'Something' in Goa

I decided at the last minute to go to Goa, despite the condemnations of the place from my pretty devout Muslim hotel owner in Mumbai ('all they do is drink,' 'there is nothing there but trance music and drugs,' etc. [after a month here, that’s not completely inaccurate]). While waiting for my bus outside a water bottling plant in North Mumbai, I met two guys about my age who were going on the same bus as me. They were pretty clearly gay, but if you know me you know I don’t care about sexual orientation at all (I like to select my friends based on things like coolness); we hit it off and ended up rearranging our seats so we could sit near each other on the bus. It was a long and bumpy overnight sleeper bus but I managed to get 5 or 6 hours of light sleep. Over the course of the bus ride we decided to split a room for economic purposes, and come to find out a friend of theirs had already reserved a room for us. I always love avoiding walking in street clothes with my pack in a tropical environment searching for a hotel, but I don’t love it quite enough to actually plan or make reservations (it’s worked out for me so far!).

When we arrived in Goa, I instantly got the feeling that I was in some kind of quasi-Latin American parallel universe. There was a big catholic cathedral situated right next to a bright orange Hindu temple blaring chants over the loud speaker, and the language in Goa is a mix of Portuguese and local Indian languages, so I could understand about 12% of the words from my knowledge of Spanish (a considerable improvement over the 0% of Hindi I could understand in Mumbai!). Once again the slacks and mustaches made me feel like Ron Burgundy was lurking around the corner; or perhaps people were earnestly discussing the battle between disco and rock over a Tab© soda.

We ended up, despite our explicit questioning, on the wrong bus to the beach. This was actually nice though, because it afforded us time to have a morning tall-boy can of beer while we waited for the correct bus. We weren't quite finished with the second man-can when the correct bus finally came, but I had the distinct feeling from what I had seen around me that no one would say anything if I imbibed my beverage on the bus… I was absolutely correct.

To get to the room we were staying in, we had to walk through a back alley about 3 feet wide, dodge clothes lines of numerous households, and walk through a few back yards, all of which included rubble, burnt trash piles, and cows. Our place was actually really nice, and the landlord was a big, sarcastic, dark skinned Indian man with a huge mustache and an outfit that almost always included wearing boxers in the stead of pants and a silver cross on the outside of his shirt or tucked away in his impressive chest hair when topless. I ended up staying there almost a week, and I guess he appreciated my sense of humor as much as I did his because he gave me a pretty hefty discount when it came time to pay him, without me even asking.

We went down to the beach and wound up at a beach bar that I would later become a regular performer at; we drank numerous big bottles of Kingfisher© Strong beer and jammed out to some light-day-happy-psy-trance, or something like that. 

I love music, but I find it very hard to connect with trance, a problem that very few others in Goa seem to have. I have been, nonetheless, trying to make sense of it, though; I always ask a trance fan what kind of trance I am listening to. It seems there is a gradient of light to dark, which refers to the texture as well as what time of day that it’s good for, and then there is psychedelic, which I believe means something different than the word describing such psychedelic classics as 'Innagadadavida' or 'White Rabbit', because I could hear no connection whatsoever. The beats per minute are also important, and it seems the later at night a song is played, the faster the tempo is (just for fun, try listening to a dark trance bass line at 220 BPM; if you are like me, it will likely bring you massive amounts of distress). 

After a month of daily exposure, I can say that to get the full experience of trance, it might be necessary to take MDMA or LSD, two things I have no desire to do (I like my current consciousness a lot, so I ain’t fixing what ain’t broken, as they say). This brings me to another thing I don’t like about trance; it’s really hard to talk to women when they are twisted on drugs of such a caliber, which takes away about 60% of why I like to go to dancing establishments in the first place. But I digress, and we wouldn't want that to happen on a blog... so back to the day at hand!

After about 11 hours of beer drinking and an hour of dancing to inhumanly fast music, we took the next logical step: go back to the guesthouse and drink liquor. It was there that my friends finally came clean to me about their orientation… sometimes I feel like it’s a shame that we live in a world where it takes inebriation for someone to peek out of the closet, but that is neither here nor there, I suppose. Now that that was out of the way, life was just that much more comfortable.

