot during what is apparently a (just ending) holiday season for Indians, Om has been swarmed by roving bands of single men who wear matching "Goa Es Haven" shit-shop gear and stare at every inch of exposed white female flesh. There's even a sign on the steps leading down to Om politely requesting that Indians not photograph the tourists sunbathing, with or without their permission. It addresses the issue as a matter of upholding India's character in the eyes of foreign tourists, and it hasn't been entirely effective. The Indian Olympic Gawking Teams still cruise the beach in their matching getups until it's time to take a dip in their tighty-whiteys and sidle up alongside the women who have taken to the water to avoid their terrestrial prowling. Chalk it up to curiosity or horniness or just plain poor manners, but the stares are exponentially more unnerving than those from the kids in Bijapur and Bagalkot and Badami. The men have the vacant look of the terminally unlaid, and might as well be wearing t-shirts that read "I'd Rather Be Masturbating--Seriously, I Would. You Don't Even Know. Whew." It's almost enough to spoil the good vibe we got from all the eyes on us everywhere else, but I guess there's assholes wherever you hang your hat. Some folks just don't know how to behave themselves when there's company over. Oh well.

There it is, the nutshell reduction of the lives we've walked through in the past couple of weeks. Next stop, Bangalore. We leave after a couple more days on the beach for our first Couchsurfing experience in India. Looking forward to it, and to seeing what an IT boomtown in a developing nation looks like. More to follow.

*: We did avail ourselves of this last luxury, outfitting ourselves with custom-fitted travelling gear that wears better in the heat and humidity than our Western gear. Total expenditure for handmade clothes (2 men's shirts, 1 pair pants, 1 camise): $23.75
**: --for fuck's sake!--
***: Nobody here can pronounce the sounds in my name, so to prevent confusion and promote easier exchanges, I'm "Bob" in India. D bounces between "Jane" and "Frieda."

Nobody Rides For Free

It's been a couple of weeks since my last entry, and let me explain the delay: I've become a Beach Person. I've never been much for the sun and sand, as that usually means (in the US at least) a corresponding presence of shit shops and traffic and overpriced Mai Tais and hi-rise condominium complexes that if you lived in you'd be home now. There's also the fact that I burn salmonpink in bright sunshine, usually in strange patterns (hand-shaped patches on my sides and back, raccoon circles round the eyes) due to insufficient training in sunscreen application. It's not that I don't like sand--I dig on the desert, baby, and no mistake--or water--gimme a cascade and a camera and I'm good for the day. Just that the two in combination invite all kind of unattractive consumerist idiocy.

D has been a Beach Person since forever, so she was psyched to move south for a little while (time becomes quickly meaningless there, compressing and expanding like the tides), first in Arambol (pictured above) and then in Palolem, with bounces in between to break up the excruciating bus rides necessary to cover even the smallest distances (more on that later). We arrived in Arambol as the monsoon was hacking its last rattle against the palmy dunes, and after one overnight storm into our first full day we were blessed with an uninterrupted week of sunny sunshine. After an initial sizzle in near-equatorial rays, we commenced to darken like the natives (or not so much). And during that time spent swimming and relaxing and washing off the stench of Mumbai and my illness in Pune, when our only needs were met by walking the half a click up the beach for late breakfasts and lazy sunset dinners, I converted wholeheartedly to the cult of the Sun God. Count me in, brother, and save me a seat up front. Arambol was everything I've never been lucky enough to experience on any shore of any ocean; it was as peaceful and quiet as any place I've ever been. Shit, man, it was serene.

When was the last time you got to use that word? Been a pretty minute for this soul, I can assure you.

We went from that not-your-average walk on the beach in Goa's far north to another in the remote south in Palolem (pictured below).* The latter is a picture postcard, a tourism department brochure, only the prototypical sun-washed crescent of sand and swaying palm trees. The sun sets every night in a notch made by the northwest headland and the island you can walk to at low tide. We watched the entire village (fisherfolk all) pulling their nets from the cove on our last evening there, all chanting a chorus of heave-ho's local equivalent. Dogs and crows and fish eagles caught a whiff of the goings-on and hovered in their own ways, scoping out their choice of the fish that skipped across the surf in frantic attempts to escape the nets and the baskets and the eventual tandoor ovens. Made hungry by the spectacle, we went out for a seafood dinner and dined heartily on the afternoon's catch for something like $12, a real splurge considering the cost of things here and our budget for this excursion.

But I shall stop painting this particular picture, for if I were the one reading this account instead of the one writing it, I'd be ready to kick the author's ass up the block and around the corner. Don't be hatin', though. Let me tell you a story:

Our last morning in Palolem, we shouldered our packs and caught a lassi near the bus stand so we could wait in the shade for the bus that would take us the 4 km to Chaudi (Canacona). That bumpy road traversed, we waited another 30 minutes in the terminal for the bus to Margao, from whence our train to Hampi (east, in neighboring Karnataka, where I am writing this missive) would leave the next morning. Margao's bus and train stations are the clearing houses for southern Goa, and the city itself is not worth telling you it's not worth writing about. We had planned to make it in time to catch a movie and an early bedtime, but the Fates were against us.