While walking on the little roads next to the beach and through the backyards filled with livestock and the smell of burnt plastic, I started to feel something. The hippies here didn’t piss me off that much; they seemed pretty legit. The international array of women attracted me; options, options, options. The law enforcement seemed lax to non-existent; a friend would later tell me he loves living in Goa because you can ‘bend the rules.’ It wasn’t the absence of cops, or abundance of girls, or the presence of homemade clothes, though, that was making me feel this ‘something.’ I still can’t tell you exactly what this ‘something’ in Goa is, but I can tell you that my weekend trip to Goa has turned into a month, and I am still feeling it every day when I wake up, and it makes me smile both to myself and those around me, and I have been laughing on a notably regular basis (and no, the abundance of hash is not to blame either, although it may play just the slightest of roles).    

A Bombay Day

I arrived in Mumbai at noon or so, and I’m not gonna lie, I was a little worried. Apparently, through a miscommunication on my part (read on the part of the unorganized Indian immigration people), I was at risk of facing big fines and deportation for violating the rules of my Visa. I inched along in the hot, crowded, semi-fan cooled immigration line; each step closer to the start or abrupt end of my Asian adventures.

I finally got up to the desk, and he stamped my passport and I moved on. Done.

I got out to the taxi stand and got a prepaid ticket to my hotel, which cost about 4 dollars. All the cabs were vintage 60s big body cars, and everyone had slacks and mustaches, which combined to give the effect that I had been transported back in time (I have had the feeling since, numerous times, that India has really gone all out to keep the 70s going). As the cab driver screeched out of the parking spot and immediately started honking his horn at anything moving in his line of sight, I knew I was in for a treat. We got out into Mumbai traffic, which was dominated by 100s of little auto rickshaws; 3-wheeled vehicles with a covered and sometimes enclosed back with a bench seat. Both the rickshaws and the cabs are done up in classic black and yellow cab designs. The driving style on a typical Mumbai street is inching forward as much as possible, disregarding lanes or intersections, and laying down on your horn, as a greeting, as a warning, as an inspiration for the person in front to inch ahead more.

My first non-airport Indian experience was quite sensuous, there were the clouds of dust (and smog), the loud and busy construction projects, the abrupt acceleration and braking of the cab, the drone of car horns, the smell of… I’m not sure, and the woman in their brightly colored saris all around. I took in a deep breath to emphasize my feeling of aliveness, and then thought to myself that whilst sitting in Mumbai traffic is probably not the best time for deep breathes.

We couldn’t find the hotel at first, so I got extra time to take in the bustling streets of Andheri, the suburb I was staying in. My accommodations here were probably one of the cheapest options in all of Mumbai, which is actually a really expensive city. I stayed in a dorm that was for Indian business men travelling on a budget; there were 18 beds but there were never more than 6 people staying there, the bed cost me 4 bucks a night, and the ‘hot water’ was actually hot (I have gotten used to cheap hotels in the developing world shamelessly lying about amenities, so when said amenities actually exist its quite a happy occaision). The mean streets of Mumbai were pretty overwhelming, so I slowly weaned myself into them, spending time in the dorm bed doing work, and then slowly expanding my bubble by walking up and down the surrounding streets.

On the second day I headed into downtown Mumbai, at the midday rush hour, on the most crowded train system in the world. It was absolutely hectic. There were literally 3 times more people on these train cars than the most crowded subway car in New York that I have been on. No personal space, whatsoever. I literally had an Indian man’s head in my armpit while I was holding an overhead handle, and he was applying slightly more pressure than I found comfortable. Getting on and off these trains is quite fun, you get to yell and push and all that good stuff; the most fun is trying to get off the train as a large crowd is also trying to get onboard. They even have ladies only train cars so that presumably wandering hands aren’t constantly violating women, which would be way too easy to get away with. The fare on the 35 minute train ride was 8 cents.  

I walked aimlessly around downtown Mumbai for about 8 hours, stopping and grabbing snacks and chai along the way; the snacks ranged from 5 to 15 rupees, or 10 to 30 cents, and the Chai is good enough that I had to remember to monitor my intake as to not get heart palpitations from all the caffeine (I mean, when they are everywhere, delicious, and cost like 4 to 10 cents for a cup, why not have 12?). On my walk around I got to see some great art-deco architecture, as well as some really grand colonial structures. I walked through one neighborhood that seemed quite out of place; blocks away from grand buildings and affluent society were long winding roads jam packed with women selling produce, men loitering and adorning mustaches, children running around, and lots and lots and lots of livestock doing their thing. At one point I was watching a guy sharpen knives with a bicycle that he had rigged up into a sharpening device and I felt someone bump into me; I turned to acknowledge this person and it was a goat. A walk down this street was not unlike a petting zoo in terms of density of cows and goats and chickens… there were even a few pigs!