So yeah: we're waiting in Chaudi like 30 minutes and milling in a shuffling queue for the eventual bumrush that is boarding buses here, and the bus pulls in--the same bus, we realize, that we rode to get to Palolem a few days prior. That trip was worthy of mention for being the closest I've been to physical carsickness since I was a wee tyke puking in the backseat of the family station wagon. But I digress... We're at a disadvantage for the boarding scrum because of our backpacks and wind up considering ourselves lucky to occupy the "Ladies Only" seats at the front of the bus. Being a Southern gentleman this wasn't my choice of seats, but did I mention the hellish ride that we had on the way in? Besides, there's a sign painted in the same color as the "Ladies Only" that says the bus will only carry "11 Standing," and I'd heed any fool estimating at eleven baker's dozens the number of standing riders on any one bus plying the backroads of Goa.

Anyway, we're in the reserved seats and feeling lucky when I start to wonder why the bus isn't pulling out. Worse yet, the driver and his whistle boy are beside the truck banging on what might be the engine or the tire or (for all we know) the team of 96 squirrels whose combined legpower fuels each bus over here. They look perplexed (the driver & co., not the squirrels) and they're wiping off what must have been a vital piece of bus at some point, and they're drawing a crowd. Some of the men in attendance wear the khaki uniform of bus employees, some are in street clothes, curious passengers who have gotten down to see what's the hubbub. There's intense conversation outside our window and the minutes pass and they're all smiling and laughing that futile laugh that says in any language "We're not going anywhere soon, boys" and we're still on board, sweating our respective tits off because we're not gonna give up these seats, goddammit. Eventually we've been on for maybe 30 minutes, because the next bus to Margao has rolled in heavy and the rest of our fellow passengers are cramming into its remaining available pockets of breathable air. Having none of such foolishness, we get down and opt to wait for the next ride.

For those of you keeping count, that will have been 90 minutes or so waiting to get on a bus that runs our route every half hour for a two-hour trip. It's now high noon and heating up, and we decide that D will carry on our daypack when we board the next bus and I'll wait behind to stow the heavy packs and hopefully find a seat saved for me whenever I can board. The bus finally rolls in and the plan works and we're on the winding mountain road leading north.

But not for long--oho! Not for long. Because not two minutes after noting the proximity of the passing traffic on our starboard side, our bus winds up at the rear end of a traffic stoppage stretching for half a mile up the backside of the mountains. Opting not to wait it out, our driver decides to turn around with a busload of the travellers from the other side of the jam and head back to Chaudi. We persevere, our refund secured and our packs re-shouldered, and walk down the line of stopped cars and trucks and buses to try to do the same as the marooned pilgrims now riding our bus. Down we go, and the situation resolves itself into a degree of clarity. Here's what happened: gasoline truck marked "INFLAMMABLE" in about five languages on its side has lost a squeeze play with the dump truck that tried, inconveniently, to cross a bridge too narrow for the both of them. The driver's side of the gas truck is peeled back like the ragged rind of an orange. No sign of either driver, but there's an Indian crowd around the accident just milling about and collectively biding time, while we're wondering what and where and how to get there. I see gas trucks in accidents and tend to hightail it the other direction, but the calm blanketing the scene was enough to make me chill even in the heat of the day. There was an Italian couple in front of us riding a motorscooter and trying to convince the locals to help them lift it (there wasn't room on the bridge to drive around the wreck) up on the guardrail to walk/roll it past the collision. We watch this scene with a degree of incredulity--hell, everybody's watching with a smile or other expression asking Will they make it?

Yeah, they make it the length of the bridge and bring the scooter down and ride off, and we follow the crowd past the wreck and eventually find a bus heading back to Margao. Easy-peasy, right?

Except that our new driver is apparently pissed at the refund of half his take for the interrupted trip, and he's tearing down the road like a man possessed. I've been accused of driving recklessly from time to time, I love a fast drive on a winding road, but I have seriously never been so scared in a motor vehicle. The bus was tilting around the corners an easy thirty degrees, and even the other native passengers were looking around like WHAT the FUCK?! We've got an hour or so left on this bus and the driver's moving like his next fix is too many miles down the road, and I'm envisioning scenes of carnage and wondering how many Indians I can lift when the time comes and I have the David Banner/Incredible Hulk moment. Even with the whistle boy collecting the fare like it's another day at the office, my adrenaline is still ratcheted way past F and hovering well in the red. I'm watching towns pass in successive blinks of the eye and mentally drawing a map of the road to Margao and trying to place these towns on it, telling myself it's okay, there's only maybe thirty minutes to go, twenty, ten. Then there's Margao and one last hellbent turn around a flyover into town and we get down and brush ourselves off and hide our piss stains and move on with the day as the sun sets, albeit on shaky legs and aching knuckles.

So let this go to show you, kids: Even a day at the beach isn't necessarily a day at the beach. It's hard work kicking this far back, but it's a good gig if you can get it. The punchline? 60-odd kilometers from Palolem to Margao, and this was our day. Until next time.

*: Of the two days we spent in Calangute and Baga breaking up the journey, let me only say that the food was good and we got a nice room at a cut rate. Those two destinations, huge on the package-tour circuit and just now coming into season, are hellholes on a scale rivaled by your Myrtle Beaches and Panama Cities. Yick.