As the sun went down, temporary clothing stores started popping up everywhere; I bought a few proper button-up shirts because it seemed everybody in Mumbai was wearing one and because they cost like 3 bucks a piece (they were nice enough that I didn't even attempt to haggle, but I probably could have got them for 2); I would be such a rampant consumer if stuff was so cheap in the States.

I got a train back up to Andheri around 9 or 10 and there was much more personal space to be had this time around. Then, after being taught about the meter system on rickshaws by a guy I met at a restaurant, I was confident that I wouldn't get ripped off on a ride from the train station back to the hotel (the actual price is NOT what the meter says, 100 on the meter is equal to 11 rupees or 22 cents, and then it slowly goes up from there, a 45 minute ride is less than 2 dollars if you know what you are doing). I got back completely exhausted from the onslaught of Mumbai and slept for 11 hours straight. I woke up the next morning (read afternoon) recharged and ready to explore the hip, beachside suburbs of North Mumbai.

The Coffee Shop Business

It was not my dream to own a fucking coffee shop. It was not my dream to see my fucking town—my beautifully simple town—turn into a fucking tourist trap.

I have lived in Goa for all 42 years of my life, and I have watched the trash, both literally and figuratively, from the rest of the world come in and pollute my home. Goa is not India, Goa is Goa. We didn’t want the Portuguese to leave, we liked what we had going; we had a perfect blend of Mediterranean simplicity and South Asian wisdom.  Now it’s a bunch of fucking Indians and Russians and whoever else on holiday dirtying our beaches with plastic bags and semen.  My kids can’t even ride their bikes on the street, like I did, without running the risk of some coked up, tripping, novice motorbiking piece of shit running them over .

My family sold our cashew farms, in part because of me. I didn't want to be a farmer and my dad knew it; I wanted to be a business man. I wanted to jet around the world, adorn my body with precious metals, and fuck lots of white women, all of which require a lot of money—more than cashews can provide. Now, instead of lamping in the Hamptons and falling in love in Paris and Moscow, I am selling coffees to Indians and foreigners at prices that equate to daily wages a block down the street.

I make enough to drive a decent car and keep my family in utilities, but I will never get over the fact that I have failed as a business man; I have not, and never will, achieve my dreams.

A commercial came on this morning that ruined my day. It was for Tata cars, or Kingfisher Air, or Johnson and Johnson—I can’t remember; but it featured a father working in Dubai and face chatting on an iPad with his 9 year old son. First of all, I want to be working in fucking Dubai; second of all, all I have is a fucking daughter, and she is so fat and ugly that I am probably going to have to spend half my bank account to get somebody to marry her; and thirdly, I was an early adopter, and my fucking iPad 1 doesn’t have video chat capability.

I thought about this while I had my morning tea, I thought about this on the drive to the coffee shop, I thought about this as I walked into the colorful and joyous hell hole I was the owner of.

And now this fuckhead waiter’s drawer is 200 rupees short.

I visit my place twice a week, and make sure the numbers are what they need to be; they are pretty good this week, but this motherfucker has somehow lost almost 2 coffees worth of rupees in the 2 hours the store has been open.

I can’t hold it in, plus I pay more than anybody else around so I can get away with letting loose on my workers. I scream at him. I call him a piece of shit peon. I call him the laziest Indian alive. I say his mother did a shit job of raising him. I say his father set a bad example for him. None of these words are making me feel better, though; the rage is still boiling up in me. I grab his arm and squeeze; he jumps back. I almost slap him. I have to keep my cool though, the foreigners are all looking now. I tell him to go to the utility closet. He doesn’t want to. I threaten to fire him. He contemplates this and ultimately hangs his head and drags his feet towards the closet.

I follow afterwards, put him over my knee, and spank the fuck out of him. For about 3 minutes I channel all the rage inside me into the palm of my hand. By the end of the spanking session I feel much better, and I feel as though I can make it at least one more week in the coffee shop business.